The Emperor's Heart

Since ancient times, the court has been a battleground for civil and military officials, and rarely is there any real harmony. The civil officials denounce the military as uncouth brutes who know only violence, while the military officers retort that the civil officials are nothing but silver-tongued windbags—one punch from me and you’d soil yourself. By rights, it should have been enough for the civil officials to oversee the imperial examinations, yet for reasons unknown, His Majesty insisted that they attend these martial contests alongside the warriors. So at first, these laymen treated it all as a spectacle, laughing and mocking as they turned to their colleagues: “Look at them down there—don’t they resemble a troupe of uncivilized monkeys? Only we have the privilege of witnessing such an amusing show.”

But who could have expected that when the martial exhibition ended, the King of Blades, Song Dao Wang, would merely stamp his foot on the stage, unleashing a force so overwhelming that a few timid officials collapsed in terror on the spot. Then it was the military men’s turn to mock the scholars.

At this moment, on the martial stage, Mo Li continuously parried Song Linjie’s relentless blows with his short blade. After only a few exchanges, cracks appeared in Mo Li’s weapon, while Song Linjie’s Forged Heaven Blade remained unscathed. Sensing that one more strike would split his short blade in two, Mo Li abruptly hurled it straight at Song Linjie.

Song Linjie merely tilted his blade to the side, and just as the short blade was about to strike the Forged Heaven Blade, he swung down violently. Both blades flew, embedding themselves perfectly in the railing before the spectators.

Once again, several “new spectators” shrank back in fright, only to be ridiculed by their more experienced colleagues. Every time the academy recruited new students, such “accidents” were inevitable, so the “old spectators” were entirely unfazed. After all, where were they? There was no way His Majesty would allow anyone to be decapitated in his own palace—there were surely elite guards hidden nearby, ready to intervene if anything went wrong.

Those who didn’t know better might think the civil officials were paragons of unshakable virtue, unflinching even in a tempest. Such impressions left the younger officials in awe of them.

Song Linjie, having let his weapon slip, smiled apologetically at the startled crowd. But to the “old spectators,” this was clearly an act of revenge!

Taking advantage of Mo Li’s disarmed state, Song Linjie pressed his attack, closing in with a speed like a howling gale. In a flash, the Forged Heaven Blade was at Mo Li’s chest.

Mo Li was startled—how had Song Linjie’s speed increased so suddenly? There was no time for further thought; with a leap, he retreated and drew two finger-blades from his person.

What Mo Li hadn’t expected was that not only had Song Linjie’s speed increased, but his strikes had also become much more forceful. The moment the finger-blades met the Forged Heaven Blade, they were knocked from his grasp.

High above in the pavilion, the Emperor himself, a veteran of many battlefields and no stranger to martial arts, immediately recognized Song Linjie’s technique. He had anticipated each step, calculating every footing, and with each successive onslaught, his speed and power only increased. This was the first principle of the Dominating Blade Art: Swift Leaf.

Swift Leaf, likewise, was an exclusively offensive technique, leaving no room for defense. This made those from Chenliu, who had seen battle, especially wary of risking their lives. Even after years of learning from the King of Blades, they never truly mastered it.

Of course, those from Chenliu also knew their own limitations. Whether in the palace or the academy, countless manuals were within reach, and as royal scions, they were blessed with innate talent. Yet, despite all their advantages, poor comprehension had left them forever stuck at the second rank.

The Chenliu man sighed, “It’s enough to make one envious—how easily you geniuses grasp these profound martial skills, while others toil a lifetime and still can’t match your achievements at fifteen.”

Song Qingtian, never one to flatter the monarch, replied bluntly, “You are sovereign of the realm, and yet you still wish to attain mastery in martial arts? Must all of life’s blessings fall into your lap before you’re satisfied?”

Turning, the Emperor asked, “Headmaster Song, between me and your grandson, who would win?”

Song Qingtian scoffed, “Don’t think that being second rank makes you invincible. There are prodigies who advance through the ranks at lightning speed, and there are those who can slay above their level.”

The Emperor glanced at the loyal old eunuch beside him. “And you?”

The old eunuch, wise from decades at court, replied tactfully, “Your Majesty, your life is beyond price. There is no need for you to raise a hand yourself. With a word from you, even this old servant would gladly die in your stead.”

Song Qingtian could not help but laugh at the eunuch’s words. This emperor truly refused to admit defeat unless forced. He just had to make things explicit before he would give in. Song Qingtian could not understand why a monarch would take such pleasure in martial pursuits, shunning comfort for hardship.

Yet Song Qingtian could never fathom the emperor’s mind. Who, in their youth, does not yearn to roam the world by their own skill? Alas, born into the imperial family, one’s fate is not one’s own. When Chen Mo went to war, he volunteered for the battlefield. History had never seen a cripple ascend the throne; even if by some miracle he survived, a maimed prince could never be emperor—his “brothers” would kill him on the front lines if they could. Chenliu was fortunate to fight alongside General Zhang Mingze, who not only taught him martial arts and killing techniques, but also took him into battle. Not only did he survive, he distinguished himself, winning the respect of many military men and strengthening his claim to the throne. Yet what mattered most to Chenliu was the camaraderie of comrades-in-arms—only then, in contrast to the suffocating royal family, did he truly feel what it meant to rely on oneself, and to have a back to lean on.

Though he longed for freedom on horseback, to live by his own will, he had chosen the throne. Compared to personal gain, he believed the well-being of the people mattered more. And after seeing General Zhang’s selfless valor, even the little selfishness he bore seemed shameful.

The Emperor pondered for a moment. As sovereign, he should not harbor such thoughts—such would be a dereliction of duty to the people of Chen. He refused to become one of those reclusive, neglectful monarchs who abandoned governance for personal pursuit.

So Chenliu turned his gaze back to the martial stage and asked no more questions.

Song Qingtian, seeing the sudden silence of the monarch, wondered what he was thinking, but did not trouble himself further and returned his attention to the contest.

Song Linjie relentlessly pressed his advantage, determined to drive Mo Li to the point of utter helplessness. Rather than strike directly with his blade, he sealed off every possible retreat. Each slash arced like lightning around Mo Li, always missing by a hair, never drawing blood, yet pushing him inexorably toward the edge of the stage.

Again, Mo Li drew throwing knives—not to clash with Song Linjie head-on, but to hurl at him, hoping to create an opening. The two blades, vastly different in size, collided in midair, striking sparks.

Clearly, a common throwing knife was no match for a famed blade like the Forged Heaven Sword—the sparks flew from the lesser blade where it met the mighty edge.

Mo Li knew this tactic could not win, but sought only to use the moment to regain his position at the center of the stage.

After several such exchanges, Song Linjie gave him no further chance. Bracing himself like a pine, he batted aside the flying knife, then reached out and seized Mo Li by the ankle, lifting him off the ground with a playful grin.

“Come back here!”