As always, the morning in Guangzhou City was lively and bustling. The main avenue in the city center was especially vibrant, teeming with people moving about, a swarm of footsteps echoing in all directions.
The grand boulevard was crowded with travelers of all kinds locals, merchants, wanderers, and wandering martial artists. Street vendors, tea stalls, and roadside eateries lined the avenue, each more numerous than the last, forming a lively, pulsing artery in the city's heart.
And then suddenly the harmony shattered.
"Move aside… move aside!"
"Make way! Make way!"
"Out of the way, girl!"
"Clear the road, fast!"
The once-pleasant atmosphere dissolved in an instant. The street goers, caught off guard, fell into a panic.
"Waaahh—!"
"Crash! Clatter!"
Street vendors near the roadside scattered in confusion. Some tripped and fell others overturned their baskets and carts. In the chaos, pedestrians bumped into one another, jostled and shoved aside, tumbling like dominos.
Clip-clop… clip-clop…
A group of horsemen rode forth, shouting warnings as they thundered through the street, their steeds galloping with force.
Some bystanders glared at them with visible disdain, while others, less confrontational, lowered their heads and moved aside.
The horsemen paid no heed to the crowd's expressions. They spurred their horses forward without pause or care.
Near the middle of the road, an oldman was caught in the path. He struggled to step aside, but his legs trembled with age, and his pace was far too slow.
"Old man! Want to die standing in the middle of the road?!"
The lead horseman—a man riding at the front—snarled as he lashed out with a longwhip, striking viciously.
Whip—CRACK!
Thud!
The strike was merciless.
"Ahhh—!"
The old man cried out in pain as he was flung aside like a sack of rice, landing hard near the curb.
Uugh…
He couldn't get back up. He whimpered, clutching his side, his body trembling from both pain and terror.
Yet no one stepped in. No one dared intervene or speak up. Heads bowed, eyes averted everyone pretended not to see.
There were tenhorsemen in total. All were mounted on fine, well-groomed steeds, each with an ornate saddle of polished leather and intricate silver work. Their attire, too, was not of common cut elegant, sharp, and expensive.
The whip-wielding leader looked to be around forty, with thick eyebrows, sharp eyes, and a wild, bristling mustache. His movements were quick, decisive—he had the air of one long accustomed to command.
Behind him rode four younger horsemen, ranging around twenty-five years of age. Their similar faces, mannerisms, and expressions suggested they were brothers. They showed no concern for the commotion they'd caused eyes straight ahead, faint smiles on their lips, as if they were out enjoying a ride in the countryside.
Following the four brothers came another rider, mounted on a stallion even finer than the rest. The rider wore a white robe trimmed in black, his posture composed, his gaze piercing and serene. His presence was unmistakably different quiet, but commanding.
Behind him came four more riders, dressed identically in red trousers, black shirts, and green sashes. Each bore a red embroidered raven emblem upon their chest, and swords hung sheathed at their waists.
This party was clearly in a hurry. Without care, they forced their way down the street, compelling all others to step aside.
At last, they arrived before a two-storied, grand restaurant of striking splendor.
Whoa…!
The horsemen tugged their reins, halting their mounts with practiced ease, then dismounted in one fluid motion.
Above the entrance, gilded letters against a red backdrop read:
"Guangzhou Restaurant."
The riders glanced at the sign. Their eyes lit with recognition.
No sooner had they arrived than a young attendant came running out to greet them. With deep bows and a respectful smile, he approached the man in the white robe.
"Ah! Young lord, you've arrived! Please, this way. Your reserved suite on the upper floor awaits."
The attendant offered his warmest smile, bowing deeply in welcome. But the white-robed man gave no response. He did not even look at the servant instead, his gaze lingered silently on the restaurant's upper level.
The mustached man beside him barked sharply.
"Forget the suite. We have important guests with us today. We're taking the entire establishment."
"Huh—? The entire—?"
The attendant stammered, stunned into silence.
"Why are you just standing there? Go inside and clear the place out. I don't want a single soul left."
As he spoke, the mustached man shoved the attendant hard in the chest.
Startled, the young man stumbled back into the building. Clearly, this was not a matter he could resolve on his own—he had to fetch the manager.
Watching him flee in panic, the mustached man gave a low chuckle and turned to the white-robed youth with a grin.
"Young Lord, please. This way."
The young man in white swept his gaze coolly across the entire room, gave a slight nod, and strode into the establishment without a word.
At that very moment, the shop manager appeared in a flurry, half-running, and greeted him with reverent enthusiasm.
