A grand city has its grandeur, and a remote town has its own bustle. This small town located in the southeast of Liyang has always been far from the smoke of war. In times of peace, it might not seem remarkable, but when rumors of unrest and turmoil spread from the cities and prefectures, this place stands out as particularly serene. Nearby, there are villages named after surnames, and during ancestral worship ceremonies, they all make a grand display. The Song Family Village even hung up a portrait of an emperor surnamed Song among their ancestors, naturally feeling superior to villages that merely displayed portraits of founding ministers of the Great Feng Dynasty or officials from minor states of the Spring and Autumn period.
However, the Song Family Village’s illustrious ancestry didn’t benefit the few families surnamed Wen living there. In truth, even the village elders, including those who had studied for a few days or carefully examined the clan records, couldn’t explain their connection to that Song emperor. It was said that once, an overly curious villager even carried the clan records in a small wooden box to consult an elderly scholar in town, but even he couldn’t provide a clear answer. Unexpectedly, it was the village’s most notorious slacker, a young man surnamed Wen, who, after wandering outside for three years and returning home, confidently declared that the reason the villagers inscribed “Yinchuan” on their tombstones was deeply significant. He explained that during the Great Feng Dynasty, Yinchuan County was famed as the cradle of scholars, and the Song clan of Yinchuan was among the most prestigious, producing many renowned officials and scholars. The ancestor who first established himself as a warlord and later became the first emperor of the Song lineage was a distant branch of the Yinchuan Song clan. The origins of the Song Family Village likely traced back to the remnants of that warlord faction, who, after its downfall, migrated south during the historic “Ganlu Crossing” and eventually settled here.
After Wen’s explanation, the village elders more or less understood—or at least pretended to. The grandeur of being linked to the Yinchuan Song clan and the Ganlu Crossing was undeniable. Even if the village hadn’t produced a single scholar in a century, their ancestors had clearly been illustrious. Perhaps their descendants’ current obscurity was simply due to the ancestors’ overwhelming fortune, leaving little for later generations. Wen, once the village’s least respected youth, returned home with a limp and a changed demeanor. Gone was his carefree attitude and wooden sword. He now worked diligently at a tavern in town, supporting himself without relying on his elder brother and even sending money home. Most surprisingly, he married a virtuous and beautiful wife. Their wedding feast, held in the village ancestral hall’s courtyard, left many Song youths—married or not—staring in admiration.
After marrying, Wen no longer lodged in the tavern’s storage room. Saving up, he rented a small courtyard in town with three rooms. One, adorned with red paper-cuttings, was their bridal chamber; another stored odds and ends; the third, kept spotless by his meticulous wife, was reserved for guests—his brothers, should they visit. He believed it improper to let friends stay at inns, both distant and wasteful. She agreed, finding his reasoning sound.
Though not wealthy, she came from a modest but comfortable family. Determined to marry him despite her family’s objections, she refused any dowry. Over time, her family softened. Her brothers, though still awkward around him in formal settings, visited privately, bringing meat and wine, treating him as family. She knew that once they had children, her parents would fully accept him.
Life in the small town wasn’t cheap. While his tavern earnings sufficed for now, a child would stretch their budget. Fortunately, her needlework was renowned. A sister’s fabric shop displayed her delicate creations as freebies, boosting sales and earning her a few extra taels monthly—nearly matching his income.
The town buzzed with activity around the Ghost Festival, a time when ancestors were believed to return. Though the name sounded eerie, adults and children alike enjoyed the festivities—monks and priests held rituals, lanterns adorned the streets, and children marveled at the colorful lotus lamps floating on the river. Yesterday, Wen fetched his nephew from the village, planning to let his wife take the boy sightseeing. She had crafted two large baskets of river lanterns to sell by the bridge, confident her skill would ensure a quick sale. Watching her work in the courtyard, he marveled at her dexterity—lanterns shaped like flowers, birds, fish, dragons, and phoenixes. He sat idly, grinning at her talent.
