Sword of Coming 2 (剑来2) fans know that Cui Dongshan (崔东山) never does anything without a hidden purpose. When he rode an old flood dragon all the way to Dasui (大隋), the beast obeyed without a single complaint. Why? Because Cui held its true form hostage. One wrong move, and three hundred years of cultivation would vanish. But after the trip, what task did the old dragon receive? And why did it spend its days hunting its own kind while secretly watching a troublemaker called the Pat-on-Shoulder Great Emperor? This is a story of fear, duty, and a very special inkstone.
The Reluctant Servant
The old dragon’s journey with Cui Dongshan was no pleasure cruise. It carried the young master across the sky, scales gleaming under the sun, yet inside it trembled. Cui held the dragon’s true body—a deadly leash. With a casual wave, he could strip away centuries of hard-earned power. So the beast swallowed its pride and flew straight. No grumbles. No side glances. When they reached Dasui, Cui dismissed it with a single order: “Use the old inkstone to catch every renegade dragon you find.”
Why dragons? Cui never collected them for sport. The answer lay in Dali (大骊), his homeland. Young dragons grow fast. Left alone, they could swell into a threat—either rampaging freely or joining enemy forces. By locking them inside that ancient inkstone, Cui strengthened Dali’s national fortune. The old dragon knew this well. It had seen what uncontrolled beasts could do. So it set out on its grim task, not out of loyalty, but because defiance meant losing its soul.
The inkstone became a prison. The old dragon dragged in one renegade after another. Those who fought? Killed on the spot. Their spirits melted into the stone, feeding its dark power. The dragon showed no mercy—it had once treated its own offspring just as harshly. Why would it spare wild strangers? Each capture added to the inkstone’s strength, and each death removed a future danger from Dali’s doorstep. Cui never checked the progress. He didn’t need to. Fear was the best supervisor.
Hunting the Renegades
The old dragon’s hunt was brutal and efficient. It tracked renegades through rivers and caves, sensing their bloodlines like a wolf smells fear. Most were weak—no match for a creature that had lived for millennia. But numbers grew. The inkstone filled with captured souls, their roars echoing inside its black surface. The dragon did not enjoy the work. It simply had no choice. Cui’s grip on its true form was absolute. Disobey? Lose three hundred years. Fail? Face worse punishment.
Yet among the renegades, one target required special attention. Cui Dongshan had given a second order: watch the Pat-on-Shoulder Great Emperor. This creature was not a true dragon. It belonged to a bastard line—impure, irregular, despised by orthodox flood dragons. But it had a dangerous gift. Natural talent. It could cultivate faster than purebloods, reaching heights they never could. The old dragon hated it. To him, this emperor was a filthy hybrid, a mockery of dragon kind. Several times, it nearly struck him down.
What stopped the old dragon? Chen Ping’an (陈平安). The emperor clung to this young man like a leech to a wound. Whenever the emperor acted recklessly—and he often did—Chen stood nearby. The old dragon watched friction flare between them. Fists clenched. Teeth bared. Each time, it prepared to kill the emperor on the spot. It knew Cui would not punish such a move. Cui had seen through the emperor’s nature in one meeting: unstable, wild, nothing like the loyal Chen Nuanshu (陈暖树). But killing him near Chen Ping’an might bring unwanted trouble. So the dragon waited.
Watching the Usurper
The old dragon’s disgust for the Pat-on-Shoulder Great Emperor ran deep. It saw him as an abomination—neither true dragon nor worthy cultivator. “He will never amount to anything,” the dragon thought. The emperor had wasted chances that could have transformed his lineage. Shedding skin, a rare opportunity for rebirth, had been squandered by stupidity. Every time the dragon mentioned him, its voice dripped with contempt. “Slow-witted. Blind to fortune.” Yet the emperor remained alive, dancing around Chen Ping’an like a desperate actor.
Why did the old dragon endure this humiliation? Because it was not just a slave. Years of bearing shame had earned it something precious. The Old Scholar—a figure of immense wisdom—had given it a single character: Fu (伏), meaning “to submit” or “to lie hidden.” This was no insult. It was a gift, a seed of destiny. By bowing to Cui Dongshan, the dragon had opened a door. The Old Scholar saw its patience and rewarded it. One word could change everything. So the dragon continued its hunt, its watch, its silent fury.
Meanwhile, the Pat-on-Shoulder Great Emperor stumbled toward his own fortune. He had latched onto Chen Ping’an, and Chen—generous to a fault—had already promised him snake gallstonesa rare treasure. The emperor did not know how lucky he was. Following Chen Ping’an was like riding a rising tide. But the old dragon knew. It watched from the shadows, ready to strike if the emperor ever crossed the line. For now, it waited. The inkstone grew heavier. The hunt continued. And somewhere deep inside its ancient heart, the dragon dreamed of freedom.
