The Record of the Soul-Piercing Cone

The mist clung to the river like a shroud, Ling Yingjue's small boat drifting slowly as he rowed, the paddle slicing through the still water, stirring faint ripples that faded into the fog. His breathing steadied, the frantic pounding in his chest easing as the damp chill of the mist seeped through his coarse shirt, now streaked with mud and sweat. He glanced at the jade pendant in his hand, its swallow carving glowing faintly in the murk, a warmth pulsing against his skin that sent a shiver through him. What was this thing, he wondered, that men would kill for it without a word? The old fisherman's tales of江湖—the martial world—flashed through his mind, fragmented whispers of blood and valor, now all too real.

The river wind bit at him, cold and sharp, tugging at his shirt as droplets slid from the hem, pattering onto the boat's weathered boards. He peered through the haze, the shore a vague shadow of swaying reeds, their rustling a soft murmur in the stillness. The chase replayed in his head—the black-clad man's knife, the riders' relentless pursuit, the cone's strange power answering his desperate swings. He gripped the Soul-Piercing Cone at his waist, its heft a quiet comfort, though his thoughts churned: a fisherman's boy, thrust into a storm he barely grasped.

After half an hour, the mist thinned, the riverbank sharpening into focus. Ling Yingjue steered toward a hidden shallows, stepping ashore to drag the boat into the reeds, mud squelching underfoot. His shirt hung heavy with damp, the hem dark with muck as he trudged forward, seeking a place to rest. The faint glow of a town emerged ahead—smoke curling into the sky, lanterns flickering like distant stars. His stomach growled, his limbs ached, but a clamor ahead halted him—raised voices, sharp and tense, cutting through the morning air.

He crept closer, reaching the town's edge where the mist had lifted, revealing a rough-hewn tavern. Outside, villagers clustered around a battered fishing cart, murmuring low, while a faded lantern swung above the door, its yellow light casting "Fisher's Rest" in peeling letters. The door creaked as he pushed it open, heat and the tang of fish and wine rushing out. Inside, the tavern was a patchwork of worn wood—tables scarred, chairs wobbly, fish baskets stacked in corners, their briny scent mingling with the air. By the window, three burly men loomed over a girl, their voices a harsh growl against her defiant retort.

She was about fifteen, her brows arched like willows, eyes bright as autumn pools, clad in a pale green skirt damp at the hem, as if fresh from the river. Her hair was pinned high with a jade hairpin, a short sword hung at her waist, its scabbard studded with green gems, its hilt wrapped in white silk—a touch of grace amid the rough tavern. Her skin was fair, cheeks flushed, her gaze fierce as she snapped, "You Blood Blade League dogs go too far—my Liu family isn't scared of you!" Her voice rang clear, edged with stubbornness, though a tremor betrayed her nerves. She was Liu Shan'er, daughter of the Liu clan of Jiangnan, nicknamed for her nimble spirit.

The three men towered over her, clad in black with gray vests, knives at their waists bearing fishbone etchings—a mark of their ilk. The leader, a brute with a pockmarked face, wore a black headscarf, twin curved blades at his hips, their sheaths studded with copper, exuding crude menace. His bulk strained his shirt, arms scarred from countless fights. He sneered, "Liu Shan'er, your old man Liu Changfeng's not here—today you'll taste my 'Three Ghost Blades'!" His voice rasped like gravel, his two lackeys—a bearded axeman and a whip-thin whip wielder—grinning coldly, their presence oppressive. The axeman's broad blades gleamed, handles wrapped in hemp; the whip-man's lash coiled like a serpent, tipped with barbs.

Ling Yingjue lingered at the door, his pulse quickening. Raised in a fishing village, he'd seen petty squabbles, but never this—a lone girl facing three brutes. Her defiance stirred something in him, a flicker of indignation. He stepped forward, voice steady, "Three against one girl—what kind of heroes are you?" The leader whirled, eyes blazing, barking, "Where'd this stray pup come from? Scram!" His twin blades flashed out, a howling gust aimed at Ling Yingjue's head.

Ling Yingjue didn't flinch, the Soul-Piercing Cone slipping into his grip. His wrist flicked, the thin chain snapping out, coiling around the blades with a metallic clink. A surge of inner force tightened the chain, stalling the strike; the brute's hands shook, his swing faltering. Ling Yingjue swung the cone's broad end, a thunderous boom splitting the air—clang!—the blades flew from the man's grasp, one hilt crashing into a beam, splintering wood. The man stumbled back, stunned, "What the hell's that thing?" Ling Yingjue stayed silent, the cone's narrow end darting forth, a cold streak piercing the man's shoulder, blood blooming as he howled and crumpled.

The axeman roared, charging with wide, whistling chops, axes gleaming like twin moons. The whip-man struck too, his lash hissing toward Ling Yingjue's waist, barbs glinting. Ling Yingjue ducked, the cone's broad end sweeping low, crashing into the axeman's chest with a bone-crunching thud—he flew back, smashing a table, blood spewing. The whip lashed closer; Ling Yingjue sidestepped, the cone's tip firing a needle that grazed the whip-man's wrist, slowing his strike. The chain whipped out, snaring the lash, a sharp tug yanking it free—Ling Yingjue's foot slammed the man's knee, a crack echoing as he collapsed, writhing.

Silence gripped the tavern, onlookers frozen, Liu Shan'er's eyes wide, fixed on the cone. After a moment, she murmured, "That weapon… it's so strange." A flicker of awe and relief crossed her face, her lips curving faintly, though she held back a full smile. Ling Yingjue sheathed the cone, voice calm, "Just a tool for protection." He glanced at the wreckage—tables splintered, blood pooling—wondering what feud this "Blood Blade League" held with her "Liu family."

Liu Shan'er exhaled, stepping closer, "Thank you, hero. I'm Liu Shan'er, from the Liu clan of Jiangnan." Her voice flowed like a spring bird's call, soft yet clear, stirring something in Ling Yingjue. He clasped his hands, "Ling Yingjue, just passing through, acting on instinct." She met his gaze, eyes shimmering with unspoken words, then said softly, "Brother Ling, you've saved me—could you escort me back to Liu Village? My father will surely reward you." Her brow furrowed slightly, a trace of worry lingering. Ling Yingjue saw her delicate resolve, nodded, "Alright."

Outside, the mist had lifted, dawn breaking as they left the town, following a winding path. Liu Shan'er led, her skirt swaying like willow fronds, Ling Yingjue trailing, his eyes lingering on her figure—a fragile strength he hadn't known before. She glanced back, teasing, "Brother Ling, why do you keep staring?" Her cheeks flushed, voice playful yet shy. He coughed, masking his fluster, "Just watching the road, don't overthink it." She hummed, turning away, a smile tugging at her lips, half-mocking, half-delighted.

The path stretched through quiet woods, tree shadows dancing, wind whispering low. Ling Yingjue gripped the cone, his resolve hardening: this Liu family and Blood Blade League feud tied to the jade—he was in too deep to turn back now.