Year after year, the tide watchers gaze until their hair turns white, yet never tire of the sight.
From the Spring and Autumn era to Yonghui, then to Xiangfu, and now to Yangjia, the great tides come annually, while the white-haired observers depart one by one. Just as Li Chungang, the Sword Saint of Spring and Autumn, once belonged to the martial world, the Xu family to the northwestern frontier, and the Snow Dragon Cavalry to the Northern Liang border army, they too will fade into the surging river as the elders gradually pass away, won’t they?
That ill-fated Prince of Guangling, Zhao Yi, once declared at the victory banquet after pacifying Western Chu that he had five lifelong wishes: green mountains, old friends, rare books, famous flowers, and the Spring Snow Tower.
Yet no sooner had he spoken than the hooves of the Prince of Yan’s cavalry crossed the Guangling River, and the Spring Snow Tower, which Zhao Yi had guarded as his treasure, became another’s plaything in the blink of an eye.
Xu Fengnian glanced at the lofty Spring Snow Tower.
Wang Sheng asked, “Master, what are you thinking about?”
Xu Fengnian rubbed his chin, feigning deep thought. “Wang Sheng, who exactly are the new top ten beauties on the Rouge Ranking?”
Wang Sheng stomped her foot in frustration. “Master!”
Xu Fengnian laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, your master has neither the heart nor the guts for mischief!”
Wang Sheng shot him a skeptical glance, half-believing.
He glared back, though without much intimidation.
The young girl smiled brightly. Xu Fengnian gazed at this disciple he had picked up by the eastern seas years ago and said softly, “The path of the sword is always one from simplicity to complexity, then back to simplicity. If you endure past that barrier, the road ahead is smooth. If not, you’ll wander halfway up the mountain forever.”
Aside from carrying the sword case Old Huang left in the Martial Emperor’s City, Wang Sheng bore nine swords of varying lengths and sizes: the slender “Bookworm,” the “Cornel” forged by the Confucian sage Cao Ye of the old Northern Han, the talisman sword “Wild Crane” by the Daoist immortal Huang Cishan of the Great Feng Dynasty, and the dagger “Pearl in Mouth,” which an unnamed assassin once used to pierce the belly of the Eastern Yue emperor in the early Spring and Autumn period. Along with “Longtou,” “Nine Springs,” “Nation’s Fate,” “Cloud Mist,” and “Frozen Spear,” Old Huang’s case was once again filled with nine swords. Additionally, the long sword slung across her back was the famed “Swallow’s Chin,” ranked eleventh among the “Twenty Great Swords” and eighteenth overall on the “Great Weapons Ranking,” released alongside the Martial and Rouge Rankings. As for the twin swords at her waist, they were treasures from the Listening to the Tide Pavilion’s armory. Though not as renowned as “Shu Road,” taken by Yu Xinqing after the border wars, or “Divination,” gifted by Xu Fengnian to Kou Jianghuai, then the general of Liu Province, they were still first-rate weapons—”White Silk” and “Hundred Refinements,” their names a playful homophone.
Famous swords in the world all possess a keen spirit, their sword energy dense. Wang Sheng had adorned herself with as many renowned blades as possible since she began training, even during her early days traveling to the Northern Desert with White Fox. Over time, this not only tempered her body with sword energy but also refined her innate constitution, forging a natural affinity with swords. Though not a “natural sword seed” like Jiang Ni, Chen Tianyuan, or the charcoal-selling girl of the Nanhai Guanyin Sect, Wang Sheng was still a rare talent in the sword path. In truth, none of her attributes—physique, talent, or temperament—were the absolute pinnacle, but each was exceptional, and that was more than enough.
