In the Jiajing era of the Ming Dynasty, the misty rain of Jiangnan fell like silk, and beneath the landscape of rivers and mountains, the martial world simmered with hidden currents. It was an age of flashing blades and clashing swords, where heroes shone like stars and valiant warriors fell like rain, yet shadows of conspiracy and bloodshed lurked beneath. A young man named Ling Yingjue stepped into this turbulent world, bearing a strange cone, embarking on a journey both naive and resolute.
Ling Yingjue, sixteen years old, was born in a fishing village in eastern Zhejiang. Orphaned from birth, he was raised by an old fisherman who taught him the trade of fishing. The village lay along the banks of the Qiantang River, surrounded by water, its shores thick with reeds. The huts were simple, topped with thatched roofs, their weathered walls permeated by the constant river breeze, carrying a faint chill. The villagers rose with the sun and rested at dusk, living a quiet life detached from worldly strife, occasionally hearing snippets of the outside world from passing boats. The old fisherman, gaunt and aged, his face etched with deep wrinkles, hands calloused from years of labor, often sat by the riverbank, puffing on his pipe, gazing at the misty water as he hummed fishing songs in a low voice. Ling Yingjue would sit beside him, listening to fragmented tales of the martial world—tales of ruthless blades and heroic valor that, though vague, planted a restless seed in his heart.
Before the old fisherman passed, he left Ling Yingjue three keepsakes. The first was a peculiar weapon shaped like a cone: one end broad as a fist, black and heavy, cold as ice to the touch, as if it could freeze one's veins; the other end narrow as a needle, glinting with a chill light, light as if weightless, seeming to pulse with a faint life of its own. The old fisherman called it the "Soul-Piercing Cone," his voice low and hoarse as he cautioned, "Its origins are unknown; do not show it unless your life is at stake." The second was a rough bone whistle carved from fishbone, barely two inches long, which he hung around Ling Yingjue's neck, saying with a sigh, "I made this in my youth, keep it as a memory." The third was a small gray cloth pouch containing what seemed like a fisherman's net, handed to him with the simple words, "This net's sturdy, take it with you." Ling Yingjue, puzzled, accepted these items as mere mementos, tucking the Soul-Piercing Cone at his waist, the bone whistle around his neck, and the cloth pouch tied to his belt, carrying them with him always.
After the old fisherman's death, Ling Yingjue sustained himself alone in the village hut, living off his fishing. At night, when all was still, he often took out the Soul-Piercing Cone to examine it. Its weight felt reassuring in his hand, a strange familiarity he couldn't explain. He swung it experimentally—the broad end struck with a sound like muffled thunder, the narrow end pierced with a flash of cold light—and a quiet thought stirred within him: this weapon, odd as it was, might one day alter his mundane fate. The bone whistle he regarded as a trinket, the cloth pouch he sometimes used to hold fish, never giving them much thought. Though frail as a child, he was nimble, often darting through the riverside reeds, practicing crude punches and kicks to strengthen himself. The old fisherman had taught him a rudimentary technique called "Tidal Force," mimicking the ebb and flow of river tides to guard his body and redirect force, but without guidance, he'd only grasped its surface. He'd also devised a few moves he dubbed the "Thirteen Shadows of the Cone," though he'd mastered just three—raw, yet fierce.
That morning, before dawn broke, Ling Yingjue rowed his small boat out to fish as usual. A thick mist shrouded the river, blending water and sky into a seamless haze, with only his low fishing song echoing through the fog. The boat was simple, patched together from wooden planks, its edges slick with wet moss. Each stroke of the paddle stirred faint ripples, the mist dampening his coarse shirt with a biting chill. The river lay still beneath the fog, the distant reeds half-visible, swaying as the wind whispered through them like a secret murmur. Standing at the bow, his waist bearing the Soul-Piercing Cone, he gazed into the misty expanse, a sudden unease creeping into his chest, as if this familiar stretch of water held something strange today.
Just then, a clash of metal rang from the shore, mingled with muffled cries—sounds of violence cutting through the stillness. Ling Yingjue paused his rowing, ears straining to catch the noise, faint and intermittent, drifting through the fog, now near, now far, laced with an air of slaughter. He hesitated, torn between curiosity and caution, but finally decided to investigate. Tying the boat to a cluster of reeds, he stepped onto the muddy bank, parting the dripping foliage carefully. The fog thickened, limiting his sight to a few yards, the mud squelching beneath his feet with each step, the river breeze carrying a damp chill that made him pull his shirt tighter.
Holding his breath, he followed the sound until he reached a clearing by the riverbank, where a gruesome scene unfolded: an old man lay in a pool of blood, a short sword buried in his chest, his breath long gone. His face was weathered, white hair and beard framing a visage of age, clad in fine robes embroidered with cloud patterns, gold threads at the cuffs—a man clearly beyond the status of a fisherman or peasant. In his right hand, he clutched a jade pendant, green as water, carved with a soaring swallow, radiating a faint, ethereal glow in the mist, uncanny and mesmerizing. Scattered beside him were torn scraps of fabric, ripped from his robe, and the ground bore fresh, chaotic footprints, the churned mud hinting at a recent struggle.
