The Beiliang Prince’s Manor loomed majestically over Qingliang Mountain, its countless gates and halls a testament to architectural splendor. As the empire’s sole remaining prince not of imperial blood, Xu Xiao, the controversial Prince of Beiliang, was a military hero who had attained everything short of the throne itself. Across the three northwestern provinces, he reigned supreme—his influence eclipsing all others.
No wonder those court officials who opposed this “non-royal prince” privately cursed him as “Xu the Barbarian,” while the more malicious went so far as to label him the “Second Emperor.”
Today, the manor was abuzz with activity. The mighty Prince of Beiliang himself had opened the grand central gate, deploying a lavish ceremonial procession to welcome an elderly man of transcendent bearing. The servants whispered that this was an immortal from the sacred Daoist mountain of Longhu, who had taken a liking to the prince’s seemingly dim-witted youngest son and wished to accept him as a closed-door disciple. Such fortune was beyond measure—proof that even fools had their blessings.
Indeed, the young prince had never cried since birth, struggled with reading and writing, and only began speaking at six. Yet his name, Xu Longxiang (“Dragon-Elephant”), was grand and imposing, said to have been bestowed by a Longhu immortal years prior, who promised to return in twelve years to claim him as a disciple. And now, as foretold, the immortal had arrived.
In a courtyard within the manor, the ancient Daoist master—a patriarch of Longhu—stroked his snow-white beard, his brow furrowed. A rare peachwood sword, styled after the demon-queller Zhong Kui, rested on his back, complementing his ethereal demeanor. Truly, he embodied the phrase “transcendent being,” earning admiration from all who beheld him.
Yet this disciple-recruitment faced unexpected resistance—not from the prince’s household, but from the stubbornness of his intended pupil. The boy squatted beneath a pear tree, turning his backside toward this esteemed master, who ranked among the top three in the Daoist hierarchy (though in martial prowess, perhaps only within the top thirty).
Even the illustrious Prince of Beiliang had to crouch beside him, coaxing with words that bordered on enticement:
“Son, if you go to Longhu and master their arts, no one will dare call you a fool again. Beat them senseless—even if they’re officials below the third rank, I’ll back you.”
“Boy, you’re strong. It’d be a waste not to train and become one of the world’s top ten martial artists. When you return, I’ll make you a Cavalry Commandant—riding a fine steed, clad in heavy armor. What glory!”
The young prince ignored him, fixated on the ground as if it held endless fascination.
“Little Huang, don’t you love candied hawthorns? Longhu is covered in wild hawthorns—pick and eat as you please. Right, Master Zhao?”
The immortal forced a smile and nodded. Never had recruiting a disciple felt so humiliating. If word got out, he’d be the laughingstock of the realm.
Yet despite the prince’s exhaustive efforts—this man who held absolute power across twelve commanderies—the boy remained unmoved. Growing impatient with his father’s nagging, he suddenly let out a loud fart, then turned to grin at him.
The prince raised a hand as if to strike but quickly relented. He couldn’t bring himself to hit the boy, nor would it achieve anything.
The child lived up to his name: Xu Longxiang, derived from “the dragon’s might in water, the elephant’s strength on land—unyielding as Vajra.” Though nicknamed “Yellow Dolt” for his dull wit, illiteracy, sickly pallor, and frail frame, his physical strength was terrifying.
Xu Xiao, who had fought since age ten—from slaying Xiongnu in Jinzhou to crushing six southern kingdoms and suppressing sixteen southwestern tribes—had never encountered anyone with such innate, Herculean power.
*If only he were a bit brighter,* the prince sighed inwardly. *He could become the empire’s foremost vanguard general.*
Rising slowly, he offered the ancient Daoist an awkward smile. The master waved it off, though inwardly lamenting the absurdity of the situation. If this recruitment failed, his reputation would be ruined.
Then the prince had an idea. “Little Huang,” he said slyly, “your brother’s returning from his travels. He should be entering the city soon. Don’t you want to greet him?”
The young prince’s head snapped up. Though his face remained expressionless, his usually dull eyes blazed with startling intensity. He seized his father’s hand and bolted outside.