His bookish nephew, initially reserved, spent the day at the tavern, enthralled by storytelling. The boy, quiet like his father, worried Wen—he admired his earnestness but feared his naivety might lead to future hardships.
Wen’s tavern had become a local hotspot, thanks to his insistence on hiring storytellers who traveled to neighboring cities for fresh tales. Their accounts of the martial world—like the female alliance leader’s snowy epiphany, the Daoist-Buddhist debate at Wudang Mountain, the upheaval at the Martial Emperor City, and the Wu family’s hundred riders heading north—captivated the town. Though the tavern thrived, Wen never sought extra pay, content with his wages and tips. The owner, watching him bustle about, seemed to ponder something unspoken.
Today, the storyteller recounted how Qi Jiajie, a sword master from Liyang’s capital, had a legendary sword forged at Dongyue Sword Pool. The sword, launched from a small town near Wudang Mountain, traversed thousands of miles to challenge the young king of the northwest frontier. The king, standing atop the clouds at the border, deflected the divine-slaying blade—a tale so thrilling the audience gasped, forgetting their meals. Wen’s nephew, hearing such tales for the first time, sat wide-eyed, fists clenched, finding them far more exciting than his schoolbooks.
As the story ended and the tavern closed, the owner, in high spirits, treated Wen and his nephew to a feast. The boy, though well-mannered, couldn’t hide his delight. The owner, fond of scholars, promised rewards for each exam the boy passed, joking about future calligraphy commissions. Wen teased his nephew about using education to woo girls, making the boy blush. They laughed, drank, and parted ways—Wen to clean up, his nephew to wait by the bridge.
Later, the owner, slightly drunk, mused, “When I took you in, I never imagined this. I just pitied you. But you’ve made this place prosper. This past year’s earnings surpass the last decade’s.”
Wen smiled. “Good deeds bring good returns, as they should.”
“Should they?” the owner countered. “A child might believe that, but an old man like me knows better.” He studied Wen intently. “The guests think you’re meek, but I see something else in you.”
The young man quipped with a grin, “Boss, are you trying to say I’m hopeless?”
The old man laughed and scolded, “Damn your nonsense! I don’t know how your wife puts up with you!”
The young man pointed at his own face, grinning cheekily, “My parents made me handsome, Boss. That’s something you can’t envy.”
The old man waved his hand dismissively. “Enough nonsense. I’ve got something serious to talk to you about today.”
The young man straightened up, standing respectfully by the table. “Boss, just say the word. I, Wen Hua, may not amount to much, but I remember every kindness shown to me. I won’t claim to repay a drop of kindness with a fountain—I don’t have that kind of ability—but I’ll make sure to return every bit, even if it takes me a lifetime. So, Boss, don’t hold back. If it weren’t for you taking me in, who knows where I’d be now—chopping firewood, burning charcoal, or working odd jobs for some family. Forget marrying a wife; I’d barely be scraping by, just trying not to starve. Saving up for my nephew’s paper and brushes would’ve been impossible.”
The old man chuckled, setting down his wine cup as he studied the young man’s earnest gaze. “You’ve handled most of the tavern’s affairs single-handedly. As the boss, I’ve had it easy these days. So, when the storytellers spin their tales of wandering heroes, star-crossed lovers, or fox spirits, I listen. Most of it goes in one ear and out the other, but a few words stuck with me. One line in particular—‘Since ancient times, it’s hard to be a decent person’—no one else seemed to care, but it resonated with me. It’s true in business, and even truer in friendship. That’s why I eventually trusted you with the tavern’s finances. At first, I had my doubts, wondering if you’d skim a bit for yourself. After all, every great fortune starts with a single coin. But to my surprise, you never took a single copper. The books were clean, top to bottom. That’s rare. Fine wine reddens the face, and wealth stirs the heart—that’s human nature. So, kid, you’re a decent man.”
