**Chapter 3 – The Lion's Roar at Bright Peak**
The Lion Slaying Conference was held once every decade, but this year the air tasted of iron and prophecy.
Bright Peak rose like a jade blade thrust from the heart of the Greencloud Mountains. Its slopes were terraced with ancient stone platforms, pavilions carved directly into cliff faces, and winding stairways guarded by stone lions whose eyes seemed to follow every visitor. Today those lions were dwarfed by the banners of the Six Great Orthodox Sects, snapping in the high wind like war drums.
Thousands had gathered: Shaolin monks in saffron, palms pressed in perpetual calm; Wudang daoists in flowing white, swords at their waists humming with restrained taiji energy; Emei nuns in silver-trimmed white, their steps silent as falling snow; Kunlun, Kongtong, Huashan—each sect arrayed in its own colored silk, forming a vast, tense mosaic on the central Lion Platform.
At the heart of the platform stood a massive bronze cauldron, still blackened from the last conference where the orthodox sects had publicly "slain" a symbolic lion carved from iron—declaring their intent to eradicate the Ming Flame Sect once and for all. Today the cauldron held no effigy. Instead, a single scroll rested upon it: the invitation that had drawn them all here.
The scroll bore only seven characters in bold blood-red ink:
**"The Dragon Slaying Saber has returned."**
High above the crowd, on a jade dais, five supreme elders sat in a semicircle. Leading them was Abbot Xuanci of Shaolin, silver-browed and solemn. Beside him sat Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng of Wudang—now well over a hundred years old yet appearing no more than sixty, his white beard floating as though stirred by an invisible current. Abbess Miejue of Emei occupied the central seat, her face carved from granite, eyes burning with a zealot's fire. The other two elders—Kunlun's Iron Palm Elder and Huashan's Sword Saint—completed the council.
Below them, disciples stood in disciplined ranks. Among the Emei contingent, Zhou Qingruo knelt in the second row, head bowed, yet her gaze occasionally lifted toward the mountain path leading down from the northern pass.
She had not seen Lin Wuji since that misty encounter seven days ago. She told herself she felt only duty-bound curiosity. The saber he carried was no mere weapon; it was a key to chaos. Yet the memory of his quiet, winter-deep eyes lingered like frost on glass.
A sudden ripple passed through the crowd. Horns sounded from the eastern ridge.
A column of black-clad riders appeared—horses snorting steam, banners of crimson flame snapping above them. At their head rode a figure cloaked in black fox fur trimmed with gold thread. When the rider threw back the hood, long dark hair cascaded like ink, and sharp, amused eyes swept the orthodox ranks.
Zhao Min—more formally, Princess Zhao Ling of the Azure Dragon Court—smiled as though she had just walked into her own banquet hall.
Behind her marched not an army, but a delegation: thirty elite guards in dragon-scale armor, and at her right hand walked a tall man with a mane of golden hair and mad, bloodshot eyes.
Xie Yuan.
The crowd erupted in shouts and drawn steel. "Traitor!" "Ming Flame dog!" "He lives!"
Xie Yuan paid them no mind. His gaze roamed the platform until it locked on the bronze cauldron. A low, animal growl rumbled in his throat.
Zhao Min raised one gloved hand. Silence fell faster than any command from the elders.
"Honored masters of the orthodox way," she called, voice clear and mocking as a silver bell. "My father, the Azure Dragon Prince, sends greetings. He regrets he could not attend in person—he is occupied crushing yet another peasant rebellion in the south—but he wished me to deliver a message."
She gestured lazily toward Xie Yuan.
"This gentleman claims to have witnessed the survival of the Dragon Slaying Saber. More than witnessed—he carried it for seven years after the Ice-Fire bloodbath. And now he says it has passed to another."
Murmurs rose like a tide.
Abbess Miejue stood. Her voice cut through the noise like a drawn blade.
"Where is the boy?"
Xie Yuan laughed—a harsh, broken sound.
"The boy is no longer a boy. And he is not here. Not yet."
Zhao Min tilted her head. "But he will come. The saber calls to its other half. Isn't that what the old prophecy says? 'When Heaven's Sword meets Dragon's Fang, the dynasty trembles and immortals weep.'"
Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng finally spoke. His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet it carried to every ear on the peak.
"Child of the court. Weapons do not choose their masters. Men choose their fates. If this young man carries the saber, he carries also its curse. Let him come in peace. Let us speak before blood is spilled."
Zhao Min's smile never wavered. "Peace? How quaint. Tell that to the thousands your sects have slaughtered in the name of 'upholding righteousness.'"
Before anyone could retort, a new sound cut the air—a single, clear note of a sword being drawn.
All eyes turned.
On the western steps leading up to the Lion Platform stood a solitary figure in dark travel-worn robes. Long hair unbound. A heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle across his back.
Lin Wuji.
He had not intended to arrive during the conference. Hunger and exhaustion had delayed him. Yet fate—or perhaps the saber itself—had timed his steps perfectly.
Zhou Qingruo rose involuntarily to her feet. Her hand drifted toward her sword hilt.
Lin Wuji met the gaze of thousands without flinching. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but carried on the wind.
"I am Lin Wuji. I carry the Dragon Slaying Saber. I did not come to fight. I came to ask one question."
He looked directly at the five elders.
"Is there truly no path but war between orthodox and Ming Flame? Between dynasty and rebel? Between Heaven and Dragon?"
For a heartbeat, the entire peak held its breath.
Then Abbess Miejue's face twisted with fury.
"Insolent child! You dare stand before us carrying that accursed blade and speak of peace?"
She gestured sharply.
"Emei disciples—seize him!"
A dozen white-robed swordswomen surged forward, blades gleaming.
Lin Wuji sighed. His hand drifted to the wrapped hilt at his back.
The saber gave a low, hungry hum.
And somewhere, deep in Emei's forbidden vault far below the mountain, the Heavenly Sword answered with a faint, crystalline ring—as though two long-separated lovers had finally heard each other's voice across an ocean of blood and time.
The conference had begun not with speeches, but with steel.
(End of Chapter 3)