Chapter 9
Chapter 9: Blood Sword—A Monk Knee-Walked Ten Li
The north wind roared, and the Lone City stood.
Outside the walls, a blood-colored abyss exhaled corpse-stench into the sky. In the dried, darkened soil beside it, a wooden sword stood planted upright.
Or rather—
A blood sword.
It had been soaked in invader blood until it radiated a heavy, sinister chill.
Gu Chang An pulled it free and rose. In his sight, the yellow sands parted by themselves, as if an invisible edge were slicing the world open.
He dragged the blade step by step. Beads of blood seeped from its edge and fell with soft, steady taps—eerie, murderous.
His guess had been right.
If killing made him stronger, then a sword forged from the enemy’s blood—how could it be weak?
“Guard the city with me,” Gu Chang An murmured to the blood sword, then turned and walked back toward the watchtower.
Two thousand invaders dead meant more than a mountain of bodies. It also meant spoils: grain, supplies, dried meat, cloth, gold and silver, and weapons of every kind.
One battle was enough to keep the Lone City fed for two years. They would have more than enough—and still complain that horse meat was tough and tasteless.
…
Several li away, five monks led camels through the gobi. One thin-faced monk stared toward the far-off wall, where a blurred battle standard fluttered in the wind.
Suddenly, he dropped to his knees.
He began to knee-walk forward, step by dragging step, eyes red and wet.
“Si Bian,” a middle-aged monk with a high nose said urgently, lowering his voice as if the sand itself could listen. “Don’t be foolish.”
The others also stared toward the Lone City, their throats tight.
That shock—deep enough to bruise the soul—could not be understood without seeing it.
The “demon” rumored to be in the Lone City had written a page of history no one before or after could match.
Far away, the story spread as horror. People said a monster had appeared, devouring heaven and earth, and those who heard it shivered and chose to detour.
But the closer one came, the more the truth rose up through the lies. Seven Thousand Li territory could be sealed, but the nearby wilderness hunters could not be fooled.
The Lone City that had held for sixty years.
The only land Shen Zhou still held in the Western Regions.
The entire city had died in battle. Not one begged to surrender. A man named Gu Chang An had created a miracle—and still stood on the wall.
When the hunters first spoke, the monks’ hearts shook. Except for Si Bian, they were not Shen Zhou people.
But they were human.
And humans had hearts.
“How can you turn back and live?” another monk warned, voice harsh. “Si Bian—if you return, you’ll die.”
On the westward pilgrimage, more than a hundred officials had threatened them along the road. Every warning carried the same meaning.
“Do not look back.”
They all understood. The Seven Thousand Li Sanction Officer feared the news leaking out. Whoever touched that red line would die without a grave.
Si Bian knee-walked on like a devout pilgrim, as if pain were a kind of prayer.
He had once admired Xuan Zang above all others.
To go west seeking scripture—not for wealth, not for fame, but for the supreme Dharma.
It was the highest vow, and it showed the true power of faith.
But now, in Si Bian’s heart, no one was greater than Gu Chang An of the Lone City.
This was perseverance a hundred times more desperate than death.
As he drew nearer, he could make out the white figure on the wall—lonely, bleak, carved out of wind and time.
“Leave.” A cold voice drifted from the watchtower, carried far by the wind.
The other monks stopped, fear keeping them in place. Only Si Bian continued forward, voice rising in the open desert.
“A man of the Central Plains—Chen Shu,” he called. “Dharma name Si Bian. I bow to Benefactor Gu!”
Gu Chang An paused.
After his grandmother’s death, he had not heard such fluent, authentic Central Plains speech. For a moment, silence held between them like a stretched wire.
Then Gu Chang An said evenly, “No need to kneel. Go.”
Si Bian rose slowly, knees trembling. He stared at the ancient, weathered Kucha City. Blood stained the stones. Arrow marks scarred the wall. He couldn’t find a single clean, unbroken stretch.
Shen Zhou had fallen into an abyss of blood and fire. In the apocalyptic smoke of collapsing rivers and mountains, the spirit of the once-glorious Great Tang had vanished.