The young man said solemnly, “Boss, that’s putting it too formally. The stable life I have today is all thanks to you. If I were to steal from the tavern, I’d be worse than scum. That’s not something I could ever do.”
The old man nodded. “You know I’m not getting any younger. All my life, I’ve dreamed of buying a big house in the prefecture city to retire in. Both my daughters and their husbands live there now. Sure, they say a married daughter is like spilled water, but what parent doesn’t care for their children? My daughters married into modest families, and life in the city isn’t easy. So, I’ve been thinking about my savings—hoping to give them a better life, so they don’t have to rent or live under someone else’s roof. Before, I didn’t have the means. Three or four hundred taels might’ve been enough in this town, but in the city, where land is gold? Not a chance. But this year, thanks to you, my savings doubled. With nearly eight hundred taels, I can buy a decent house—as long as it’s not in some noble district like Qingtu Lane or Haier Lane. And with you running the tavern, I’ve been thinking… maybe I should sell it to you.”
The waiter froze, then laughed bitterly. “Old Boss, a place this big? Even if I sold everything I own, I couldn’t afford it.”
The old man chuckled. “This tavern was worth about a hundred taels before, but times have changed. Now it’s easily worth three or four hundred. You know that, and so do I. And I know exactly how much you’ve saved. So here’s my idea: the tavern’s priced at three hundred taels, but you don’t have to pay upfront. Just remember to deduct it from your annual profits. But let’s be clear—once the three hundred’s repaid, if the tavern keeps making money, I’ll still expect my share. How much? That’s up to you. Just take care of your family first.”
The young man hesitated.
The old man motioned for him to sit. “Don’t feel like you owe me. I’m shrewd enough to know you’ll grow this place. With your decency, the dividends won’t be small. I’ll be lounging in my city mansion, collecting silver for nothing. A sweet deal!”
The young man sat back on the bench, straightening his back. “Old Boss, words can’t express my gratitude.”
The old man flicked his fingers teasingly. “Save the talk. Let the silver do the speaking.”
The young man suddenly grinned. “Old Boss, aren’t you afraid I’ll cheat you? Once I repay the three hundred, I might not want to share the profits.”
The old man raised an eyebrow, then pointed first at the young man’s chest, then at his own eyes. “This deal exists because I trust your conscience—and my own judgment.”
The young man poured wine for them both and raised his cup. “It’s all in the wine!”
They drank in one go.
The old man set down his empty cup. “Go see your wife now. Oh, and take a jug of the new Green Ant Wine from the back. Consider it my congratulations on you having your own business.”
The young man stood, laughing. “Got it!”
The old man called after him, “Celebration or not, the wine goes on your tab! That Green Ant stuff isn’t cheap. Costs less than two taels up north in Beiliang, but by the time it gets here? Four whole taels! Might as well be selling silver. Sip it slow—don’t drain it in one go.”
The young man smirked. “I wouldn’t drink it myself!”
The old man raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Giving it to your brother or your father-in-law?”
The young man paused at the counter, then turned with a grin. “Neither. Saving it for my brother. When he comes to mooch off me someday, this’ll be his welcome. Back when we roamed together, he always said Green Ant was the best wine in the world. Used to tease me with it. After we parted, I passed his hometown once but was in too much of a hurry to try it. Never did figure out what the fuss was about.”
The old man huffed. “What’s so special? It’s just expensive. Too strong, burns your throat, and the aftertaste kicks like a mule. Give me our local rice wine any day.”
The young man grinned. “My brother’s half a martial artist. Galloping on horseback, drinking—he’d want the strongest stuff. Sipping weak rice wine? Not a hero’s drink!”
The old man laughed. “Oh, a martial artist, huh? Sounds like you traveled far in your ‘wandering’ days.”
The young man scratched his head. “Just far, that’s all.”
