Volume One: Turmoil in Yan and Yun Chapter Fourteen: The Sandstorm Rite (Part One)

The Sandstorm Festival was an annual event of grand scale, with a conservative estimate of over a hundred thousand youths participating. The Yan Yun training ground was vast, capable of accommodating thirty thousand people for standard drills. Yet true combat was a different matter, especially for those at the Profound Unity level—at the very least, a proper platform of thirty feet was necessary to allow the contestants to display their abilities without constraint. If the contenders were among the top ten prodigies of the Flowing Elegance Ranking, even a platform of a hundred feet might scarcely suffice.

Within the training ground stood a thousand thirty-foot platforms, a hundred fifty-foot platforms, ten seventy-foot platforms, and a single one of a hundred feet. These were assigned in advance to the elite disciples selected by the Flowing Elegance Pavilion and the great clans. The Sandstorm Festival lasted half a month—the first seven days saw open selection rounds outside Yan Yun City, while the latter seven days featured designated duels.

Those who passed the preliminary rounds would enter the outer city in groups, challenging those stationed on the platforms by name. Victors remained to defend their place; the defeated could choose to challenge another platform. Each bout was followed by a half-hour respite.

Only those who remained standing on the platforms until the end were eligible to be crowned by the Duke of Yanbei himself. The festival's greatest prize belonged to the last champion atop the largest platform.

This year, the Feng family had prepared an earth-tier combat art, while the Flowing Elegance Pavilion offered an earth-tier cultivation method as rewards for the victors.

Even for the illustrious Feng family, earth-tier techniques were rare and precious; bringing one out surely sparked heated debate within their ranks.

But in Yanbei, there was little controversy.

For everyone knew exactly to whom that art was destined.

Feng Qi walked at the head of the crowd, ascending the hundred-foot platform with unhurried grace. He sat cross-legged on the spot. Were it not for concerns of propriety, he would have brought an armchair up with him.

Seven others from the Feng family had qualified; aside from Feng Ling, all had chosen fifty-foot platforms.

Feng Ling selected a seventy-foot platform, directly facing Feng Qi.

He had watched Feng Qi for ten years, like a shadow trailing behind. He wondered if he could withstand even a few moves from Feng Qi.

But someone else moved first.

Yan Weixie made his move.

His platform was right beside Feng Qi’s; with a leap, he landed on Feng Qi’s stage.

Most in Yanbei knew something of their history, so this caused little surprise.

Murong Xue glanced at the slightly tanned face and thought, so this is the one ranked above me?

The Fourth Prince had already held his coming-of-age ceremony the previous year; now he sat in the stands, chatting with Feng Muyun and Moming. Seeing this scene, he let out a slight exclamation.

He had met the three people he needed to see in Yanbei.

But there were still conversations left to be had.

Yan Weixie was the son of Yan Fan. Though Yan Fan’s ranking on the Destiny List was not high, his military prowess was formidable. The Ministry of War had tried multiple times to transfer him to Xuhai to suppress the remnants of an evil cult, but had failed every time.

Because Yanbei would not let him go.

To be precise, it was the Feng family’s Third Master who refused.

Now that Yan Weixie had appeared, where was Yan Fan?

“General Yan holds an important post in the Han Sea Gobi. Even Weixie would not have come to Yan Yun if not for the coming-of-age ceremony,” someone explained.

A tiger father does not beget a dog son—this was true not only for the direct line of the Duke of Yanbei.

It also applied to Yan Fan and his son.

Yan Weixie, though only sixteen, was already a captain of a thousand in the Han Sea Gobi. Over the years, he had led expeditions beyond the borders, gathering vital intelligence, showing the same flair Yan Fan had in his youth.

The Fourth Prince realized then that the Duke of Yanbei had already seen through his intentions.

He was puzzled. “If General Yan were sent to the western border, it would be a promotion. Why is General Xuanwei so unwilling to let him go?”

Feng Muyun replied, “We have other plans for Yan Fan, and besides, the barbarians have been restless in recent years. Yanbei has many skilled warriors, but just enough to cover our needs. In the past few years, three of the Eighteen Riders have either fallen in battle or retired; it took much effort to fill those gaps. Even I wouldn’t want to let Yan Fan go now, let alone Xisha. Not at a time like this.”

The Fourth Prince fell silent for a moment before saying, “My shadow guard reported several powerful presences in the Feng family, some seemingly at the upper stages of the Radiant Manifestation Realm. I imagine they must be elders of the family?”

Feng Muyun answered, “To be precise, there are four. Besides my wife, the Grand Elder, Third Elder, and a family retainer have all reached mid-stage Radiant Manifestation. It’s been some time now.”

Yun Wanyan, since marrying in, had kept mostly to her chambers and was not present.

The three elders sat to Feng Muyun’s right. The Grand Elder, aged and frail, reclined as if dozing. The Second Elder, looking rather spirited, glowered when Feng Muyun did not mention him. The Third Elder, much younger, smiled and saluted the Fourth Prince.

