Lady Xiahou

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2016, late at night, Australia. Under the gentle sea breeze and the radiant moon, the picturesque Descending Islands were exceptionally tranquil and harmonious.

On a small island among the archipelago, one villa after another had already been swallowed by darkness, yet their exquisite outlines still revealed the ingenuity wrought from lavish expense.

At the island’s edge, the waves softly caressed the shore, palm trees swayed in the sea wind—everything seemed in perfect accord. A single wave, as if loath to disturb the serene beauty of the night, dispersed before it could reach the sand, silently absorbed by the tide that followed.

At that moment, a shadow emerged soundlessly from the sea. Riding the crest of the next wave, it glided ashore like a lone vessel braving the wind and surf. The shadow belonged to a figure clad in a wetsuit. Now standing upright, his flawless physique was revealed.

He wore no oxygen tank, only a pair of diving goggles. No one could fathom how he had reached this island, more than 180 kilometers from the mainland. Removing his goggles, he revealed a youthful, handsome face. He spoke into a tiny pinhole at the rim of the goggles: “The Scythe of Death has landed. Commencing phase two of the operation. Have the intermediary urge the client for the second security deposit.”

After speaking, the young man brought the pinhole to his ear and heard the reply: “Thirty million in security deposit has been received. Proceed with the contract.”

He nodded, donned his goggles once more, and strode toward the cluster of villas. In truth, he felt some puzzlement. Since entering the profession at sixteen, he had undertaken all kinds of assignments over the past decade: protecting or assassinating key figures, stealing secrets, destroying bases—always perilous, always richly rewarded. Yet this time, the task assigned by the intermediary surprised him.

Steal an ancient painting—a Chinese scroll collected by an Australian tycoon—for a reward of a billion. As a professional mercenary, he had studied both Eastern and Western art appreciation, history, literature, and languages. He knew that the world’s most valuable painting was Picasso’s “Boy with a Pipe,” valued at $111.6 million, which didn’t even approach the fee for this job.

In other words, the client behind the intermediary was prepared to spend a billion not for a famed masterpiece, but for an obscure Chinese scroll, and had even engaged the world’s foremost mercenary, “The Scythe of Death,” for the task.

This was, beyond doubt, a staggering commission.

“I am curious—which dynasty does this scroll hail from?” The Scythe of Death mused silently. By now, he had entered the villa district and quietly approached a Gothic-style mansion. As he drew near, he sensed the presence of formidable opponents inside—a presence he found particularly distasteful.

Japanese Golden Flower ninjas! But they had not detected him. Now at the pinnacle of his martial arts, he had attained the supreme state of “Spirit Returning to the Void.” His essence, energy, and spirit had all merged into nothingness—imperceptible, formless, colorless, and without scent. Even a master ninja could not detect his presence.

“There are only six Golden Flower ninjas inside—no one else. So the tycoon hid the painting here, hiring guards but not living here himself. What kind of scroll merits such an opulent villa for its safekeeping?” With this question lingering in his mind, the Scythe of Death leapt silently into the villa’s garden. The ninjas, stationed at every vantage point, remained utterly unaware.

Among the Golden Flower ninjas, Hattori Banrin was preeminent. Along with five comrades, he had been hired to guard the ancient painting. Hidden atop the villa, he could, by his own skill, hear all movement within a five-hundred-meter radius. This was their third year on duty. In that time, six groups had attempted to steal the scroll—all had failed to escape his notice. He alone had killed all six; his five comrades never needed to intervene.

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“Hey, your comrades are already finished!” The art of ninjutsu originated in China—a language he knew all too well. The words sounded softly at his ear, yet exploded through his body like a thunderclap.

He reacted instantly.

Ninja! Hattori Banrin tensed every muscle, springing from the rooftop where he was concealed. By instinct, he knew this leap would let him vanish into the air, turn mid-flight, and disappear into the night. Even with an enemy before him, none could predict his path—this was the pinnacle of ninjutsu.

But suddenly he felt a grip on his ankle; he was unable to rise into the air at all. Then, with a shake, the hand clutching him unleashed a force so overwhelming it surged through his meridians and bones. From youth, he had soaked in medicinal brews and subjected himself to relentless training—his muscles and sinews could pierce the hull of a submarine. Yet before this force, he was as fragile as tofu. In a fraction of a second, his meridians and bones were reduced to fragments, faster than his nerves could transmit pain.

The Scythe of Death released him, letting the Golden Flower ninja, now a pile of pulp, slump to the ground before stepping into the villa, a sneer on his lips: “Ninjutsu remains as feeble as ever.”