Of his three and a half disciples, the half was the young Wang Dashi of the Fish-Dragon Gang, left to his own devices as Xu Fengnian preferred not to interfere too much in his life. The other three: Yu Dilong, blessed with overwhelming fortune, hardly needed Xu Fengnian’s guidance. The boy had taken to border military life with such fervor that in just five or six years, he rose to the rank of captain in the Youzhou cavalry through sheer merit, his rapid promotion astounding. When Kou Jianghuai left the northwestern frontier, he tried to drag Yu Dilong to the capital for a comfortable life, but the boy refused, saying he’d retire only after conquering the entire grassland—what came after, he’d decide later. Lü Yunzhang, the most restless and ambitious of the three, had left the Northern Liang army to establish his own sect in the Martial Emperor’s City, aspiring to become the next Wang Xianzhi. As for Wang Sheng, Xu Fengnian devoted the most effort to her, aiming to mold her into a “female Deng Tai’a.” With the world’s fortunes now scattering wildly toward the capital, entwined with the new Zhao dynasty’s fate, a martial artist’s future achievements in the next sixty years would largely depend on how much of this fortune they could seize in the coming decades. Yu Dilong’s insistence on staying with the border army was a stroke of luck, as the fortunes of the Yelü and Murong clans flowed toward the capital, and proximity granted him great benefits. Such mysteries, now that most qi refiners—especially the great ones—had perished, were unlikely to be deciphered or revealed by anyone.
The two walked toward where their horses were tied. Earlier, the riverside had been crowded with mediocre officials and young nobles who couldn’t enter the Spring Snow Tower but refused to mingle with the commoners, so they built a crude wooden platform. Nearby, a natural gathering spot for horses and carriages had formed, where shrewd merchants offered to watch over them, hammering dozens of posts into the ground for tethering. With the wealthy families’ servants also keeping an eye out, no one dared steal a horse. Now, most of the nobles had left, leaving only a few mediocre mounts tied to the posts—unsurprising, as the finest steeds were beneath the saddles of border cavalry galloping across the grasslands, the next best bred in Northern Liang’s pastures or Ji Province’s forests, and the rest divided among military families. What remained for the martial world was hardly worth mentioning.
Disguised with a lifelike mask, Xu Fengnian walked with Wang Sheng, her back laden with swords, toward the commotion. A dispute had broken out: a young noble had lost the bamboo token given by the merchant and was now being harassed by hired thugs when trying to retrieve his horse. Had the youth been more worldly, a few hundred coins would have settled it, but as a hot-blooded novice, prideful and provoked, he nearly drew his blade despite his companion’s desperate pleas. The delicate-faced girl beside him looked distressed but not terrified.
In the lower rungs of the martial world, far from the lofty duels of immortals, it wasn’t about dragons crossing rivers or tigers guarding territory—just small fish in muddy waters, reeking of earth. They preferred to gang up on individuals. Had the young swordsman drawn his blade decisively, he might have cowed them, but for some reason, he hesitated halfway, appearing weak in the thugs’ eyes. Their taunts grew cruder, especially toward the girl.
The young swordsman’s eyes burned with rage, his entire body trembling—yet the hand gripping his sword remained steady.
To train to this level, regardless of skill, meant he had truly entered the hall of mastery, his path ahead widening. But killing here, under the watchful eyes of Guangling’s authorities, would sever that path at the neck.
When one ruffian reached for the girl’s chest, the young man snapped.
His blade flashed faster than the thugs could follow.
The stunned local froze, blinking as the tip hovered before his eyes, a cold sting on his forehead—perhaps pierced. He stood motionless, not out of courage but sheer terror.
The young swordsman, pale with delayed fear, turned to the man who had caught his blade between two fingers.
Xu Fengnian pressed the blade’s spine and smiled. “Young hero, temper that temper. Next time, try announcing your sect—it usually works. If not, avoid killing. The authorities aren’t toothless.”
The young man took a deep breath, sheathed his sword, and bowed. “I am enlightened.”
The girl smiled at Xu Fengnian. “I am Gao Tangyan of the Great Serpent Gang by Spring God Lake. My father, Gao Biaoyao, loves hosting heroes in our Humble Abode’s Hall of Brotherhood, where each guest is honored with a chair—twenty-six so far. The Golden Saber Manor’s Lady Zhuang might soon join. If you’d grace us—”
Xu Fengnian cut her off. “I’ll pass. I’m a nobody, unworthy of sitting with the Lady Saber Saint. We have urgent matters. Farewell.”
Her smile tightened, a flicker of resentment beneath her charming gaze. “Then we hope to welcome you another time.”
Xu Fengnian grinned guilelessly. “Of course! I’ve heard of the colossal Spring God Lake rock your gang recently dredged up—even the Spring Snow Tower can’t match it. I’ll visit when I can.”
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