"We are always honored to welcome your lordship to the Restaurant. Please, this way inside. Allow us to serve you with our finest dishes and best accommodations. Everyone, make way!"
But the man with the mustache gave no regard to the manager's deferential welcome. He snorted dismissively and muttered coldly,
"Out. Don't make me repeat myself. We're renting the whole place. Clear out every last one of them."
The manager, a man who had entertained guests of all sorts and dealt with every manner of situation, understood the tone immediately.
"Certainly, of course, your lordship. We shall make everything to your liking. Please, come inside."
Smiling without missing a beat, the manager led the way, giving a subtle nod to his staff behind him.
The staff instantly understood his signal. They politely requested the diners to vacate, and before long, all the guests understanding the situation made their exit without complaint.
Once the guests had left, the doors were shut tight. The mustached man and his group were led upstairs to an exclusive chamber.
There, the manager arranged their seats and summoned his best staff, instructing them to bring out the most exquisite and expensive dishes, along with the finest liquor.
Before long, a sumptuous array of aromatic dishes and aged wine was laid before them.
"Please enjoy. If you need anything else, simply give the word," said the manager, leaving nothing unattended.
The one addressed as "Your Lordship" began to eat and drink. Only then did the others follow, quietly indulging without uttering a single word.
Time passed in silence. When the meal was mostly done, the mustached man suddenly drained his wine in a single gulp and turned toward the manager, who was standing respectfully to the side. He raised his cup.
The manager approached at once and began pouring. But just as he did, the mustached man gave a subtle smirk and, without warning, pressed the tip of his foot against the manager's anklejust below the shin.
The manager, half-expecting trouble, tried to shift his stance to dodge the gesture. But the mustached man didn't stop there.
Without hesitation, he tapped the wine jug with his cup and yanked it forcefully inward.
The manager, distracted by the footwork, failed to react in time. The jug tipped slightly, spilling wine down the front of the mustached man's robe.
"What kind of pouring was that?"
The mustached man sprang up, wine dripping from his front, and slapped the manager across the face with the back of his hand.
The manager attempted to duck—
Whack!
Clatter!
Smash!
—but failed. The blow landed with full force, sending the manager reeling to the side, eyes dazed and blurred. The wine jug slipped from his grasp.
And misfortune had only just begun.
Crash! Splash! Smash!
The falling jug landed directly on the dishes in front of "Your Lordship." The porcelain cracked. The food splattered. The liquor spilled. The jug shattered.
And worse—the ruined food and wine drenched the pristine white robes of the young lord.
His eyes turned cold as ice.
Bang!
With a sudden palm slam upon the table—
Clatter! Crack! Smash!
—dishes overturned, wine cups rolled off, plates shattered, and the feast became chaos.
The manager stared helplessly at the shattered porcelain. Trouble had arrived, uninvited and sudden. Worse than he had anticipated.
The young lord's gaze gleamed with deadly clarity.
The others, witnessing his rising fury, merely smirked in eerie calm.
Realizing what was about to unfold, the manager sprang into action. From where he stood, he leapt toward the bronze gong mounted at the corner of the room and struck it repeatedly.
Gong!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sharp alarm spread throughout the entire House of Imperial Taste.
The mustached man, clearly pleased, approached the gong-beating manager with a cold smile and casually swung his palm down on the man's skull.
"Die."
Crack!
Splat!
Thud!
A sickening crunch echoed as the skull split apart, and the manager dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. After a few spasms, he lay still.
He was dead.
"Fyat... fyat... fyat..."
It wasn't long before the pounding of hurried footsteps reached just outside the chamber door.
"Vwoom..."
With a sudden crash, the chamber doors burst open.
Sentries wielding swords, sabers, and spears stormed in, along with servers, greeters, and other staff of the Gunagzhou Resturant. All were stunned by the sight before them — the lifeless body of the supervisor sprawled upon the floor.
Their eyes then turned toward a group of strangers seated calmly within the chamber, exuding an unnatural stillness. Rage welled up among the newcomers. Gripping their weapons tighter, their eyes burned with fury.
But the one they called "Young Lord" met their hostile glares with nothing more than a look of mild disdain. He gently snorted and spoke in a voice as cool as a mountain breeze:
"Don't take too long."
At that, the bearded man and his companions smiled faintly, clearly in agreement. All rose in unison, unhurried and unbothered by the threatening crowd before them.
In their eyes, the armed hall staff were no more than annoyances — not threats. With barely a glance, they began to move.
"Vwoom... Vwoom..."
"Fyaung..."