The sprawling Beiliang Manor was infamous for its labyrinthine corridors—necessary to accommodate the “Tide-listening Pavilion,” much criticized by upright officials. Xu Xiao, his hand aching from his son’s grip, had to repeatedly correct their path. After a full incense stick’s time, they finally reached the gates.
Behind them trailed servants laden with chests of supplies for Longhu—testament to the prince’s boundless wealth and indulgence toward his children.
Outside, the young prince scanned the empty streets. Finding no sign of his brother, his disappointment turned to rage. He let out a guttural roar, glaring at his guilty father before storming off.
Not wanting the effort to go to waste, Xu Xiao exchanged a glance with the Daoist. The master smiled gently and extended a withered hand, lightly grasping the boy’s wrist.
“Xu Longxiang,” he said kindly, “do not waste your once-in-a-century gift. Come with me to Longhu. In ten years at most, you may return to achieve greatness.”
The boy snorted and tried to pull away—but found himself inexplicably immobilized. His foot hovered mid-step, unable to land.
Xu Xiao exhaled in relief. This Daoist truly had skill. As a father, he knew his son’s strength firsthand—so terrifying that he dared not assign him many servants, lest limbs be accidentally crushed. Over the years, countless chairs and tables had been reduced to splinters, a testament to the boy’s power.
The young prince, baffled, erupted in fury. With a shout, he dragged the master forward—one step, two, three. The Daoist, intrigued, subtly increased his resistance, halting the boy’s advance.
Enraged, Xu Longxiang’s face twisted bestially. He seized the old man’s arm with both hands, planted his feet—cracking the jade pavement—and hurled him through the air.
Xu Xiao watched impassively, unafraid of potential manslaughter. If the Daoist lacked the skill to survive, so be it. He, who had trampled the arrogant Western Chu under Liangzhou’s iron cavalry, feared no sect—not even Longhu, leader of the Daoist world.
The master gracefully alighted atop a towering marble lion at the manor’s entrance, his poise utterly transcendent. Such a display would have drawn thunderous applause in the streets.
As the prince’s eldest son (infamous for his hedonism) might say: *”This deserves reward—no easy feat, a true skill.”* In his heyday, the young master had lavished silver notes on courtesans and charlatans alike.
Once, a wandering swordsman’s street brawl had woken him during a daytime tryst. Enthralled, the young master not only intervened to prevent punishment but nearly had the man awarded an honorary medal—along with a stack of 100,000 silver notes.
*How dull Liangzhou has become without its prodigal son,* the prince mused. Respectable ladies now dared wear makeup outdoors; second-rate bullies no longer competed with a true demon for misdeeds; brothels waited in vain for his extravagant patronage.
Xu Xiao had four children, each extraordinary.
The eldest daughter, wed three times, was now the empire’s most beautiful and wealthy widow—notorious in Jiangnan for her libertine ways.
The second daughter, plain-faced but erudite, studied under the sage Han Guzi, rubbing shoulders with military strategists and political tacticians.
Xu Longxiang, the youngest, remained relatively obscure—unlike his infamous elder brother. Whenever Xu Xiao was mentioned, people inevitably added, *”Like father, like son,”* though where the father excelled in war, the son distinguished himself in squandering wealth.
Three years ago, the young master Xu Fengnian was said to have been driven from the manor at swordpoint, forced to undertake the aristocratic coming-of-age journey. Now, after years of silence, he was returning.
Liangzhou still remembered his departure—tearful courtesans and young nobles lining the walls. Though rumor had it that once he was gone, the city celebrated all night, wine flowing into the rivers until the air itself was drunk.
Back at the manor, the simple-minded prince charged the marble lion, intent on hurling both it and the Daoist aside. But as he strained against the statue, the master floated down and took his hand.
With esoteric “Mountain-moving” techniques, he gently pulled the boy upright. “Little Huang,” he said, “come with your master.”
The boy gripped the lion’s base, fingers gouging into jade, and howled: “I’ll wait for brother! He promised to bring me the world’s most beautiful bride!”
The prince sighed heavily. “Fine, we’ll wait. It won’t be long now.”
The Daoist released the boy, secretly marveling at his godlike strength.
