Chapter One: Duel on the Mountain Summit

Twin Peaks Mountain, also known as Gemini Mountain, lies in the southern central region of the Wildlands Continent, its two summits towering into the clouds.

It is called Gemini Mountain because it is formed by two high mountains standing roughly two thousand meters apart. Though separated by more than a kilometer, the two peaks arc outward on either side, their ridges sprawling for several thousand miles before curving back to meet and meld, forming the shape of a colossal gourd lying on its side.

From a distance, the two mountains appear as if two men stand sentinel at a grand gateway, thus earning the name Gemini Mountain.

The mountains rise high, and their gourd-like embrace shelters dense, towering flora. The terrain is treacherous, easy to defend and difficult to attack, making it a coveted refuge for all—humans, tribes, clans, demonfolk, beastkin—from across the continent seeking sanctuary.

At this moment, atop the very summit of Twin Peaks, two monstrous beasts stood facing each other.

Each beast bore upon its back a young man of striking, identical appearance—both handsome, both in their prime—sitting face to face.

Their mounts were bizarre creatures, each sprouting bat-like wings, neither wholly bird nor beast, but something in between.

The two men locked eyes across the distance.

One stood on the eastern peak, the other on the west.

The monsters beneath them were unwaveringly loyal, so devoted that they would lay down their lives for their riders in any perilous moment.

Each man gripped his most prized arcane weapon.

A mountain wind swept over them, and both shivered as a chill struck deep.

The sudden coldness cast a shadow over their hearts.

The man on the western peak regarded his counterpart with eyes full of murderous intent.

...

The man on the east spoke: “Yang Shengtian, your real name is Wei Xiaofan. You are my younger brother. I am Wei Xiaoping. We are truly brothers, born of the same parents! Our father is Wei Tianhong, and our mother is Wei Xiuzhu...”

The one called Yang Shengtian glared with killing fury, his gaze as if he wished to slay his counterpart on the spot.

Yang Shengtian wore a grey helmet adorned with five small skulls arrayed across the front. The helmet encased his head completely, revealing only a handsome face beneath the skulls—so like Wei Xiaoping’s that they seemed cast from the same mold. His armor was grey, with a small skull ornament rising from each shoulder, and the iron belt securing his cuirass bore yet another skull as its buckle.

In his hand was a mystic bow that shimmered with seven-colored light, each end tipped with a wing as delicate as a cicada’s. Though he held the bow, he carried no quiver, nor a single arrow upon his person.

Before Wei Xiaoping could finish, Yang Shengtian cut him off impatiently: “How many times must I tell you—I am not your brother! Only a ghost would be your brother. I am an orphan; my name is Yang Shengtian. Remember that—call me Yang Shengtian! Otherwise, you won’t even know whose hand you died by!”

Wei Xiaoping’s face twisted with sorrow.

He wore a tightly fitted golden helmet, revealing only a face so handsome it could make any beauty swoon. His armor was gold as well, and in his hand was a sword radiating prismatic light—the Demon-Slaying Divine Sword.

Wei Xiaoping continued, “We are twins, born together. Twins always resemble each other closely. Look—don’t you see how alike we are?”

Yang Shengtian hesitated, glancing at Wei Xiaoping. “I admit we look alike, but that’s only coincidence. There are countless people in the world who share the same face. Does that alone make us twins?”

A fleeting joy crossed Wei Xiaoping’s face. At last his brother acknowledged their resemblance—could this be a sign for their long-awaited reunion?

Wei Xiaoping pressed on: “But I know everything about you—down to every mark and feature. Is that also coincidence? For example, I know the mystic bow in your hand was once a birthmark on your back, which transformed into a bow shape. Is that a coincidence? The black mole on your right shoulder, the size of a fingertip—is that, too, coincidence? All these marks, I remember from growing up with you. And the little red mole between your brows, identical to mine—is that, too, a mere chance?”

Hearing all this, Yang Shengtian wavered. How could so many coincidences exist? Perhaps they truly were brothers—otherwise, how could this man know him so well? Yet why did he have no memory of Wei Xiaoping? Why was he such a stranger, when Wei Xiaoping knew him so intimately?

He searched his memories, but the harder he tried to recall, the more his head throbbed with pain.