"Shwing shwing..."
"Hah!"
The clash of steel, the rush of movement, and the scream of battle erupted in a violent storm.
The restaurant's guards, though numerous, possessed only middling martial skills. They were no match for the bearded men and their crew — four brothers, all experts, and four elite blade-wielders. Each was an accomplished martial artist of the highest tier.
Despite their superior numbers, the staff fell quickly and one by one. The bearded group's overwhelming skill and ruthless execution turned the fight into a slaughter.
"Fyaung..."
"Shwik... shwik..."
"Hah!"
"Aung-ma-le!"
The blade-wielders were merciless. Every strike they delivered was lethal, aiming directly for vital points. One clean stroke, one collapse — sometimes, even limbs were severed for good measure.
"Shwam shwam shwam!"
The four brothers were equally cruel. Like wild beasts, they leapt, wrestled, and broke bones — arms, legs, ribs, necks — leaving their victims writhing in agony before finishing them off.
"Fyaung! Jwut jwut!"
"Hah!"
The sound of breaking bones and agonized screams filled the hall.
The battle was brief. In mere moments, it was over.
The entire staff of the Guangzhou Restaurant lay slaughtered — limbs mangled, bodies twisted grotesquely, flesh and bone torn apart. It was a horrifying sight.
Blood pooled across the floor, flowed along the tiles, and splattered the walls and furniture.
The Young Lord rose slowly from his seat. Without sparing a glance at the carnage around him, he walked calmly out of the room.
The bearded group followed behind him, silently.
One by one, they mounted their horses and rode away the same way they had come, in no rush at all.
On the streets, the townspeople didn't need to be told to move aside. They cleared a path instinctively.
The sound of hoofbeats gradually faded into the distance… until nothing remained but silence.
The Guangzhou Restaurant— once a hub of noise and merriment — was now a lifeless, blood-soaked husk.
But just as all seemed still, a shadow leapt silently from an upper window, landing softly on the ground before darting off in the opposite direction of the Young Lord's group — vanishing like a whisper in the wind.
Moments later, another figure glided down from a different window, so light it barely made a sound, disappearing like a ghost.
People on the street watched cautiously. Though they did not know exactly what had happened, the stench of danger was unmistakable.
A hot, late-summer breeze swept through the street.
With it came a thick, metallic stench — the unmistakable scent of blood.
"Ugh... what a stench..."
"Such a strong smell of blood..."
"This is bad. Something terrible has happened at the Guangzhou Restaurant."
The watchers began to understand. Some whispered quietly to each other.
The famed and bustling Guangzhou Restaurant — known across the city — now stood with its doors shut and its interior deathly silent.
The breeze carried with it the scent of blood, bearing witness to the tragedy that had unfolded.
No one approached. People backed away, keeping a safe distance.
Nearby shops and homes shut their doors and fell into silence.
In the martial world, one learned well — if trouble does not concern you, do not involve yourself. To meddle without cause is to invite calamity.
And so, though all had taken place in broad daylight on the city's main avenue, no one intervened.
No heroes stepped forward.
No officials arrived.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest indictment of our times — a failure of the very mechanisms that should protect society.
Though only one year had passed since the passing of the former Emperor, and the enthronement of a young crown prince, the once-stable empire had begun to unravel like a frayed tapestry.
Though only a year had passed since the Emperor's spirit ascended to the heavens, signs of disorder and cruelty had already begun to bloom like poisonous flowers in spring.
The common folk, having lived through ages of shifting thrones and turning dynasties, understood well the bitter truth: in times of change, each must safeguard their own head. They knew better than to place their trust in the so-called officials, for those in power often proved more fearsome than the bandits themselves.
Soon would come the shadow of thieves and killers, of martial rogues and corrupt officials alike—harbingers of chaos marching in from all corners.
Already, within the hearts of the people, a dread was spreading the sense that a time of darkness, of turmoil and upheaval, was fast approaching.
The late summer winds blew hot and dry, as if fire itself rode the breeze. It did not soothe—it seared.
And before long, the grim tale of the massacre at Guangzhou Restaurant had spread throughout the entire city of Guangzhou.
Yet even as the dreadful news reached every corner of the city, the so-called authorities failed to appear at the scene of the crime.
But others did.
Not clerks.
Not heroes.
What arrived… were clouds.
Crimson clouds, adrift in the skies.
From the southern heavens above Guangzhou, a red hue began to seep across the sky, slow and ominous.
The summer wind, once restless, now grew bold and heavy—as though preparing to bear witness to calamity yet to come.
End of Chapter