The Azure Phoenix Blade

The Traitor’s Night

I. Betrayal in the Command Tent

Inside the central command tent, lantern flames flickered wildly in the gusting wind, while the bronze bells at the corners chimed sporadically, as if they too sensed that tonight was no ordinary night.

Outside, a torrential downpour hammered down like ten thousand charging horses, turning the ground into a churning black swamp. Every step the patrolling soldiers took was sucked into the cold, muddy earth.

On the sand table, small flags bristled in the northwest corner—red and black markers showing the stalemate between the Baili tribe’s main force and the Yaoguang army. The eastern supply route, however, stood glaringly empty, like a severed artery at the worst possible moment.

Darius Xiahou stood before the table in full armor, the old bloodstains on his shoulder blending into dark patches from the damp air. He refused to remove it. His finger pressed hard against the eastern supply line on the map, knuckles pale, yet his face remained forcibly calm.

“Any word from King Conrad yet?” he asked quietly.

The deputy generals in the tent exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak first. Quentin Mo, standing by the entrance, stamped his iron staff into the mud with a heavy thud that made the candle flames jump. “Last night’s message was the same,” he said evenly, as if discussing the weather.

“Mountain roads washed out by floods, supply wagons stuck, troops unable to move.” His eyes, however, were ice-cold. “I sent scouts to check. The road was wet, but the grass on the slopes was bone-dry. Either Heaven is personally raining for King Conrad, or this flood exists only on paper.”

The tent fell deathly silent. An old general drew a sharp breath and reached for his teacup, only to knock the lid with a clink before quickly pulling his hand back.

Darius stared at the supply line for a long moment. “Send more scouts,” he finally said. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it pressed down on every man present.

“I’ll go myself if Heng Lu doesn’t return within two hours,” Quentin Mo replied.

Before he could finish, hurried footsteps splashed outside. The tent flap burst open as a blood-soaked figure tumbled in—Deputy General Brock Zhao.

His left shoulder armor was shattered, a deep blade wound across his chest poured blood that mixed with rainwater and pooled on the ground.

He dropped to one knee, nearly collapsing, and braced himself with his sword. “Your Majesty!” he rasped. “The eastern sentry post has fallen!”

“They flew the Baili wolf-head banners, but they used our own horse-trapping hooks in the charge. I saw the leader myself—scar on the left thumb web, just like one of the old veterans from King Conrad’s personal guard.”

Someone in the tent gasped, “Impossible!” Darius finally looked up. His usually steady eyes now carried a visible crack. “You saw clearly?” he asked slowly.

“If I’m wrong, I’ll accept military punishment,” Brock Zhao gritted out.

At that moment, a thunderclap split the sky, shaking the entire camp. Fire suddenly erupted in the southwest corner, its glow bleeding through the tent like a red beast opening its jaws in the stormy night. Shouts and screams exploded, spreading rapidly toward the central command.

Quentin Mo stepped protectively in front of Darius, the iron staff angled. “This isn’t opportunistic. They timed it perfectly for the shift change,” he said grimly.

The implication was clear—the enemy knew exactly when the center would be weakest, who would be inside, and that the emperor still clung to a sliver of disbelief.

Darius was silent for a moment, then reached for his sword. The clear ring as it left the scabbard momentarily cut through the surrounding chaos.

Staring at the flickering fires outside, he whispered two words: “Conrad...” There was no rage in his voice—only the quiet realization of a man finally touching the blade buried in his chest and understanding where the true pain lay.

The next instant, wind and rain mixed with the stench of blood slammed into the tent as the flap was ripped aside. Darius charged out with sword in hand, Quentin Mo following with his staff, Brock Zhao and the remaining guards roaring behind them.

II. Blood in the Storm

The camp had become a slaughterhouse. Flames raced along supply wagons, burlap, and flagpoles, burning fiercely despite the rain—clearly fueled by pre-placed oil.

Soldiers in wolf-pelt cloaks poured out from between the tents, blades flashing. Rain streamed off their shoulders, occasionally revealing the fine inner armor patterns of Conrad’s personal troops beneath.

Darius flicked aside two curved blades and slashed horizontally, opening a man’s throat in a spray of blood that mixed with the rain. Standing amid fire and storm, his voice rang out heavily:

“Wearing wolf skins and pretending to be barbarians? Conrad, if you’ve come, why hide behind another’s banner?

The fighting faltered. The rebel troops parted, and a figure emerged slowly from the flames and rain.