The Fourth Prince said, “Perhaps they could help lighten the Duke’s burdens.”

Feng Muyun glanced at the prince, saying nothing.

The prince was briefly taken aback—had he said something amiss?

Moming interjected, “The Feng family’s roots run deep. If more high positions in the military are given to their members, the court’s impeachments against Yanbei would surely double.”

The Fourth Prince considered—the Ministry of War kept records on all military personnel. Whether Yanbei truly lacked men or simply sought to place loyalists could be easily discovered, especially since the Minister was a steady and precise man.

He pondered how best to voice his concerns.

Feng Muyun sighed softly before speaking. “Nations usually fall to weakness; only Tang perished from strength.”

The Tang fell not for being weak, but for misplacing its strength.

In its heyday, three royal princes and three marquises commanded the four border armies, all at the height of their power. The central court, though not feeble, had no means of checking them.

Of Tang’s twelve emperors, the first three established the dynasty and earned great merit; the next six maintained it, mediocre yet not disastrous. The true calamity came with the last three, who tried to weaken the border lords in three generations—a dangerous game. Most notably, Emperor Zhaozong exiled the most feared strategist in the land—Li Jin Xing.

With no absolute authority in Chang’an and Li Jin Xing’s wisdom lost, the emperor became a mere figurehead.

Thus, it was easy for Dugu Changsi to seize Wuyang. She wept and refused Zhaozong’s offer to abdicate four times, only to finally accept on the fifth, with deep sighs.

Surrounded by enemies, the court needed to value its border armies—but not indulge them blindly.

The Feng family now, compared to the Dugu clan of Tang, was only lacking two men of world-shaking talent to match them.

To appoint only relatives is not the act of the loyal.

To stand too tall is not the act of the wise.

The Fourth Prince, startled, stood and bowed deeply to Feng Muyun. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your guidance.”

...

While they spoke, Feng Qi and Yan Weixie had already clashed—blades flashing and weapons clashing in a storm of steel.

Feng Qi wielded the Overlord Spear, hammering it again and again into Yan Weixie’s Gale Blade, sparks flying with each impact.

The twelfth form of the Overlord Spear—Falling Star—blended speed with power. It was often the decisive move in arena duels.

Few at the same level could withstand such ferocity.

Yan Weixie was one of those few.

In a storm, there are two paths: one is to drift like duckweed, enduring without resisting, like the Supreme Virtue of Tai Xuan Mountain or Chan Sect’s Sleep Meditation; the other is to stand like an aged pine, weathering the wind and rain with unshakable resolve, like the Yuntai Sword of Snowcloud Sect or the Immovable King of Chan Sect.

Yan Weixie chose the latter.

Though it looked as if he was merely blocking, in truth he was always seeking the opportunity to strike.

Murong Xue frowned and shook her head, thinking she herself could not withstand the blows on that stage.

The Fourth Prince’s hand, holding his teacup, slipped unconsciously to his knee, spilling tea onto his robe.

Feng Yang laughed heartily. “Splendid! Magnificent!”

Then his gaze shifted to Feng Ling’s platform. “What are you looking at? Want to try your hand?”

Feng Ling could not hear Feng Yang’s words, but he read the intent in Feng Yang’s eyes.

Calmly, he summoned his Overlord Spear, planting it in the ground, and looked at Feng Yang.

Feng Yang raised an eyebrow.

Feng Muyun’s brow furrowed slightly.

The Third Elder frowned as well.

He glared at Feng Yang, displeased. “Why meddle in a Profound Unity duel?”

Feng Yang retorted, “The rules of the Sandstorm Festival set no limits on strength.”

The Third Elder, frustrated, snapped, “Nonsense!”

Feng Yang thought, I’ve always known you were a fool, but must you be so eager to show it?

The festival’s overseers were right here in the training ground, and his father was in the stands—if anyone broke the rules, would they simply look the other way?

Seeing Feng Yang pay no heed to his authority, the Third Elder’s anger flared, then faded instantly.

Because he heard Feng Muyun’s voice.

“The Sandstorm Festival is a celebration for all youths of coming-of-age, Third Elder. What mischief is Feng Yang causing?”

The Third Elder started, realizing his own anxiety had made him careless. “Yes, Master, but—”

“No buts. Since this is for the coming-of-age, let the young make their own choices. We elders are just here to support them,” Feng Muyun said with a half-smile. “Unless, of course, you believe there’s something wrong with the rules of the Sandstorm Festival?”

The Third Elder hastily denied it.

The Grand Elder cracked his eyes open for a moment, shooting the Third Elder a glance, thinking, And you wish to challenge the master’s line?

“Then I’ll go?” Feng Yang said to Feng Muyun.

Feng Muyun waved his hand. “Just be careful.”

The Third Elder persisted. “Ling’er is already mid-Profound Unity. If he injures the Second Young Master—”

“No need for concern. As long as I’m here, who in all Yanbei dares claim they could harm my son?” Feng Muyun cut him off again.

Feng Yang grinned from ear to ear, muttering as he left, “Profound Unity? So impressive, is it?”

...