**Chapter 8 – Blades in the Moonless Night**
The alarm bells shattered the truce like fragile jade.
Three peals—urgent, repeating—echoed off Bright Peak's stone faces. Below the western guest wing, torches bloomed along the northern pass like sudden poisonous flowers. Black banners snapped in the wind, embroidered with the roaring flame emblem of the Ming Cult. Not the small delegation Zhao Min had brought, but a full vanguard: at least two hundred mounted warriors, followed by ranks of foot soldiers carrying hooked spears and fire-oil jars.
The orthodox sects reacted with trained fury.
Wudang disciples streamed toward the ramparts, long swords already drawn. Shaolin monks formed iron-bucket formations at the choke points. Emei swordswomen moved like silver ghosts along the outer walls, their Cold Moon qi frosting the stone beneath their feet.
Lin Wuji stood at the arrow-slit, watching the torches crawl upward. Zhou Qingruo remained at his side, sword half-drawn.
"They're not waiting for dawn," she said tightly. "This isn't negotiation. This is punishment for the conference."
Lin Wuji's gaze tracked the lead rider—a tall figure in black armor, golden mane whipping behind like a banner of madness.
"Xie Yuan," he whispered.
The man who had raised him after the Ice-Fire massacre now led the assault. Whether by choice or under some compulsion, it no longer mattered. The saber at Lin Wuji's back gave a single, deep thrum—as though greeting an old companion.
Zhou Qingruo gripped his arm. "You can't go out there. Not yet. The elders—"
A new sound cut her off: the unmistakable crack of siege ladders striking stone. Grapples clattered over the lower walls. Fire arrows arced through the darkness, trailing oily smoke.
The battle had begun.
Lin Wuji turned from the slit. "Stay with your sect. Protect the rear pavilions. I need to reach the saber vault."
She searched his face. "You're going to draw it again."
"If I don't, more people die tonight. Including people I care about."
For a heartbeat she looked ready to argue—then she simply nodded.
"Find me when it's over," she said. "Promise me that."
He touched her cheek once—brief, almost hesitant—then slipped past her into the corridor.
The halls of Bright Peak had become a river of running figures: disciples rushing to posts, elders shouting orders, wounded already being carried back on stretchers. Lin Wuji moved against the current, heading downward toward the central vault where both weapons now rested under reinforced guard.
He reached the vault antechamber just as the first breach alarm sounded from the eastern gate.
Four Wudang guards stood before the massive iron doors, swords drawn. They recognized him instantly.
"Guest Lin," the senior guard said warily. "The elders ordered no one near the weapons."
Lin Wuji stopped several paces away. "The Ming vanguard is already inside the outer perimeter. If they reach this vault, they won't ask politely. Let me pass. I can keep the saber contained."
The guards exchanged glances. One young daoist shook his head.
"We cannot—"
A explosion rocked the corridor—close. Dust sifted from the ceiling. Screams echoed from the direction of the main hall.
The senior guard cursed under his breath.
"Go," he said. "But if you draw that blade, you answer to Grandmaster Zhang afterward."
The doors groaned open just wide enough for Lin Wuji to slip through.
Inside, the vault was lit by cold blue array lamps. The Dragon Slaying Saber rested on its sealed pedestal to the left; the black-lacquered case of the Heavenly Sword stood opposite on the right. Both weapons were thrumming now—low, constant, like matched heartbeats.
Lin Wuji approached the saber first.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the triple seals flared in warning—golden, silver, icy white—then cracked like eggshells. The crimson veins ignited. Heat rolled off the blade in waves, chasing the lingering Nine Yin chill from his meridians.
He lifted it.
The weight felt different this time—not crushing, but *right*. As though the saber had been waiting for this exact moment.
The Heavenly Sword case answered instantly. The silver chains snapped. The lid blew open with a sound like tearing wind. Inside lay the slender, elegant blade—its surface rippling like liquid starlight, hilt wrapped in phoenix feathers that shimmered between gold and white.
Both weapons rose slightly from their rests, floating an inch above the pedestals, humming in perfect unison.
Lin Wuji felt them reach for him again—not with force, but with a question.
*Choose.*
He closed his eyes.
*Not yet.*
He reached out with both hands—one toward the saber, one toward the sword. The moment his palms closed around empty air between them, golden and crimson qi surged up his arms, meeting in his chest like colliding rivers.
Pain—white-hot, bone-deep—lanced through him.
But beneath it came clarity.
The Nine Yin Poison shrieked as the dual essences poured into his meridians. Black frost boiled away in golden flame and dragon blood. His dantian expanded, cracked, then reformed—larger, deeper, threaded with both phoenix light and dragon shadow.
When he opened his eyes, faint golden-red patterns glowed beneath his skin like living tattoos.
He had not united the weapons.
He had become their temporary vessel.
Outside, the battle raged louder—steel clashing, fire roaring, cultivators shouting sect names like war cries.
Lin Wuji walked out of the vault, one weapon in each hand.
The Heavenly Sword rested lightly in his right palm, singing softly.
The Dragon Slaying Saber hung heavy in his left, growling low.
He stepped into chaos.
The main corridor had become a killing ground. Ming Flame warriors poured through a breached side gate, trading blows with Wudang and Shaolin defenders. Bodies lay on the stone—orthodox blue and saffron mixed with Ming black and crimson.
In the center of the melee stood Xie Yuan.
His eyes—once fierce with protective rage—were now fully mad, pupils blown wide. He wielded a massive cleaver dripping with fresh blood, cutting through two Shaolin monks in a single sweep.
He saw Lin Wuji.
And laughed.
"Boy!" he roared over the din. "You finally woke up!"
Lin Wuji advanced.
The two legendary weapons flared brighter with every step. Ming Flame warriors hesitated; orthodox disciples stared in shock.
Xie Yuan charged.
Cleaver raised high.
Lin Wuji met him—not with fury, but with sorrow.
The Heavenly Sword flashed upward in a clean arc of starlight.
The Dragon Slaying Saber swept low in a brutal counter.
They did not clash with Xie Yuan's cleaver.
They passed through the space around him—creating a perfect sphere of golden-crimson qi that froze him mid-stride.
Xie Yuan's mad eyes cleared for one heartbeat.
"Wuji…" he rasped.
Then the sphere collapsed inward.
Not killing.
Binding.
Golden chains of phoenix light wrapped his arms; black dragon-scale shackles locked his legs. He dropped to his knees, weapon clattering.
Lin Wuji knelt before him.
"I'm sorry, Godfather."
Xie Yuan managed a broken smile.
"Don't… be. Just… end this damn cycle."
From the far end of the corridor, Zhao Min appeared—flanked by elite guards, fox-fur cloak stained with soot.
She looked at the bound Xie Yuan, then at Lin Wuji holding both weapons, then at the faint glow still tracing his meridians.
Her expression shifted from calculation to something dangerously close to awe.
"Well," she said softly. "It seems the fulcrum has chosen… something."
Lin Wuji rose.
"Princess Zhao. Call off your vanguard. Or this ends tonight—with or without more blood."
She studied him a long moment.
Then she lifted one hand.
The Ming Flame horns sounded retreat.
The fighting slowed, then stopped—uncertain, breathless.
Bright Peak held its breath.
And in Lin Wuji's hands, the Heavenly Sword and Dragon Slaying Saber sang together—one note of hope, one of warning.
The night was far from over.
(End of Chapter 8)