Silver armor untouched by mud, a skyward halberd held loosely in one hand, raindrops sliding off its blade.

His features were still handsome and refined, with a faint, almost mocking smile.

Even in this blood-soaked chaos, he looked as if he had arrived fashionably late to a banquet.

The smile stayed on his lips but never reached his eyes.

Conrad regarded his brother with gentle courtesy.

“Elder brother, you exaggerate. I heard the central camp was in trouble and came specially to share your burdens.”

Quentin Mo gave a cold laugh, staff pointing at Conrad’s chest. “Your way of sharing burdens includes setting fires right outside the imperial tent.” Conrad’s gaze flicked across the staff.

“It’s good to see Commander Mo still alive. It eases my mind. If you had also fallen to the Baili, my brother would truly have no one left to protect him.”

Darius stared at him. “The border is not yet secured. The Baili are still ahead. You bring troops into the central camp tonight—do you want Yaoguang to rot from both inside and out?”

Conrad actually smiled. The smile carried neither anger nor heat, yet it sent chills down the spine—like a thin blade pressed lightly against the back of one’s neck.

“Elder brother always speaks of the realm, the nation, the people. After hearing it so often, even I almost believed this empire rests on your shoulders alone.” Darius’s grip tightened on his sword. “I have never treated the empire as my personal property.”

Conrad raised his halberd slightly. “If it’s not personal property, then why, when Father hesitated in the East Warm Pavilion that year, did you not yield the throne?”

The words made every soldier present lower their heads. Brock Zhao could no longer hold back.

With a furious roar, he charged, blade raised in a desperate, ferocious strike aimed at Conrad’s face.

Conrad didn’t even lift his eyelids. A black shadow shot out from behind him—Chen Hawke.

The blade flashed like lightning in the rain. There was a soft *schick*, and Zhao Brock took two more steps before a thin red line appeared on his neck. His knees buckled and he collapsed heavily into the mud.

“Brock Zhao !” Darius cried.

Conrad glanced at the corpse. “Loyalty in the wrong place is lighter than wild grass.” Quentin Mo’s fury erupted.

He swung his iron staff in a wide arc—“Prison Gate“—spinning mud, stones, and sparks into a grinding wheel that smashed two nearby rebels flying, carving deep furrows in the ground.

“Stop pretending with your pretentious words!” he roared. “If you want to usurp, just do it!”

Conrad finally looked at him properly, as if appraising a regrettable weapon. “After all these years with my brother, you still don’t understand.

In this world, the first to die are not the incapable, but those who see the wind clearly yet still insist on holding the umbrella for others.”

Suddenly arrows rained from the side. Quentin Mo whirled his staff into a black shadow—“Black Tortoise Carries the Mountain”—deflecting dozens.

Yet one black-feathered arrow slipped through at a vicious angle and struck Darius in the shoulder seam.

Darius staggered back half a step, bracing himself with his sword.

Dark blood soon seeped from the wound, flowing like ink in the rain. Quentin Mo’s face changed drastically. “Your Majesty!”

Darius raised a hand to stop him. “Stay calm.” Conrad watched the black blood, a flicker of genuine satisfaction in his eyes—the final piece of his meticulously laid trap falling into place.

“Dear brother, the night is cold and the rain heavy. Why keep struggling? All your life, you’ve never been willing to be ruthless. Since you can’t bear it, you should never have sat on that chair.”

Darius looked at him. The gaze was eerily calm, free of rage or panic, as though he had finally seen clearly what had been obscured for years.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “My greatest mistake was not guarding against you too late... but still hoping, even now, that you might turn back.”

The faint smile on Conrad’s lips finally froze solid.

III. The Final Stand

Rebel forces closed in from all sides. The remaining imperial guards—barely a dozen—fought desperately around Darius and Quentin Mo.

Quentin Mo slammed his staff into the ground again, cracking earth and stone in a spiderweb pattern and blasting debris outward.

Darius charged forward, sword work direct, short, and lethally precise—like imperial edicts: no flourish, only death when they landed.

Poison already coursed through his veins.

Each strike grew heavier; black blood ran down his arm onto the hilt.

Conrad advanced slowly with his halberd, patient as a predator waiting for the prey to exhaust its last will.

“Hand over the Azure Blade,” he said. “Better than letting it rot in the mud with you.”

Darius parried two blades on his right. “What you want has never been just the sword.”

“True,” Conrad nodded. “The sword, the throne, the legitimacy... and more.”

Darius’s breathing grew labored. He suddenly gripped Quentin Mo’s arm with surprising strength.