Ancient paintings must be stored in dry conditions. Though the villa was large, hiding places were few for a top-tier mercenary. Swiftly, he located a hidden chamber behind a wall. There hung the scroll: a silk painting, framed in cold cedar and carbon-ion glass, tranquil on the wall. The chamber was so dark that even with his skills, he could only discern the outline—a human figure, it seemed.

Before quality paper was available in ancient times, many scholars painted on silk. Like leather, silk is vulnerable to time and easily lost—just as it’s said there were no stirrups at the end of Han, when in fact they were made of leather and could not be preserved.

This silk painting, by virtue of its material alone, was invaluable. No other surviving silk scroll had endured so well. It suggested the ancients had preservation methods to render silk immortal. It also allowed modern scholars to study ancient styles, brushwork, and materials—not to mention the preservation techniques, which only deepened the mystery.

A billion! The price was justified—this client was no ordinary person. Curiosity piqued, the Scythe of Death found the power switch and, unable to resist, flipped on the light to see this immortal silk artwork for himself.

But at that moment, regret washed over him. He’d neglected to check for booby traps in the wiring. Sure enough, crimson lasers lanced toward him. Judging by their explosive force, he guessed their composition.

It was the latest nuclear fusion laser, an exotic gamma-ray beam. Contact with any substance would trigger a gamma-ray burst. In the cosmos, such bursts could annihilate black holes and planets. These were not so apocalyptic, but they’d easily obliterate this dreamlike island.

The Scythe of Death was about to meet his namesake—along with the immortal silk scroll. Unwilling, he cast one last look at the painting.

On the scroll was a woman in a flowing celestial gown, drawn in delicate monochrome. Though sketched only in black lines, her beauty seemed to leap from the silk—mature, alluring, sensual, brimming with charm, as if she might step forth from the painting at any moment.

Around her, in small script, ran several lines—written in Han clerical calligraphy. Clerical script is typically dignified and steady, yet this bore a soaring, floating spirit, even a hint of wildness.

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As the exotic gamma rays pierced his body, the Scythe of Death glimpsed those lines:

“In Jiangnan there are the two Qiao sisters, in Hebei the charming Zhen Mi, in Peiguo the lovely Lady Xiahou, the fairest in the realm—drawn by Zhang Yide of Yan, in the fourteenth year of Jian’an, depicting his beloved wife, Lady Xiahou, in Yidu, Jingzhou.”

Yan’s Zhang Yide…? Zhang Fei’s own hand? In his final moments, the Scythe of Death realized the painting’s author. Had it been signed “Zhang Yide,” it would have been a forgery; early records from the Three Kingdoms note that Zhang Fei’s courtesy name was Yide, not Yide—a later error. The Scythe of Death, versed in ancient Chinese script, grasped the significance.

Damn! Zhang Fei could paint? Zhang Fei could write poetry? Dying wasn’t so unfair after all—he had glimpsed a masterpiece that overturned the traditional image of Zhang Fei, a treasure beyond compare. A billion? Not just worth the price, but beyond price!

“Worth every penny—ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” the Scythe of Death roared and leapt up.

“I’m not dead? Even a gamma-ray burst couldn’t kill me? Have I become immortal?” As confusion seized him, a soft, fragrant body embraced him, and a gentle voice called, “Zilian! Zilian! What’s wrong?” The accent was unfamiliar, yet carried the lilting softness unique to Jiangnan.

He struggled to comprehend and managed to say, “Wh—what the—!”

Why had his own accent changed? It sounded like the local dialect of Anhui or Jiangsu—even with tonal distinctions. Disguise was a required skill for mercenaries, and with it, mastery of regional speech. At once, the king of mercenaries realized his own voice had altered.

“Zilian, what are you saying?” The young woman who held him turned to face him. She had arched brows, lively eyes, a delicate nose, and cherry lips—a fair face, perhaps not yet eighteen, now etched with deep worry and a trace of anxiety.

“Zilian? Zilian?” Hearing her call him by that name, a question surged through his mind: “Why is she calling me that? I have no name. Zilian? Who is that? Who am I?” He studied the slender woman before him, her figure clad in a celestial gown identical to that worn by the woman in the painting at the moment he was struck by the gamma rays.

Faintly, something stirred in his mind. Then suddenly, memories surged over him like a tidal wave—memories not his own, but belonging to another. Agonizing pain tore through him as the recollections flooded in, and he realized at last whose life he was now living.

The late Han, younger cousin of Wei’s Founder Cao Cao—Cao Hong, courtesy name Zilian. He had become Cao Hong, and the memories now assailing his mind were his.