Inside the Exile's Garden state.
At the gate of the Duke's Mansion
The mansion's entrance featured a large, golden archway adorned with coiling dragons.
On either side stood two regal lion statues, vigilant guards of the gateway.
Murong Fu, holding his characteristic folding fan, was impeccably dressed, with his hair neatly styled and a jade pendant dangling from his waist.
He exuded the dignified air of a refined young martial family descendant—elegant yet unpretentious.
Accompanying him were Bao Butong and Feng Bo'e, two of the most trusted martial men from Swallow Nest Manor, who served as Murong Fu's generals after his father's passing. Both were carrying a bag.
Feng Bo'e spoke, his discomfort apparent. "Master, this Duke is a royal relative… This visit feels like…"
He trailed off muttering, the implication unmistakable: "Bowing to the sword that thirsts for your blood."
Murong Fu grasped the soft-spoken concern with a faint smile.
Bao Butong, however, responded with a grin. "No, no, Brother Feng. This isn't a bow to the sword—it's like stepping into the lair to seize it!"
Murong Fu grew quiet. His generals had distinct personalities, which he had long come to terms with..
The Murong family had quietly established themselves near the Great Lake for generations, nurturing dreams of reclaiming their fallen Kingdom-
This land was once conquered by an Emperor of Ashenvale, which has now become the bustling marine commerce hub of today.
Just one of the countless kingdoms crumbling to dust under the merciless weight of time in this brutal world of war.
This was about 5000 years ago. No one would think this martial family in this borderland actually had such a rich history.
To them, this territory was rightfully theirs, making them the true lords of the region.
But the arrival of a royal relative, a freshly appointed Duke- essentially an Edict-crowned prince- felt like a thunderbolt crashing into their domain.
Murong Fu's heart has been racing with anxiety ever since.
Was the imperial court probing them? Had their carefully guarded ambitions been uncovered?
Had their family kicked the iron plate after centuries of scheming under his hand?
Will the Murong bloodline die with him?
He thought and thought and… thought, but, ultimately, he resolved to confront this situation directly.
"Master Murong, please come this way."
A voice broke his thought trail.
The steward returned to guide them into the estate. The path curved through beautiful gardens before arriving at a Pavilion by a stream.
SCREECCHHHH
As they passed through a white archway adorned with beautiful white flower vines, a piercing crane cry tore through the air.
WHOOOOSHHH
A gust of wind hit the trio like a slap.
The three covered their eyes with the back of their hands and looked to the sky, only to see…
A white blur dropped from the sky like a falling comet.
Murong Fu instinctively stepped back, circulating the Family's legacy martial art, ready to strike, when a clear voice cut through the tension:
"Solwing, don't be rude."
The voice was like a soothing balm on a sweltering summer day.
The blur twisted midair and curved away. It swept overhead like a blade of wind, bending the flowers in the beds, ruffling the fallen leaves.
Murong Fu steadied himself with internal energy, but Bao Butong and Feng Bo'e, who focused on protecting their liege, were caught unprepared.
Their robes tore slightly. Feng Bo'e had a thin cut across his cheek.
"What… was that?" Bao Butong whispered. Confusion and a hint of fear were evident in his voice.
The elegant white shadow landed gracefully, its talons gleaming with metal as it struck the stone tile with a sharp 'creek', sending sparks flying.
It was a crane.
But not just any crane—
It was massive, with a wingspan enough to block out sunlight.
Feathers pure white, a beak like polished gold, and atop its head, not a red crown, but a golden one.
Bright and Regal.
Unmistakably divine.
"A divine beast…" Murong Fu breathed. Suspicion deepened in his chest.
This was no random noble thrust into power.
No newly made Duke riding on misfortune.
There was more. Much more.
"Master Murong, are you hurt?" came a voice—smooth, clear… yet youthful.
They hurriedly looked at the pavilion.
Standing on the open ground in front of the pavilion, dressed in athletic black training garb, was a tall, graceful young man.
Seventeen, perhaps eighteen. His face was elegant, sculpted, smooth like jade polished by a gentle wind for years.
There was strength in his shoulders. Calm in his posture. Fire in his eyes.
Riveron Ashvale.
Crown Prince of Sundawn Duchy.
…..
Murong Fu fancied himself a scholar of grace, a refined young master navigating the undercurrents of a murky martial world.
He dressed the part, spoke the part, lived the part.
But now—standing before the youth known as Riveron Ashvale—he felt something he hadn't expected.
Threat.
It wasn't the divine beast. Nor his Imperial authority.
It was him—the calmness in his posture, the sharp clarity in his eyes. A presence like still water hiding a deadly undertow.
Murong Fu composed himself quickly, concealing the flicker of unease behind a gentle smile. He took a step forward and gave a respectful bow.
"Would I be right in assuming you are the Crown Prince of Sundawn State? I am Murong Fu, of Swallow Nest Manor. It is an honor to greet Your Highness."
Riven gave a polite nod, lips curled into a faint, courteous smile.
"Solwing is not fond of strangers. Its behavior earlier was rather uncalled for—it has startled your group. Allow me to apologize on its behalf."
His tone was calm, measured—neither overly warm nor insincere.
Murong Fu gave a light laugh, brushing the moment aside. "How can I take offense, your highness? To witness such a divine creature… it has truly broadened our horizons."
At his words, Bao Butong and Feng Bo'e—still tending to their torn robes and minor injuries—said nothing.