“Quentin, listen,” he said urgently. “Return to the capital. Take Eleanor and the children.”

Quentin Mo’s eyes reddened. “I will fight our way out with you first!” Darius shook his head.

His face had turned deathly pale, but his gaze remained steady. “The arrow was poisoned. I know my own condition. Tonight is not the night for you to die for me—it is the night for you to carry my will back.”

Quentin Mo’s throat tightened. “I will not leave.” Darius turned his sword and pressed the Azure Blade—symbol of Xiahou legitimacy—into his hands.

The weight burned like hot iron. “Give it to Celeste in the future. Julian, Damien, and Sylvie are still young. Eleanor knows no martial arts. She cannot hold an entire palace of blades alone.” Quentin Mo’s eyes were bloodshot, but no words came.

“Quentin Mo!” Darius suddenly shouted, voice carrying imperial authority that silenced the battlefield for a breath. “This is my final command. If you still recognize me as emperor, go.”

With that, Darius turned and charged into the thickest enemy formation, fighting with desperate fury. Sun Magnus lunged from the side, spear thrusting toward a vital point.

Quentin Mo tried to turn back, but Darius elbowed him aside. The spear pierced through Darius’s back and out his chest. Time seemed to slow. Rain sounds faded.

“YOUR MAJESTY—!” Quentin Mo roared.

Darius shuddered but refused to fall. He drove his sword into the mud to prop himself up, half-kneeling like a tattered banner still refusing to lie down.

Conrad stepped forward, composure cracking. “Why go to such lengths? If you had yielded earlier, you could have lived.” Darius looked up, blood pouring from his mouth, and smiled faintly. “If all you wanted was my life, you wouldn’t have gone to such trouble tonight. You’ve always been like this—taking something isn’t enough. You need others to kneel and offer it willingly.”

Conrad’s expression darkened, revealing raw malice. “And you? Born with the crown prince’s status, Father’s favor, ministers’ support...” His voice trembled slightly. “Even *her*—she was yours.” Darius’s eyes widened in shock and sorrow. “Eleanor...?” The name shattered Conrad’s remaining calm. “You don’t deserve to call her that!” In the chaos, blades struck. Despite his wounds, Darius still fought on until Chen Hawke’s dagger found its mark from behind.

He finally collapsed forward, still gripping his sword. Turning his fading gaze to Quentin Mo and the Azure Blade on his back, he forced out his final words: “Quentin... the promise.” His head drooped. He was gone. Only the sword in the mud held his broken body upright in the rain and fire, as if still propping up a crumbling empire.

Quentin Mo’s teeth ground audibly. He secured the Azure Blade on his back, swept his staff in a devastating arc to break through the encirclement, and roared: “Imperial guards! Those who stay and cover our retreat are brothers. Those who escort me out are loyal subjects!” The few remaining guards answered without hesitation. Some threw themselves into arrow storms, others grappled enemies into flames, buying a narrow path with their lives.

Quentin Mo seized the chance and vanished into the stormy night without looking back.

IV. Fratricide and Usurpation

By the time the fighting quieted, the eastern sky was still dark.

Dying flames flickered in the mud amid corpses and broken armor. Conrad stood quietly. Not far away, Darius remained half-kneeling, eyes open, staring into the endless rainy night.

After a long moment, Conrad stepped forward and gently closed those eyes. The gesture was surprisingly tender, like brushing against a lost fragment of time.

He straightened, wiped the blood from his hands with a white handkerchief, and when he looked up again, his face had returned to its usual gentle composure.

“Pass the orders,” he said calmly. “The late emperor was assassinated by Baili death squads during the northern campaign and has passed away. This prince, by the late emperor’s oral decree, assumes temporary command to stabilize the army and secure the border.”

Magnus Sun approached, clutching a wound. “My lord, Quentin Mo escaped with the Azure Blade. If he reaches the capital first—” Conrad cut him off.

“Let him. Tonight, it was Quentin who colluded with foreign enemies, let in Baili assassins, stole the Azure Blade, and murdered the emperor. In such wind and rain, a few deaths and escapes in the palace are hardly surprising.” He gazed south, eyes distant. “The empress dowager values sentiment deeply.

Upon hearing the news, she likely won’t wish to live alone. As for the children—precious princes and princesses—they would not be able to endure such shock...”

“Shall we send shadow guards south immediately and seal the capital gates?” Hawke Chen asked.

“Seal them. Pursue him. But don’t kill everyone...not yet...”