The Twin Moons Festival was a sacred tradition, a time when the two great paths—Crimson and Azure—stood as symbols of balance and opposition, of the twin goddesses Yuehong and Yuelan. The Crimson Path represented raw strength, direct power, and overwhelming force, while the Azure Path embodied precision, strategy, and adaptability. Each year, the festival’s climactic battle showcased fighters chosen from both paths, determined through rigorous trials and selection processes. Only the most skilled were granted the honor of competing.


    This year, the arena’s focus fell on two such warriors—Lu Shengtian of the Crimson Path and Xie Lian of the Azure Path.


    Lu Shengtian moved first.


    He surged forward like a battering ram, his crimson robes billowing behind him. His foot slammed against the stone tiles with a dull, thunderous thud, and with a burst of strength, he drove his fist toward Xie Lian’s chest. A direct, overwhelming strike.


    Xie Lian barely avoided it.


    A pivot. A shift of weight. His body moved with the precision of a well-honed blade, turning just enough to let the blow graze past. The force of Lu Shengtian’s missed strike sent a sharp gust whipping through the air.


    The crowd barely had time to react before Xie Lian countered.


    His right foot slid forward, shifting his balance. As Lu Shengtian’s weight was still thrown forward from the missed punch, Xie Lian struck—his palm snapping up in a sharp, controlled motion, aiming directly for the underside of Lu Shengtian’s exposed ribs.


    A clean, precise strike.


    The impact landed with a solid crack.


    Lu Shengtian grunted, his body jerking from the hit. But rather than stumbling back, he twisted into the attack, absorbing the force with sheer resilience. His skin reddened where the blow struck, but his stance remained unshaken. His right arm swung out in a brutal arc, aiming to catch Xie Lian mid-retreat.


    He’s not just a brute. He’s experienced.


    The two fighters separated for a brief moment.


    A tense pause.


    Xie Lian’s chest rose and fell steadily, his face unreadable. Lu Shengtian flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. A faint bruise was already forming where the palm strike had landed, but his stance remained firm.


    The crowd murmured in appreciation. It wasn’t a reckless brawl. It was a battle of control.


    Zhang Fei stroked his chin. “Lu Shengtian’s built like a warhorse. He can take a hit and keep charging. Xie Lian’s got speed, but dodging won’t win him the fight.”


    The fighters moved again.


    This time, Xie Lian initiated. He feinted to the left, testing Lu Shengtian’s reaction. The larger man shifted his stance, preparing for an attack from that angle—but it was a trick.


    Xie Lian suddenly twisted to the right instead, dropping low as his leg shot out in a sweeping motion.


    A well-aimed leg sweep.


    Lu Shengtian, despite his size, reacted fast. Instead of trying to dodge or absorb the impact, he lifted his leg at the last moment—a calculated move. The sweep passed beneath him harmlessly, and the instant his foot hit the ground again, he retaliated.


    A knee strike.


    Xie Lian barely managed to deflect it with his forearm, but the sheer force sent a numbing jolt up his arm. He exhaled sharply, shaking it out.


    Neither of them were making reckless mistakes. Every move had a response, every response had a counter.


    But Xie Lian wasn’t finished.


    Instead of backing away, he stepped in close. His movements shifted—fluid, unpredictable. A sudden burst of speed, a flicker of motion, and he was inside Lu Shengtian’s guard before the larger man could reset his stance.


    A sharp elbow strike to the ribs.


    Lu Shengtian grimaced, his body jerking from the impact. But again, he absorbed it, twisting to lessen the blow’s force. His arm lashed out—a backhand strike, aiming for Xie Lian’s temple.


    Too slow.


    Xie Lian ducked, his body weaving under the attack. And then, in the same breath, he struck again.


    A palm to the sternum.


    This time, the force sent Lu Shengtian stumbling. His footing wavered, and for the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The crowd gasped.


    Xie Lian had disrupted the rhythm. Lu Shengtian had been fighting as an immovable force, absorbing and retaliating. But Xie Lian had changed the tempo, chipped away at that stability. And now, the cracks were showing.


    He didn’t hesitate.


    His next move was seamless—a flurry of strikes designed to keep Lu Shengtian off balance. The larger man blocked some, absorbed others, but his steps faltered.


    And then—


    A final, decisive blow.


    Xie Lian shifted, his body twisting into a spinning kick. The strike landed square against Lu Shengtian’s chest.


    The impact was devastating. Lu Shengtian’s breath left him in a harsh, choked gasp. His feet lifted slightly off the ground before he crashed onto his back, the force shaking the arena floor.


    Silence fell.


    For a second, everything seemed frozen. The crowd, the fighters, even the air itself held still.


    Then—


    A deep exhale. Lu Shengtian stayed down.


    The temple priest stepped forward, raising his staff. “The match is decided. Victory—Xie Lian!”


    The moment the temple priest declared Xie Lian the victor, the arena erupted into thunderous applause. Cheers echoed through the stone pavilion, voices rising in excitement as spectators celebrated the dazzling display of skill and discipline.


    From the stands, villagers and martial practitioners alike shouted words of praise.


    “Well fought, Xie Lian!”


    “A true display of the Azure Path’s mastery!”


    “Lu Shengtian, you held strong! Next year will be yours!”