Ling Yingjue bent to pick up the pendant, its warmth flowing into his palm, a subtle jolt stirring his senses. As he examined it, a sharp gust tore through the air behind him—a long knife slashing down, its icy edge aimed at his neck. Without thinking, he rolled aside, mud splashing across his body in his haste. Rising, he faced a black-clad figure, masked save for a pair of fierce, gleaming eyes. The man was lean, dressed in a tight robe, a crimson sash at his waist, wielding a narrow blade that shimmered with menace, its hilt etched with fine scales, suggesting careful craftsmanship. "Hand over the pendant, kid, and I'll spare you," the man barked, his voice cold and commanding.
Ling Yingjue's heart tightened, realizing the man sought the jade. Before he could respond, a second slash came, swift as lightning, aimed at his throat. With no time to draw a blade, the Soul-Piercing Cone slipped into his hand. He swung it instinctively, the broad end crashing forth with a thunderous roar that split the air. A deafening clang erupted as the cone met the knife, sparks flying; Ling Yingjue stumbled back from the force, while the black-clad man's grip faltered, the blade nearly slipping from his hand. The man sneered, "Clever toy, kid, but your strength's lacking!" His knife flared again, a radiant arc slicing toward Ling Yingjue's head.
Ling Yingjue's mind raced: his Tidal Force, barely learned, could only shield him, not redirect power, and his Thirteen Shadows of the Cone were limited to three crude moves—against this man's skill, he felt the strain. His eyes narrowed; he drove the cone's broad end into the ground, mud spraying as he vaulted upward, dodging the blade. Mid-air, he twisted the cone's tip—a faint snap sounded, and a thin chain shot out, tipped with a sharp barb, glinting like a serpent's fang as it lashed toward the man's arm. Caught off guard, the man swung his knife to parry, the chain clashing with a sharp ding before coiling around his wrist. Ling Yingjue tugged with what little inner force he could muster, the chain tightening, wrenching the man's arm askew. With a snarl, the man drove his left fist forward, aiming for Ling Yingjue's chest.
Ling Yingjue twisted aside, mud splashing onto his cheek, and swung the cone again, the chain retracting as the narrow end stabbed forth, a flash of cold light piercing the man's shoulder. The man howled, his knife dropping as blood spurted forth. Ling Yingjue pressed forward, the broad end sweeping down with a heavy thud, cracking the man's ribs. The black-clad figure flew back, crashing through a reed-thick willow, snapping its trunk, and lay still, blood pooling beneath him.
Ling Yingjue panted, chest heaving, legs trembling from exertion. He stared at the Soul-Piercing Cone, its broad end shimmering darkly, the chain recoiled, the narrow tip icy and sharp. A sudden realization struck him: this weapon's mechanisms were far more intricate than he'd imagined. He pressed a hidden groove on its side, and with a soft hiss, a slender needle shot from the tip, embedding itself in the reeds nearby—a silent, deadly surprise. His heart jolted: this wasn't the venomous sting of the bone whistle, but its precision was lethal. He tucked the cone back at his waist, retrieving the pendant, intending to leave, when the distant thunder of hooves broke through the mist—more riders, masked and armed, their menace undeniable.
A tall, gaunt man led them, his eyes sharp as a hawk's beneath his mask, scanning Ling Yingjue with a predatory gaze. "The pendant's with him—kill him!" he rasped, his voice chilling the air. Ling Yingjue's pulse quickened; he turned and fled, the sound of pursuit hot on his heels, blades whistling through the fog. He swung the cone as he ran, the broad end smashing the earth to slow them, the narrow end stabbing at shadows that drew too close, the chain snapping out to tangle a pursuer's legs. A dozen foes pressed in, their blades weaving a deadly net, yet he darted through, breath ragged, until a hook-wielding figure leapt from above, twin claws glinting like talons aimed at his shoulders.
With no room to turn, Ling Yingjue thrust the cone backward, the tip flashing like a star in the night. The hook-man's chest burst open mid-air, blood raining down as he crashed into the reeds. Ling Yingjue broke free, staggering to the riverbank, leaping onto his boat, and rowing furiously into the mist. The pursuers reached the shore, their leader's cold哼 echoing, but they hesitated at the water's edge, wary of the fog-shrouded depths.
Ling Yingjue rowed deeper, the boat vanishing into the haze, the river's silence swallowing him whole. His chest heaved, arms aching, as he clutched the pendant, its glow faint but persistent. He recalled the old fisherman's hoarse warning: "Only in dire need." A bitter thought crossed his mind: this must be the peril he meant. The cone's weight at his waist anchored him, a strange resolve taking root—he'd stepped into the martial world, and there was no turning back.