But the news of Xu Fengnian’s return troubled him. During his first visit years ago, the then seven-year-old brat had set dogs on him. Later, after much explanation, two beauties had knocked on his door at midnight, claiming they were cold. Only his supreme willpower had saved him—though he now regretted not discussing scriptures with them.
On the road at dusk, two figures stretched long in the sunset. The elder, ragged and white-haired, carried a cloth-wrapped bundle and led a lame, skeletal horse. The younger, unshaven and dressed like a refugee, groaned:
“Old Huang, hold on. Once we’re home, there’ll be meat and wine. Damn, I never thought I’d crave them so much.”
The gaptoothed old man chuckled.
“Laugh all you want,” the youth muttered. “I don’t even have the energy to cry.”
Their two-thousand-li journey had brought them to the brink of begging—fishing in rivers, chasing rabbits, raiding bird nests. Any meat, cooked however poorly, became a feast. Attempts to steal poultry had seen them chased for miles by villagers.
Now, home was near.
Which scion of nobility isn’t clad in silks, riding proud steeds with an air of grandeur?
Then look at me—a tattered hemp robe, straw sandals, and a lame horse I can’t bear to slaughter for meat, let alone ride. Just another mouth to feed. No vicious lackeys either—old Huang, with his frail frame after six decades of life, makes me nervous just looking at him. I fear one day, after trekking two thousand miles, he’ll drop dead without a sound, leaving me without even someone to talk to. Then I’d have to dig a grave for him in the middle of nowhere.
Before even entering the city, just outside the walls, there was a stall selling apricot blossom wine. Exhausted, I caught the scent of liquor, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply—damn, it smelled heavenly. Gritting my teeth, I strode over and plopped down on the only empty stool, mustering the last of my strength to shout, “Waiter! Wine!”
The other patrons, resting on their way in or out of the city, eyed the shabby master and servant with disdain, deliberately sitting farther away.
The busy waiter, who would usually cheerfully respond with a “Coming right up!” took one look at their ragged clothes and immediately soured. In business, you need sharp eyes—these two didn’t look like they could afford a drink. Still, the waiter was decent enough not to chase them off outright. Instead, he forced a stiff smile and warned, “Our signature apricot blossom wine costs twenty coppers a jug—not expensive, but not cheap either.”
In the past, if someone had dared look down on him like this, the young man would have unleashed his hounds and lackeys. But three years of hardship had humbled him, and he had grown used to being penniless. Panting, he said, “Don’t worry, someone will settle the bill. You’ll even get a tip.”
“A tip?” The waiter scoffed, his face twisting in contempt.
The young man gave a bitter smile, placed his thumb and forefinger to his lips, and blew a whistle with the last of his strength. Then he slumped onto the crude wooden table, snoring—he had actually fallen asleep. The waiter was baffled, but sharp-eyed patrons caught a fleeting shadow streaking overhead.
A falcon-like bird shot past the city walls like an arrow.
By the time the drinkers finished a bowl of apricot blossom wine, the earth suddenly rumbled without warning. The tables shook, and the patrons clutched their cups in alarm, looking around in confusion.
From the city gates surged a flood of armored cavalry, stretching into two black lines that seemed endless. Amid the dust, towering warhorses bore the elite heavy cavalry of Northern Liang, each warrior famed for being worth a hundred men. The banner carried by the leading general was blood-red, emblazoned with a single character: “Xu.”
Good heavens—the personal army of the Prince of Northern Liang!
Who in all the world could stand against the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry, which had swept across thirteen provinces of the empire?
Once, the Western Chu Dynasty had boasted that its twelve thousand halberdiers could challenge them. But what happened? At the Battle of Jing River, they were annihilated—every last one buried alive, their wails like thunder.
Two hundred elite riders charged forth, their momentum unstoppable.
Above them, a keen-eyed falcon seemed to guide the way.
In an instant, the two hundred horsemen halted in perfect unison—a level of precision far beyond even the most battle-hardened veterans.
A fourth-rank general, the Zhedong Commandant, dismounted and immediately spotted the old servant holding the reins. He rushed to the wine stall, knelt, and said respectfully, “General Qi Dangguo pays his respects to the Young Master!”
But the shabby young man who had bragged about tipping merely mumbled in his sleep, “Waiter… more wine.”
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