Chapter 533 Urgent Frontier Report

The heart of the new emperor Zhao Yan sank into an icy abyss. The color drained from his face in an instant, and the carefully maintained imperial majesty crumbled at that moment.

He almost staggered forward, grabbing his swaying master to support him, his voice hoarse with extreme shock: "Master! What...what's wrong? Are you injured internally?"

His fingers touched Ruan Xiaotian's arm and felt it was soft and yielding, offering no support. An ominous premonition immediately welled up in his heart.

As an emperor, when had he ever seen his omnipotent master show such a disheveled and desperate expression?

Not only him, but all the guards, palace maids, and eunuchs present were dumbfounded, as if they were clay sculptures or wooden statues.

They may not understand the profound martial arts techniques, but they can understand the results.

The Grand Preceptor's hands, swaying in the wind, were the most direct and brutal battle report.

Shen Mo didn't even draw his sword. He simply took a few steps and waved his hand a few times, turning this peerless expert, renowned throughout the Southern Region, into a cripple! This strength was beyond their understanding of "humanity," almost godlike!

Ruan Xiaotian leaned against Zhao Yan's arm, his body trembling slightly.

He slowly raised his head and looked at the young man dressed in black not far away.

Shen Mo stood there calmly, his eyes clear, as if the thrilling duel just now was nothing more than a speck of dust to him.

Monster... This isn't human at all!

Ruan Xiaotian's heart was in turmoil.

Shock, fear, despair, and a hint of awe from the depths of his soul intertwined, almost completely shattering his Dao heart.

His prized "Shattering Star Finger," a technique he considered powerful enough to split mountains and shatter rocks, was in the hands of his opponent less than a child's toy.

That feeling of powerlessness terrified him more than death itself.

He swallowed hard, his saliva tasting of blood, and with all his might, he managed to squeeze out a few words, his voice so low that only Zhao Yan could hear them: "I... lost."

These three words carried immense weight, causing Zhao Yan's heart to tremble.

He never imagined he would hear those three words from his master.

Immediately afterward, Ruan Xiaotian spoke in an even lower, more urgent voice, each word a warning uttered through clenched teeth: "Your Majesty...stop...stop now! This boy...is no ordinary person! You must not...do not become his enemy!"

After saying these words, Ruan Xiaotian seemed to have exhausted his last bit of strength, and his whole body went limp, with only boundless desolation and emptiness in his eyes.

Looking up at the azure sky, he felt for the first time that the pinnacle of martial arts he had pursued throughout his life was so insignificant and laughable in the face of a true "master".

In the Imperial Garden, several century-old plum trees are still covered in the last vestiges of snow, with icicles hanging from their branches reflecting a cold and sharp light in the afterglow of the setting sun—like swords yet to be drawn, but already exuding a murderous aura.

Who is Ruan Xiaotian? He is the strongest in the Southern Region, the old man who taught him martial arts, imparted to him the art of star-gazing and divination, and personally draped the imperial robes over him on the night of his coronation. He is the unshakable mountain in Zhao Yan's heart, the most silent and steadfast backbone of this vast land.

But now, this pillar of society, though he has not fallen, is more terrifying than if he had fallen—because he stands, yet has lost all dignity; he remains silent, yet is more chilling than a thousand-word petition—because he has already admitted defeat.

Zhao Yan's gaze slowly shifted from Ruan Xiaotian and landed on that person.

Shen Mo.

He stood there, dressed in a simple blue robe, untouched by the world's grime.

Unbound, his black hair was casually tied back with a gray hemp rope; his features were clear and sharp like the first snow on distant mountains, but his eyes held neither sorrow nor joy, only a deep pool of stillness that made one's heart tremble—as if he were not standing in a nine-layered palace, but at the end of an eternal night, quietly waiting for the first ray of dawn.

Zhao Yan suddenly recalled a fragment of a book called "Strange Tales of the Underworld" that he had found in the library when he was a child. It said: "The Grim Reaper does not wield a scythe, nor wear bone armor. He simply stands before people and causes the four seasons to stop and all the veins to seal themselves. It is not that he is taking lives, but people know that their lives are coming to an end."