Suddenly, a phantom voice, old and hoarse, echoed in Yang Shengtian’s mind: “Yang Shengtian, Wei Xiaoping is a devil who reads hearts. Do not be deceived! He sees through flesh and thought alike—that’s how he knows your secrets. He’s the reason your general Wang Chuying was defeated and your elite soldiers slaughtered in the last battle at Gemini Mountain! Today, you must defeat him and avenge your fallen!”

The phantom voice repeated its warning, growing ever louder in his mind, worsening his pain. He clutched his helmet, crying out in agony.

Again the voice spoke: “Yang Shengtian, this Wei Xiaoping is not your brother—he is deceiving you! Naturally, you cannot know his features as he knows yours. He is a devil! Today, you must avenge your tens of thousands of slain soldiers—defeat him, kill him!”

Wei Xiaoping saw Yang Shengtian clutching his head in pain and asked, full of concern, “Brother, what’s wrong? Why do you suffer so?”

Yang Shengtian’s eyes grew ever redder as he pulled at his hair, shouting, “I am not your brother! Everything is coincidence—haven’t you heard, ‘in a world so vast, nothing is too strange’? It just so happens that this strangeness occurs between us.”

Wei Xiaoping pleaded, “Brother, don’t be stubborn. Don’t serve the enemy any longer, don’t help kill your own countrymen, don’t aid invaders against your homeland. Come back with me, forget the past, start anew! I will plead with our master to show you mercy!”

At that moment, the phantom voice echoed in Yang Shengtian’s mind once more: “Yang Shengtian, do not fall for his tricks! Take action—avenge your fallen comrades! Kill him, now!”

Wei Xiaoping pressed on: “Also, as twins, we’ve shared a telepathic bond since birth. Even as children, we could sense each other’s thoughts. Even now, I can sometimes feel what you’re thinking—that’s a gift unique to twins like us! Is that, too, mere coincidence?”

The phantom voice, more insistent than ever, cried: “Did you hear him, Yang Shengtian? He claims he can read your mind—that’s how he foresaw your plans at the last battle, leading to Wang Chuying’s defeat and the death of your elite troops. His ‘telepathy’ is a lie—he is a devil! Kill him, avenge your brothers-in-arms! Kill him now!”

Yang Shengtian, listening to the voice, lowered his hands, his eyes glowing blood-red. “You know my thoughts because you are a devil! My defeat at Twin Peaks, the death of Wang Chuying and all those soldiers, is because you read their minds and saw through my plans! Unless I destroy you today, I am not worthy to be called a man! … Take this!”

As he spoke, Yang Shengtian raised his mystic bow, aimed at Wei Xiaoping, and drew the string.

In an instant, a torrent of arrows made of brilliant mystic light materialized from the bow, raining down upon Wei Xiaoping like a storm…

———Divider———

On the open plain beneath Gemini Mountain, two opposing armies, each numbering in the tens of thousands, stood arrayed against one another.

The eastern army was led by Huang Xianlin. He and all his soldiers wore golden armor, a dazzling sea of gold. Huang Xianlin, a man in his thirties or forties, was tall and powerfully built, with a square face, broad mouth, a strong, straight nose, and thick, sword-like brows above large eyes. Armored in gold, he sat astride a golden-brown qilin beast, his left hand clutching a golden cord around the beast’s neck, his right wielding a golden mace weighing over a hundred pounds, his gaze fixed sternly on the enemy.

The western army was commanded by Yang Tianbao.

Yang Tianbao and his soldiers were clad in grey armor, a mass as dark and ominous as storm clouds before the rain.

Yang Tianbao was as broad as a bear, with a round, fleshy face. His small eyes, squeezed by the fat of his cheeks, sat beneath bristling brows that slanted upward, giving him a comical look. He rode a monstrous beast with the head of a wolf, the neck of a lion, and the body of a leopard—a creature we’ll call a wolf-lion beast. Each of his hands gripped an iron hammer weighing several hundred pounds, and he glared at the enemy with fury. The wolf-lion beast beneath him flashed silver-blue eyes and occasionally sneezed or roared, baring silvery fangs—a terrifying sight.

The two armies were separated by about a kilometer.

Every soldier rode a strange mount of his own, gripping all manner of sharp weapons, poised as if ready to charge and annihilate the foe.

The scene was solemn and deathly still, as if the very air had frozen. So quiet that the fall of a single hair could be heard.

Only the voices of Wei Xiaoping and Yang Shengtian, carried down from the mountain’s summit and shaped by their conflict, broke the silence of the battlefield below.