    Despite his loss, Lu Shengtian pushed himself upright, his chest still heaving from exertion. He wiped a streak of sweat from his brow, eyes flickering toward Xie Lian—not with resentment, but with grudging respect.


    With a slow nod, he stepped forward and extended his hand. “That was… a good fight.”


    Xie Lian, still catching his breath, met his gaze. He hesitated only a moment before clasping the offered hand. “You fought well too. Strength and endurance like yours—it’s not easy to overcome.”


    The crowd murmured in approval. Rivalries were one thing, but honor mattered more.


    Lu Shengtian let out a rough chuckle. “Next time, I won’t let you dance circles around me.”


    Xie Lian smirked. “Then I’ll just have to get faster.”


    Their exchange drew another round of applause, solidifying the respect both warriors had earned.


    As the cheers subsided, a rhythmic chime echoed through the pavilion. The temple priest, draped in deep indigo robes embroidered with golden thread, raised his staff and struck the ground twice. Silence fell over the crowd, the shift in atmosphere marking the transition from battle to ceremony.


    Two attendants, dressed in ceremonial white, stepped forward. One carried a wooden box, carved with intricate moon-and-star motifs. The other held a small leather pouch, the drawstring glinting with silver thread.


    The priest’s voice rang out. “For the victor of this year’s Festival Duel, the blessings of the Twin Moons are bestowed. The prize, as decreed by tradition—”


    The first attendant carefully lifted the lid of the wooden box, revealing a 50-year-old Moonlit Herb nestled within. Its leaves, a faint silvery-green, exuded a soft fragrance, carrying a hint of night-blooming flowers.


    Murmurs spread through the crowd.


    A 50-year-old mortal herb wasn’t just rare—it was valuable. With proper preparation, it could enhance one’s stamina, cleanse minor impurities from the body, or even aid in cultivation for those who had stepped onto the martial path.


    “And alongside it,” the priest continued, the second attendant stepping forward, “five silver coins. A token of honor, a mark of your achievement.”


    The pouch was passed to Xie Lian, its weight a reminder that victory was not only about pride but also prosperity. For common villagers, five silver coins could feed a family for months.


    Xie Lian accepted both prizes with a deep bow. “I thank the temple, the honored elders, and all who bore witness today.”


    The priest gave a solemn nod. “May the path you walk remain in harmony, as the Twin Moons intended.”


    Just as the crowd began to thin, the crisp night air stirred with a new energy. A voice—rich and commanding—rippled through the departing festival-goers.


    “Now, now! Why the rush? Are your ears so weary that they cannot bear a good tale?”


    The voice belonged to an old man who had suddenly taken the stage, clad in white robes embroidered with intricate silver threads that shimmered under the lantern light. His long, wispy beard swayed slightly as he spread his arms wide, his presence effortlessly drawing attention.


    A few people turned at the sound, curiosity flickering in their eyes.


    “Ah, my dear friends,” he continued, a mischievous gleam in his gaze, “surely you wouldn’t leave without hearing one of old Xu Feng’s legendary stories? What is a festival without a tale to haunt your dreams and set your hearts aflame?”


    At the mention of his name, a ripple of recognition spread through the gathering.


    “Xu Feng? The wandering storyteller?” one man murmured.


    “I heard he once debated a scholar for three nights straight—and won!” whispered another.


    “My grandmother told me he knows a thousand tales, each more thrilling than the last!”


    “Hah! A thousand? I heard it was ten thousand!”


    Excited whispers blossomed through the crowd, replacing the earlier murmurs of departure. More people turned back, some nudging their companions, others pulling their children closer to listen.


    Wuji, who had been preparing to leave with the others, paused mid-step. He glanced at Zhang Fei, who had also stopped, arms crossed as he studied the storyteller with interest. The other children, once eager to explore the rest of the festival, hesitated—curiosity slowly winning over their previous excitement.


    Mei tugged at Zhang Fei’s sleeve. “Uncle Zhang, who is he?”


    Zhang Fei chuckled. “Xu Feng? That old fox has been spinning tales since before you were born. If he’s here, it means there’s a story worth listening to.”


    Wuji exhaled, folding his arms. A storyteller? He had always found history fascinating, though he preferred facts over embellishments. But folklore had a way of revealing the world’s truths, even through its exaggerations.


    Seeing the shifting tide, Xu Feng stroked his beard, clearly satisfied.


    “That’s more like it,” he said with a chuckle. “Now then—settle in, young and old alike. Let this humble bard take you into a world of steel and storm, of men who wield blades like dragons and fates sharper than any edge.”


    He took a deliberate step forward, his voice dropping slightly, just enough to draw the audience in.


    “Tonight, I will tell you of a man whose very name sent shivers down the spines of warriors. A man feared and revered in equal measure. A man… who walked the line between madness and genius.”


    He let the silence stretch for just a breath, then—


    “Let me tell you the tale of the Mad Tyrant of the Blade!”


    The hush that fell over the audience was not of boredom, but of pure anticipation.


    Even Wuji, logical as he was, found himself intrigued. A tyrant? A master of the blade? A descent into madness? If nothing else, it would be an intriguing glimpse into how history turns men into legends.


    The festival’s revelry faded into the background as all eyes turned to Xu Feng, waiting for the story to unfold.