Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

The Fifth Prince's Residence.

It was as still as an undisturbed autumn pond. There were no bright lights in the Eastern Palace, no clinking of glasses in the Third Prince's residence, only an old plum tree in the courtyard casting sparse shadows, and the moonlight, like a ribbon, gilded the blue bricks on the ground with a cold silver hue.

Qin Linzheng sat alone on the stone steps, drinking wine under the moon. A pot of turbid wine, a rough earthenware cup—nothing else. His face was lean and aloof, his brows high and his eyes slightly upturned, adding to his already cold and unapproachable air. His aura was restrained, like a rock submerged in water, revealing no sharpness, yet anyone who approached within three steps could feel an invisible pressure, like a sword about to be drawn.

Grandmaster level six. Among the younger generation in the Eastern Continent, there are very few who can rival him.

He never participated in the power struggles among the princes. When people in the court mentioned this fifth prince, they often only remembered that he loved swords, was taciturn, and knew nothing about factional strife. Some said he was aloof, some said he was cowardly, some said he was cunning—but no matter what others said, Qin Linzheng seemed to have never heard of it.

The night breeze swept through the courtyard, fluttering the hem of his faded blue robe and blowing a fallen plum blossom into his wine cup.

He looked down at the plum blossom petal, but didn't try to retrieve it. Instead, he tilted his head back and drank the wine and the petal together.

"The West, the Azure Dragon Society." He set down his wine cup, his fingertips slowly tracing the edge of the rough pottery, his voice as flat as if he were reading place names from a book. "The North, foreign tribes are stirring."

He paused, then looked up at the moon overhead. The moonlight was cold and clear, like a sword hanging in the sky.

The world is becoming increasingly chaotic.

Light, steady footsteps sounded behind him. An old servant came from the corridor, his back hunched, placed a dish of boiled peanuts beside the stone steps, then stood by his sides, whispering, "Your Highness, the Crown Prince and the Third Prince's men... have all been mobilized today."

Qin Linzheng remained silent for a moment. The silence was short, but it was like a heavy stone falling into a deep well, and it took a long time for the echo to be heard.

"knew."

The old servant slightly raised his eyes: "Your Highness doesn't intend to...do anything?"

"What are you doing?" Qin Linzheng put down his wine cup and turned to look at the old servant. His gaze was calm, almost cold. "Competing for that position?"

He withdrew his gaze and looked again at the northern night sky. There, a dark cloud was slowly drifting across the moon, like a giant hand obscuring the light.

"My father lived to be over a hundred years old, yet he never revealed his true cultivation level. The world regarded him as a Grandmaster at the peak of the ninth level, but if one day he were to take that step and enter the realm of a Celestial Giant—" A slight twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth, a curve as faint as water droplets under moonlight, ""he might sit on the throne for another hundred years. What's the point of fighting tooth and nail now, crushing brothers and flesh into dust...?"

The old servant lowered his head and remained silent, only pushing the plate of boiled peanuts toward him.

Qin Linzheng reached out and picked up a peanut, peeled it, but didn't eat it. He just looked at the two round kernels in his palm.

"I only want the sword." He put a peanut in his mouth, chewed it slowly, swallowed it, then stood up, hands behind his back, and walked into the depths of the moonlight. A corner of his blue robe fluttered in the night wind, like a lone cloud drifting across the eaves. "Everything else is irrelevant to me."

His figure disappeared around the corner of the corridor, leaving only half a pot of wine and a plate of barely touched peanuts on the stone steps, gradually cooling down under the moonlight.

Ninth Prince's Mansion.

It was eerily quiet.

It wasn't the emptiness of an empty house, nor the solemnity of a heavily guarded gate. The quiet of this mansion was like a bottomless pool of ink, the surface still, yet something seemed to be breathing beneath.

The main hall was unlit. The side courtyard was silent. Even the two stone lions at the gate were indistinct, appearing as two huddled shadows in the moonlight.

The old gatekeeper sat on the threshold, a pipe in his hand, no fire in the bowl, just dangling from his lips, squinting at the alleyway entrance. A figure swept past the alleyway entrance—it was someone from the Eastern Palace, heading west. Another figure followed closely behind—it was someone from the Third Prince, also heading west.

The old servant took the pipe out of his mouth, tapped it on the sole of his shoe, got up, and closed the door.

The bolt clicked down.

Deep inside the mansion, a very faint candlelight shone through the paper window of a study, then flickered and went out.

It was as if nothing had happened.

The northern border, the Pass of Tears.

The majestic pass stands between the vast grasslands and the Central Plains, thirty feet high and fifty feet thick, stretching eight hundred miles from east to west.

The city wall is not made of bricks and stones—it was originally a mountain. Over the centuries, soldiers guarding the border used iron spikes, their blood and flesh, and three hundred years to carve a stone mountain range that stretched across the north into a fortress. Every stone is embedded with broken spears and fragments of bone, and every crack is filled with dried blood, turning it a dark brown.

At this moment, on the southern rampart of the fortress, an old soldier leaned against the crenellations, munching on a dry biscuit. A north wind blew in from the direction of the grasslands, carrying the smells of horse manure, the stench of grass, and a faint, almost imperceptible, metallic rust. He took a bite of the hard, rock-hard biscuit, chewed it a couple of times, and then looked past the ramparts towards the grasslands beyond the fortress.

That grassland is no longer a grassland.

The massive, dark army stretched out from the horizon like a surging, dark ocean, seemingly endless.

At the forefront, no more than fifteen miles from the pass, a huge golden wolf-head banner fluttered in the wind, its surface embroidered with three overlapping crescent moons in red silk thread—the royal banner of the Golden Clan.

A million iron cavalry.

The shouts of men and the neighing of horses could be heard from dozens of miles away. The grass on the grassland was trampled into mud by the horses' hooves, and the air was filled with the smell of blood and rust.

On the city wall, Dongfang Wudi stood with his hands behind his back.

The Northern War God was dressed in black armor, which was devoid of any decorations except for a small "weeping" character engraved on his left shoulder.

His face bore a seven-tenths resemblance to Dongfang Weiwo, but was more rugged and hardened, with a murderous aura honed through countless battles etched between his brows.

The aura of a Grandmaster at the peak of the ninth level circulated around him, but for some reason—everyone on the city wall felt that the Marquis's aura seemed even deeper than it had been half a year ago.

"My lord, the enemy vanguard is forty li from the pass." The lieutenant knelt on one knee. "The three heroes of the Golden Tent are at the forefront, and the Heavenly Khan is commanding the central army. They have sent word..."

"What did you say?"

"Please tell the Marquis to 'open the gates and look north,' and surrender to avoid death."

Dongfang Wudi laughed.

The laughter wasn't loud, but it carried far across the city walls, so far that even the Golden Clan soldiers on the grasslands could faintly hear it.

"Surrender?" He turned, his gaze sweeping over all the soldiers on the fortress. "Tell them—kneeling is a posture I, the Invincible East, would never adopt."

He raised his hand and drew his sword.

It was a jet-black battle blade with dark gold patterns flowing along its surface. The moment it was drawn from its sheath, all the spiritual energy of the Bloodstained Pass was drawn towards its blade. The world suddenly darkened, as if all the light had been absorbed by the blade, leaving only the flowing golden light on its edge.

"Follow me—kill."