In the first year of the Hongwu era, I, Zhang Wuji, went into seclusion in southern Mobei with Zhao Min.
I thought the rest of my life would be spent gathering herbs and practicing medicine, waiting quietly for the end.
Until that day
A Persian letter stained with blood beneath the moon, and a broadsword at my neck.
Thousands of miles away, Xiao Zhao begged for help as she lay dying: “Brother Wuji, the Holy Flame is about to go out...”
Zhu Yuanzhang's imperial decree slammed onto my medical table: “Revered Zhang, this realm cannot tolerate a second martial world.”
I gripped the silver needles forged from fragments of the Dragon-Slaying Saber.
Could the Nine Yang Divine Skill cure illness, or could it cure the martial world's terminal disease?
Zhao Min chuckled in my ear. “I told you three years ago: avoid, stall, observe. Now it's time to fight our way out.”
