Chapter 85: The Dread Blade Patriarch Displays His Might, Cursed by Heaven for His Sinister Ways

The moon was shrouded in darkness, the wind high and wild, and at midnight, strange voices whispered. Having lived in Three Banners Town for many years, Han Moyi was no stranger to the desert’s warriors, those who brandished blades and swords with ease. During his time accompanying the escort agency, he had even picked up a few basic knife skills from the guards.

Ordinary blades were forged from refined iron, their bodies gleaming silver like snow. Yet the man in the dark robe, his weapon was peculiar—a knife of standard length, three feet or so, but its entire form was pitch black. Han Moyi felt a chilling, dreadful power emanating from it the moment he laid eyes upon it, unsettling him to the core.

Seeing that Han Moyi did not take the knife, the man in the robe merely smiled calmly. “Some things can wait no longer.”

Han Moyi knew he referred to the swarm of vengeful ghosts haunting Three Banners Town. Gritting his teeth, he accepted the strange knife. As his hand closed around the hilt, a familiar sensation surged through him from the blade.

“Boy, I never thought I’d see you again after so long, and even less that you’d still be so wretched,” came a voice, mocking and sinister. Han Moyi’s scalp prickled; the voice seemed to emanate straight from the knife itself.

Before he could grasp the reason, the voice spoke again, sharp and uncanny: “No, you are not Han Moyi.”

“I’m not Han Moyi?” Han Moyi was taken aback by the knife’s words, even more so by its astonishing claim.

“I’m not Han Moyi?” He frowned, recalling the hellish scene in Three Banners Town, sighing, “Ah, if only I weren’t Han Moyi.”

Closing his eyes, he could still remember himself cowering atop the rafters, and poor Fang Wanru’s forlorn figure.

“Boy, you are truly lucky. Who would have guessed your fate with the old ancestor runs so deep.” Before Han Moyi could sink further into painful memories, the voice from the blade spoke again, now tinged with excitement—perhaps even bloodlust.

“Who are you?” Han Moyi ignored the ghosts closing in, lowering his head to address the knife as if speaking to himself.

“Who am I? I am your family’s ancestor! Enough chatter, I need your blood.” As the voice finished, Han Moyi felt a sudden sharp pain in his hand holding the knife.

He looked down to see his right hand gashed open by a spike that had sprouted from the hilt, blood slowly trickling down the blade. Even stranger, the blade began to turn crimson as his blood flowed. Worse still, his body started slipping from his control.

The foremost ghost didn’t notice Han Moyi’s strange transformation. As Han Moyi casually swung the knife, the ghost was effortlessly sliced apart, bursting into fragments of green light, its soul utterly destroyed.

Countless ghosts were cowed by Han Moyi’s terrifying strike; none dared approach. But Han Moyi, now controlled by the knife, did not stop. He charged into the throng, and once more, Three Banners Town echoed with screams—this time, the cries belonged to the ghosts.

When Han Moyi finally halted, a third of the ghosts had vanished. The remainder gazed at him not with anger, but with fear.

Suddenly, a ghost spoke, “We cannot kill him, but we will not let him go unpunished. I would rather be destroyed than not curse him.”

At that moment, the blood moon broke through the clouds, bathing Three Banners Town in a metallic stench. One ghost began to curse, its soul fading into green light and dispersing. As one ghost cursed, another followed, then a third, until all cursed, filling the town with flickering green lights like stars fallen from the sky.

The curses echoed in Han Moyi’s mind, first one, then two, then countless voices. Unable to bear it, he collapsed, clutching the knife desperately.

When Han Moyi awoke, Three Banners Town had been swallowed by desert sands. Only the stubbornly protruding flagpole remained, bearing no trace of the town that once was.

The robed man had vanished, leaving only the strange knife beside him.

Han Moyi stood up. After so many ghosts cursed him, he sensed something new within his body, but found nothing upon inspection.

Standing in the blinding sunlight, a thought struck him. Picking up the knife, he walked northward across the desert.

By evening, the desert sun still shone brightly. No one knew of last night’s blood moon, just as no one knew there once was a flourishing apricot grove family extinguished by bandits, or a bustling Three Banners Town, or that beneath these layers of yellow sand lay a woman whose smile once bloomed like a flower.

In Hawk Fort, the Evil Blade Immortal and his hundred followers still reveled in their spoils from Three Banners Town. A group of gaudily dressed women tried on the jewelry looted from the Han estate, their mouths full of praise for the Evil Blade Immortal, as if he were a hero who robbed the rich to aid the poor.

The Evil Blade Immortal himself feasted and drank with his men. The wine and meat they enjoyed had been prepared by the Han estate for Han Moyi and Fang Wanru’s wedding.

“Boss, the Han kid who escaped has come to the door,” a subordinate announced as he entered.

“How many people?” A shadow crossed Evil Blade Immortal’s face; his voice was cold, his gaze predatory.

“One—just the kid alone, outside the gate,” the subordinate replied, puzzled.

“One?” Evil Blade Immortal was stunned, then burst into laughter, nearly choking on his mirth.

“If he seeks death, let him in,” the Evil Blade Immortal finally managed between laughs.

The subordinate left, and soon Han Moyi entered.

Evil Blade Immortal glanced at him: frail, bearing a strange knife, covered in sand, his torn black-and-red groom’s attire hanging in tatters, lips dry and cracked, flecked with blood.

No matter how Evil Blade Immortal looked at Han Moyi, he seemed a lamb to be slaughtered—except this lamb had come to the slaughter of his own accord.

“Here for revenge?” Evil Blade Immortal asked, suppressing a laugh, his face full of disdain. His contempt provoked laughter from his men.

Han Moyi stood silently, licking his lips.

“Damn it, are you deaf?” Evil Blade Immortal cursed, angered by Han Moyi’s apparent fearlessness and even the hint of contempt in his eyes.

“Evil Blade Immortal, I am here to kill you.” Han Moyi gripped the knife, licked blood from his lips, and spoke unhurriedly.

His voice was not loud, yet it rang with conviction.

For a moment, the hall was silent, then everyone but Han Moyi erupted in laughter. The bandits mocked his arrogance; the garish women giggled uncontrollably, some with tears streaming down their faces, clutching their stomachs and taking the opportunity to snuggle up to Evil Blade Immortal, like dogs fawning over their master.

“Finish him,” Evil Blade Immortal waved impatiently. Killing was nothing to him, and in a heartbeat he had decided Han Moyi’s fate.

He didn’t spare Han Moyi another glance, grabbing at the women clinging to him. The woman he grabbed was not offended; instead, she became even more wanton, picking up a cup and pouring its contents over herself, the wine trickling down her body.