At this moment, Tai Jian was exhausted. His body trembled with weakness, his two hands barely able to lift the swords that had carried him through countless battles. Only sheer willpower kept him upright. His eyes were cold, his heart hollow. There was nothing left worth living for.
"I never thought… someone could be hiding in this place," Tai Jian said flatly, his voice stripped of all warmth.
A middle-aged man emerged from the shadows, his gaze falling on Tai Jian with an expression both complicated and restrained. Before Tai Jian could even comprehend who this stranger was, Qin Wushuang walked out from the rear of Tai Jian's battered army, a faint smile on his lips.
The middle-aged man's eyes softened as he looked at Qin Wushuang. "Brother, you have raised a sharp and stable sword."
Qin Wushuang sighed at his brother's words. Tai Jian frowned, unable to grasp the meaning. He turned instinctively toward his father, hoping for clarity. Qin Wushuang gave him a reassuring smile—but his eyes betrayed a truth Tai Jian could not name. For the first time, he felt as though he had never truly known his parents. They were shrouded in mysteries he could not pierce.
"Indeed," Qin Wushuang finally answered, "unfortunately, he has already lost. But I hope you will keep your promise."
Murmurs rippled through the battlefield. No one understood what was happening.
"What is going on?" someone blurted out, voicing the confusion of all present.
The middle-aged man turned to face them. "Let me introduce myself first. I am Qin Ling Tian."
The name fell like thunder.
Qin Ling Tian. A man thought dead for more than fifty years. A name whispered only in caution, a legend turned taboo.
Even the most battle-hardened warriors felt their blood run cold. Few things could shake men who had walked through fire and death, but this name was carved into the annals of terror. Those who remembered the stories could never forget the bet atop Mount Kunlun, upon the Sky Pagoda, where two unparalleled swordsmen—brothers of bond and blade—refused to raise their swords against one another.
Instead of blood, they chose a different battlefield.
The world itself became their chessboard.
The people became their pieces.
And the game had stretched across fifty long years.
Now, at last, the players stood face to face.
Tai Jian had once admired tales of that era, dreaming of standing alongside such legends. But he never imagined the game would reach into his own life.
"Brother," Qin Ling Tian said with a cold smile, "it has been a long time."
His voice carried both warmth and cruelty, like a reunion meant only to reopen old wounds. Qin Wushuang stood firm, unmoved. His state of mind was far beyond such games. Yet Tai Jian, watching from the side, felt only betrayal.
The father he had always revered… was not the man he thought him to be.
The woman he loved… was gone forever.
And he himself… nothing more than a chess piece.
Maybe his mother had known. Perhaps that was why she named him Tai Jian—a sword to be wielded, a weapon to be used. And now, broken and discarded, he realized he had already served his purpose.
"Is mother part of this?" Tai Jian finally asked, his voice hollow.
Qin Wushuang did not turn to face him. He merely sighed, dismissing him as if he were nothing. "You should rest."
The words pierced deeper than any blade.
"Wushuang," Qin Ling Tian said, stepping forward, "father named you so because he wished for you to be unmatched—peerless and fearless, a sovereign in both martial arts and destiny."
Qin Wushuang smiled faintly. "And you, Ling Tian. Father wished for you to soar to the heavens, to reach the highest peak. Unfortunately, we were born in the same era."
Their words echoed across the field, incomprehensible to those who watched. The crowd remained silent, spellbound by the clash of living legends.
No one noticed Tai Jian quietly staggering away, dragging his broken body toward the edge of the camp. Only Xue Kai and the purple-robed emissary followed him with their eyes.
Xue Kai's heart clenched. His friend had suffered wounds that no healer could mend. In a single day, Tai Jian had lost everything—his wife, his hope, and even the illusion of family. What remained was only the crushing weight of truth: he had never been more than a pawn in a game that began long before his birth.
In silence, Tai Jian entered the tent where Tie Hongchen's body lay. He sheathed his swords, sank to his knees, and gently lifted her into his arms. Her lifeless form rested against him as he stood, staggering with grief and fatigue. His eyes were vacant, devoid of light.
As he left, Xue Kai stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Master… are you leaving?"
Tai Jian did not answer. He only walked past, carrying the woman he loved, carrying his despair, carrying the weight of being nothing more than a piece on someone else's board.
The game of fifty years had claimed another soul.
Meanwhile, on the battlefield, the tension between the two brothers thickened.
"Ling Tian," Qin Wushuang said slowly, "you have hidden for half a century. Is this what you waited for—to play your final move?"
Ling Tian's lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Is it not the same for you, Wushuang? You hid in plain sight, raising your son like a sword, sharpening him on blood and fire. Do not pretend you were above the game."
"Perhaps," Wushuang admitted calmly, "but unlike you, I did not forget that the sword has a soul. You treat men as pawns, but every pawn is someone's child, someone's dream. That is where you and I differ."
"Dreams?" Ling Tian scoffed. "Dreams are nothing but illusions. Only victory remains real. The strong write history, the weak are forgotten. Fifty years ago we could not settle this—today we will."
Wushuang's gaze hardened. "If it is to end, then let it end here."
The ground trembled faintly as the auras of the two men began to rise, colliding like tidal waves. The sky darkened, as if the heavens themselves bent under the weight of their presence.
The battlefield fell silent. Every soldier, every emissary, every survivor held their breath.
For fifty years, the game had continued.
Now, the board was set for its final move.