The scowls threatening to form on their faces were quickly buried.
Since their master had spoken to smooth things over, they swallowed their resentment without protest.
Riven didn't dwell on the matter. The moment had passed, and his gaze shifted.
"Lord Murong, please…"
Gesturing towards the inside of the pavilion.
Saying that, Riven walked inside, sat on a chair… and to his front, Murong Fu took his seat.
The steward poured him green tea, and poured black tea for Riven.
Once both parties had taken a sip and tasted the tea -
"Then may I ask, Lord Murong… what brings you here today?"
Murong Fu straightened, folding his fan and offering a cordial smile.
"I have only just returned from travels, and upon hearing that His Grace, the Duke of Sundawn, had taken residence here, I came bearing gifts—just a humble show of respect for the newly established household."
With a smooth flick of his fan, he gave a slight gesture.
Bao Butong and Feng Bo'e immediately stepped forward, each holding a wooden chest bound with red silk ribbon.
They placed the boxes down and untied the cords, revealing their contents.
Murong Fu pointed first to Bao Butong's offering.
"This pair of Scepters, carved from Heavenly Field jade, is a token of well-wishing. May prosperity and fortune fill your halls."
The twin scepters, smooth and pristine, shone faintly in the morning light. Their craftsmanship was exquisite—delicate curves and cloud-shaped heads flawlessly carved.
Heavenly Field jade was prized across the Nine Dynasties.
Most mines are located in the Dry River State. A faraway land in the western Ashenvale.
To present a pair of scepters crafted from such stone was no small gesture.
Then Murong Fu turned toward Feng Bo'e's box.
"And here, two ancient ginseng roots from the Eastern Frostlands—modest in appearance, but aged and potent. A symbol of long life and enduring strength for the House of Ashvale."
Inside the box, nestled on crimson silk, lay two thick ginseng roots.
Each was the length and thickness of a child's forearm, vaguely shaped like a human form—arms, legs, and even faint grooves resembling a face.
They were not quite millennia-old, as speculators might suggest, but their age was undeniable.
A treasure no common household could afford.
Riven examined the gifts briefly—long enough to show appreciation, but not enough to imply greed. He smiled gently and gave a small nod of approval.
"Lord Murong is gracious. Such offerings are filled with good intent and fine symbolism, for the eyes of a scholar such as myself.
It would be discourteous of me to refuse."
Murong Fu's expression eased. "As it should be," he said with a smile.
There was no need for excessive formality. The message was clear on both ends. One had shown respect, the other had received it—without humiliation, without conflict.
For now, the conversation had begun on even ground.
But beneath the surface, both men knew that this was simply the opening move.
Bao Butong and Feng Bo'e stepped forward and carefully placed the two gift boxes on the stone table beneath the sweeping shade of the willow tree.
The quiet rustle of leaves overhead added a stillness to the air, while ripples in the nearby pond shimmered under soft sunlight.
Riven Ashvale remained composed, his gaze calm as he spoke.
"I've heard," he said evenly, "that Lord Murong descends from a martial family known throughout the land for a rather unique skill… the ability to turn an opponent's techniques back against them. A rare art in any generation."
Murong Fu's eyes flickered at the remark.
He straightened his posture slightly, maintaining his smile, but his tone was more cautious, with a hint of pride.
"Aha—Your Highness flatters me. It's merely an old reputation, passed around by our family friends in the martial world. Nothing of substance."
Riven's expression did not change. His voice remained light and conversational.
"Is that so?" he said, as if commenting on the weather.
"As it happens, I recently acquired a sword manual. Its origin is uncertain, and I have some doubts about its authenticity. I would appreciate it if Lord Murong would take a look."
Murong Fu hesitated.
For a brief moment, he wondered if this was a test. But the expression on Riven's face was unreadable. Was he pressing him or mocking him?
After a pause, Murong Fu gave a measured nod.
"My grasp of swordsmanship is limited," he said, fan still in hand. "I cannot promise deep insight. But since Your Highness asks, I shall do what I can."
Riven offered a slight nod and gestured toward the table.
Murong Fu assumed—reasonably—that what he was about to see would be yet another fabricated manual.
In the Martial world, such things were common.
The world of martial artists, as seen from the outside, was full of galloping horses and flashing blades, of swift vengeance and wild freedom.
Most stories turn into legend.
And among the noble elite—wealthy sons and scholars—it had become fashionable to chase after that image.
They'd spend vast fortunes on martial manuals. Hire wandering swordsmen to train them. They were rarely serious, but always eager to appear so.
It was a perfect market for deception.
There were those in the martial world who made their living fabricating impressive-sounding manuals, cloaking them in mystery, and selling them at high prices to unsuspecting nobles.
It was robbery, packaged as sweet romance—a swindle wrapped in honor.
Murong Fu had seen it before. Even though he might see it differently now, he was one of the noble sons who fell victim to scams.
Perhaps Riven Ashvale—young, newly enfeoffed, and still untested in the martial world—had probably fallen for such a trick.
As he received the Martial arts manual, many such thoughts raced through his mind.
Yet the moment he opened the manual, Murong Fu's assumptions shattered.
His hand froze mid-turn. His gaze narrowed and sharpened like a drawn blade.
His heart skipped a beat.
This wasn't some cheap forgery or hollow scroll. No. What he was holding… was real. As real as any martial art could get…