The old man rolled his eyes. “And suffered plenty, I bet.”
The young man just smiled.
Alone at the table, the old man sipped his wine, watching the waiter carefully cradle the jug. Out of nowhere, he asked, “Wen Hua, the tavern’s storyteller mentioned a northwestern prince who admitted to having a sworn brother from the martial world—same name as you. Wouldn’t your brother’s surname be Xu, then?”
The young man, standing farther away, beamed. “Funny you mention it—it is!”
The old man roared with laughter, waving him off. “You rascal! Get out of here!”
As the young man limped toward the door, the old man shook his empty wine jug, then called after him, “Wen Hua, you’re really not that famous swordsman from the capital, are you?”
The young man turned slowly, jug in hand, and stuck out his tongue. “Boss, do I look like him?”
The old man just smiled and waved again.
Sitting back down, the old man stared at the empty jug, then at the door, muttering to himself, “No, not really. How could he be?”
Outside, the young man hurried toward a small bridge. The riverbanks were alive with activity, the water dotted with floating lanterns, glowing like stars in a summer sky. Tradition held that on this night, lost souls could find rebirth by locating a lantern bearing their name. Years ago, his brother had told him Buddhist tales of lanterns guiding trapped spirits to liberation. One of his deepest regrets was that his elder brother had given him the chance to study, while he’d squandered it, dreaming of chivalry and the martial world. Now, he doted on his nephew, buying him the finest paper and brushes, not for fame or glory, but because he truly believed in the value of learning—of naming one’s own children, of writing one’s own spring couplets.
Swordplay? Only one could be the best. Fists? There’d always be someone stronger. But the wisdom in books? That was something no emperor or noble could claim to surpass.
At the bridge, his wife had sold all but one lantern, which their nephew held.
As he approached, she asked softly, “Why save this one? And why write ‘Beiliang’ on it?”
He smiled. “Remember the friend I told you about, Xiao Nian? He’s from Beiliang. With the war in the west, I wanted to pray for him.”
They descended to the riverbank, where he gently set the lantern afloat. Sitting side by side, he ruffled his nephew’s hair, handing him the jug of Green Ant Wine. To his wife, he said, “If we ever meet, and he calls you ‘sister-in-law,’ don’t agree. Make him call you ‘elder sister.’”
Her eyes curved with amusement. “You two still compete over this?”
He laughed. “Some things are worth fighting for.”
Blushing slightly, she sighed. “And you still want to be in-laws? You really made that childhood pact, and he agreed?”
He puffed out his chest. “He’d dare refuse?!”
She smiled. Her husband cared little for most things—except when it came to his brother. Then, he brimmed with pride.
Sometimes, it even made her a little jealous.
She didn’t know what they’d been through, but it had left a mark on him.
And she knew better than anyone: this man named Wen Hua could let go of anything—even the pride most men clung to—except this.
Gazing at the river, he murmured, “Wife, don’t worry. It’s not the martial world I miss. It’s my brother.”
Then he turned, grinning. “Face it—without me, no matter how well he’s doing, that world’s just not as fun.”
There he went again.
She rolled her eyes.
He sniffed. “Don’t believe me? Who am I? Who’s my brother? Back in our day—”
Catching her teasing look, he backtracked. “We were, uh, very righteous! Just… also very broke. Starved more often than not.”
She stifled a laugh.
To his nephew, he recited, “Your ‘uncle’ loved this poem. Ever heard it? *‘The sun rises a rod high over Fusang; the world’s affairs are fine as hair. A common man rages at injustice, wearing down the ancient blade in his heart.’*”
The boy, just starting school, shook his head blankly.
The young man looked back at the glittering river, the breeze cool on his face, his expression serene.
Softly, as if to himself, he said, “I’ve saved the Green Ant Wine. Kept a room for you. Xiao Nian, if you still call me brother… don’t you dare die out there beyond Liangzhou’s pass.”
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