At this moment, Shen Mo was like the Grim Reaper who had stepped out of that scroll.

It wasn't because of how many people he had killed, but because his presence made Zhao Yan truly taste the feeling of "powerlessness" for the first time—not because his power had been diminished, not because his edicts had been rejected, but because even fear itself had lost its control.

His heart pounded in his ears, his Adam's apple bobbed, but he couldn't utter a single syllable; his fingertips dug into his palms, drawing blood, but the pain was like watching a fire through fog, distant and distorted.

He suddenly understood: Ruan Xiaotian was not defeated by martial arts, but by something more ancient and irreversible—the "momentum" that existed since the beginning of time, the destiny force that drives rivers to the sea, stars to orbit, and plants to face the sun. And Shen Mo had already stood at the pinnacle of that "momentum," looking down on all living beings as if they were ants.

He wanted to roar in anger, to summon the Imperial Guards to surround and kill him, to tear this absurd reality apart... but as his lips moved, he only tasted a faint metallic sweetness—he had bitten the tip of his tongue.

At that very moment—

"Report—!!!"

A roar tore through the stagnant air.

A border general, clad in black armor with torn shoulder blades and boots stained with mud and dried blood, stumbled into the imperial garden, flanked by two pale-faced eunuchs. His armor was askew, his helmet missing, revealing a face etched with deep lines by wind and sand, a fresh scar on his forehead oozing blood, yet his eyes shone with a terrifying light, like two will-o'-the-wisps burning in a desperate situation.

Shen Mo looked at him quietly.

The corners of her lips were pulled upwards very lightly and very slowly.

That moment wasn't a laugh, it was confirmation.

It is the hunter hearing the soft thud of a trap closing; it is the chess player hearing the faint whisper of his opponent conceding defeat after placing his piece; it is the thunder that has been brewing for so long finally seeing the first silver line appear as the clouds part. — Juechenzi has completed the task he set for himself.

The general fell to his knees with a thud, his armor clattering to the ground with a sound like tearing silk: "Your Majesty! Urgent dispatch from the northern border! The three passes of Shuofang, Yunzhong, and Yanmen are in dire need of reinforcements—300,000 iron cavalry from the northern barbarians have already arrayed themselves on the southern slopes of Yinshan! Their vanguard scouts have already crossed the Bailang River! All provisions and supplies are stockpiled at Heishuitan! Their banners point... straight to the capital!!"

"boom--"

It was as if a thunderbolt had exploded in Zhao Yan's mind.

What martial arts alliance? What江湖草莽 (Jianghu outlaws)? What Ruan Xiaotian's defeat by Shen Mo? What imperial tactics of suppressing dissidents and clipping wings? All of them were shattered into dust and scattered by the wind in this cry of "300,000 iron cavalry".

He clenched his hands tightly, his knuckles turning white and veins bulging. But this time, it wasn't out of anger, but out of a long-lost, almost forgotten tremor—the kind of surging, hot blood that would rise in his chest when his father was still alive, every autumn when he would stand on the high platform and watch the dark, surging tide of armored soldiers as they marched through the training grounds.

Memories, like water bursting its banks, surge forth with a deafening roar:

—That year he was twelve years old, accompanying his father on a border inspection tour. The north wind whipped up snow, causing the banners to flutter wildly. His father reined in his horse at the Great Wall's battlements, his black cloak blazing like flames in the wind. He pointed to the distant, winding beacon towers, his voice deep and resonant like the earth's echo: "Yan'er, look at this land. It's not just ink lines drawn on a map; it's alive. The court is the bone, the rivers and lakes are the blood. If the bone dies, the blood will stagnate; if the blood dries up, the bone will rot. The saying 'if the lips are gone, the teeth will be cold' is never an empty phrase."

—At that time, he nodded blankly, feeling that his father's gaze was like a torch, illuminating the vast and cold frontier.

But at this moment, the sound, carrying the howling of the northern wind and the roar of iron hooves crushing the frozen earth, cleaved through the false spring in the Imperial Garden and crashed into his ears!