And yet, in the distant Western Regions, one Lone City still held righteous qi that refused to die.
This was the spiritual homeland of the Central Plains. This man was the backbone of a people.
Si Bian had too many words caught in his throat, and none that felt worthy. In front of Gu Chang An, he felt small—ashamed, almost filthy.
A great husband born in chaos should have raised a three-foot blade to sweep away invaders. Instead, he had fled into Buddhism, far from home, forced to bow and bend before barbarians.
Gu Chang An looked down at him. Perhaps the monk’s tears were too sincere to ignore. His voice softened—only slightly.
“Leave. This city has nothing to do with you. Do what you should do.”
Si Bian lowered his eyes. He took off his bundle and set up a simple rite beside the abyss—no offerings, no altar, only sutra chanting for the An Xi spirits.
The other monks left first. One glance at Gu Chang An was enough. On the level of nations, he was their enemy.
Yet this enemy was not a fanged beast, not a blue-faced demon.
He was a handsome, gentle man.
If he were in Holy City—if he were in the Central Plains—he might have been a refined young master, admired by beauties and good girls alike.
No wonder the Sanction Officer swore to seal the truth. If such a story reached the wider world, how could it be contained? Tian Xia would boil.
“Stop chanting,” Gu Chang An said at last, as if loneliness had made him impatient with murmured prayer. “They died without regret. Even in the Underworld, ghosts respect them.”
He paused, then added, “Tell me how Shen Zhou and the Eastern Lands are now.”
Si Bian’s lips moved. He hesitated, afraid to pour despair into a hero’s ears. Then he remembered: this man lived in darkness already, and death no longer threatened him.
So why would despair?
“The Central Plains has split into seven nations,” Si Bian said, voice thick with sorrow. “War returns every year. Great Tang remains the orthodox name in title, but it has no strength left to command the people.”
He swallowed, then continued. “The Barbarian State is unstoppable. It occupies vast land. The Seven Kingdoms can barely resist even together. In recent years, Western Shu was the first to be invaded…”
Gu Chang An listened with eyes like still water. It matched what he had already suspected—history had been overturned completely.
“And the Heavenly Dao has awakened,” Si Bian added. “Spiritual energy is returning. The Barbarian State Holy City is the source…”
He spoke for a long time, the words spilling out until his throat hurt.
Eventually, Gu Chang An’s gaze drifted, interest fading—not from disbelief, but from a tired acceptance. Reality was always crueler than any nightmare.
He looked at Si Bian’s tear-streaked face and seemed to understand what the monk was thinking.
“Go,” Gu Chang An said quietly. “If you return, you’ll die. Don’t throw your life away.”
He spoke with a calm that felt older than his twenty years. “Living your life the way you choose—that is a true hero.” He gestured lightly toward the desert path. “I like guarding the city. It seems you like honoring Buddha and seeking the Dharma. Then go do it.”
Si Bian wiped his eyes. For an instant, he wanted to return to the Central Plains and shout this truth into the world. He could not bear for a national hero to be forgotten.
But he had no power. No Buddhist law. No way to pass the layers of blockade.
“Benefactor…” he began, then swallowed the rest. “This monk takes his leave.”
He bowed deeply.
Before he went, he placed a small pagoda-shaped buddha shrine beside the abyss. He had received it by chance at a Buddhist temple in Holy City. Heaven and earth favored all things; he believed this was a treasure of the faith.
Even if it was a tiny effort, he wanted to leave something behind for the Lone City.
Gu Chang An glanced once at the shrine. “Go on.”
Si Bian walked away. More than once he nearly turned back for one last look at the wall.
He wanted to believe that the darkness Gu Chang An endured—the stubborn, endless holding on—would someday be repaid.
Yet he also knew the truth: perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, the white-robed figure would finally collapse into wind and sand.
Still, as he disappeared into the desert, Si Bian clenched his teeth and swore silently:
“Heroes do not perish. I will not let the Lone City be forgotten. As long as I live, sooner or later I will make this legend ring across Shen Zhou.”