Chapter Ninety: Han Mo's Corpse Like a Magic Lantern, Secrets Hidden at the End

A solitary shadow by the cold river, old friends in the world of wanderers—why must a meeting require past acquaintance? Han Mo Yi stared coldly at the burning Eagle Fortress, waiting for it to be reduced to ashes. With his great vengeance fulfilled, he suddenly felt a hollowness within.

For a moment, Han Mo Yi could only sense that, vast as the world was, there was not a single place to shelter him, or any reason for him to remain.

Perhaps sensing the aura of death emanating from Han Mo Yi, Ma Ruoxue felt a chill in her heart and hurriedly spoke, “Will you take me home?”

“Home?” Han Mo Yi murmured, recalling the Han family home he had set ablaze with his own hands.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.” Han Mo Yi slung the strange blade across his back, and together they mounted the two horses left behind by Murong Yunduo, riding away into the distance.

Neither Han Mo Yi nor Ma Ruoxue noticed that once they had departed, a man in white robes embroidered with dragons and a woman dressed in Miao attire appeared out of nowhere on the empty ground before Eagle Fortress.

“Are you sure you won’t erase him now?” The Miao-clad woman smiled faintly, two shallow dimples gracing her exquisite face.

“I promised someone I would take good care of him.” The dragon-robed man looked at the Miao-clad woman with a certain fondness; his eyes were deep, as if they held the light of a thousand stars.

A day later, a youth bearing a pitch-black strange blade and a young woman in a white dress rode side by side into Yellow Sand Town.

“Is this the Yellow Sand Town you mentioned?” The young woman, Ma Ruoxue, wore a veil of blue gauze against the wind and sand. She looked with great interest at the bustling street—vendors selling jade, cloth, furs, camels, and horses.

“Yes.” The youth carrying the strange blade was, of course, Han Mo Yi.

Ma Ruoxue gazed curiously at the items lining the street. Even through her veil, Han Mo Yi could easily imagine the wonder on her face.

They stopped before the Desert North Inn in Yellow Sand Town, where a lively attendant greeted them. “Welcome, honored guests! Will you be dining or staying?”

“Staying,” Han Mo Yi replied coolly.

“Very well, please come inside.” The attendant ushered them in warmly.

Han Mo Yi and Ma Ruoxue dismounted. Han Mo Yi chose a table deep inside, ordered their meal, and asked Ma Ruoxue to wait within the inn while he stepped outside.

Leaving the inn, Han Mo Yi entered a larger pawnshop. After a spirited exchange with the shopkeeper, he finally pawned a jade thumb ring for fifty silver dollars, which he pocketed.

No sooner had he returned toward the inn than he heard Ma Ruoxue’s furious cry: “Get away!”

Han Mo Yi’s heart tightened; he strode back in haste, anger rising like a tide.

It turned out Ma Ruoxue had removed her veil, and her stunning beauty had drawn the attention of several desert swordsmen, who began to harass her.

“Pretty lady, come drink with us,” said a lecherous swordsman with a scar across his face.

His words were met with roaring laughter. Another swordsman, his face pocked with acne, shouted, “Don’t worry, once we’re happy, you’ll be well paid!”

“Leave!” Ma Ruoxue said angrily, her eyes scanning for the doorway. Spotting Han Mo Yi, she rushed to his side as if finding a protector.

“Oh? So your lover’s arrived. But with that build, he’ll hardly last the night,” the pockmarked swordsman jeered, his words crude enough to make Han Mo Yi frown.

“Leave, or die.” Han Mo Yi spoke coldly, unslinging his strange blade. Looking at these swordsmen, he had only one thought: to see them dead.

Even Han Mo Yi himself didn’t know why he had become so violent; perhaps he simply saw this gang as no different from the bandits of Eagle Fortress.

“You little brat, you’re asking for trouble!” The scar-faced swordsman was startled by the sudden murderous air about Han Mo Yi, but after sizing up the youth and his black blade, rage overtook his shame.

Before anyone could react, the scar-faced man raised his sword to strike Han Mo Yi. Han Mo Yi parried, but the swordsman quickly altered his attack, swinging at Han Mo Yi’s arm.

This time, Han Mo Yi did not block, but instead slashed at the swordsman’s arm.

With a clang, a sword clattered to the ground, accompanied by a severed arm.

It was the scar-faced man’s arm.

The inn was soon filled with his agonized screams, but after a few cries, he fainted.

“What a quick blade!” The onlookers, not fully understanding, assumed Han Mo Yi’s blade was the faster one, and gasped in awe.

The Desert North was unlike the Central Plains. Had such an incident occurred in a Central Plains inn, the crowd would have scattered like frightened birds. Here, however, the sight of blood only ignited their excitement. They watched Han Mo Yi intently, afraid to miss anything.

“Leave, or die.” Han Mo Yi pointed his blade at the pockmarked man and the remaining swordsmen.

By now, their hands shook so badly they could barely hold their swords. The spectators, though unaware of the details, could tell that the scar-faced man’s sword had struck Han Mo Yi first, yet Han Mo Yi was unharmed and had severed the man’s arm in a single stroke. To them, Han Mo Yi was no longer human, but a demon.

“If you won’t act, then you’ll die!” Han Mo Yi’s eyes glowed red. No one noticed that at some point, his blade had shifted from pitch-black to a dark crimson.

Han Mo Yi’s next strike was blindingly fast—ten, a hundred times faster than before. He was about to behead the pockmarked swordsman when a sharp cry rang out.

“Stop!”

Han Mo Yi paid the voice no heed, his blade mercilessly swinging toward the swordsman.

With a bang, Han Mo Yi felt his blade jolt fiercely, nearly flying from his grasp. He managed to hold onto the hilt, but the blade veered off course, grazing the swordsman’s head and nearly scalping him.

The pockmarked swordsman collapsed to his knees, blood streaming down his head in a terrifying spectacle.

Han Mo Yi, obstructed, felt his anger flare even hotter. Turning, he saw his assailant: a short-haired woman in a leather jacket, her features striking and cold, bearing a remarkable resemblance to Ma Ruoxue.

She held what looked like a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, smoke curling from its muzzle—it was clearly this weapon that had knocked his blade aside.

“Show mercy where mercy is due,” the cold, beautiful woman said, holstering her gun behind her.

Han Mo Yi stared at her coldly, saying nothing, when Ma Ruoxue’s voice rang out, tinged with delight.

“Sister!”