Since that fellow wasn’t rushing her, Xu Baozhao happily took her time examining each stele one by one. Judging by her posture, she seemed almost eager to carry those heavy stone tablets down the mountain herself. In fact, history did record calligraphy fanatics who had done just that—spending vast sums to hire laborers to transport over a dozen inscribed steles down the slopes. Perhaps their original intention was to better preserve the tablets, shielding them from the annual cycles of scorching sun and freezing snow. Yet, ironically, it was the steles left in the open forest that stood the test of time, while those hidden deep within the courtyards of noble families were destroyed in the fires of war. Such is the unpredictability of fate.
Xu Fengnian glanced at the sky and reminded her, “Let’s move. We can catch the sunset from the summit.”
Xu Baozhao refused to budge. “What’s so special about a sunset? These steles—with their delicate plum-blossom seal script like graceful beauties, bold regular script like battlefield generals, and wild cursive script like immortal poets—aren’t something I get to see every day!”
Xu Fengnian said, “If things go smoothly, you’ll be staying here at Difu Mountain. You can come back anytime to make rubbings.”
The girl, her back to him, fell silent. Slowly, she stood up and, without warning, kicked the stele inscribed with *The First Mountain* by Li Mi, the late Grand Tutor of Western Chu. Then she froze, unmoving.
Xu Fengnian suppressed a laugh. “If it hurts, just yell.”
Xu Baozhao whirled around, her eyes inexplicably moist. “I want to cultivate the Dao! I want to master martial arts! And one day, I’ll beat you until you’re picking your teeth off the ground!”
Xu Fengnian rolled his eyes and strode ahead toward the summit, tossing back only a single word: “Ridiculous.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Xu Baozhao followed.
With tearful eyes, the girl cast one last reluctant glance at the *Shangshan Mountain* stele, its distant silhouette resembling a blooming flower.
—
Guanyin Terrace was a massive stone structure, sprawling across an entire acre. Whether gazing north or south, the view was vast and unobstructed, as if standing at the very center of heaven and earth—a sight that lifted the spirits.
When the Great Chu fell and the Central Plains were submerged, a dozen or so surviving loyalists of Western Chu came here together and leaped to their deaths from this cliff. Thus, it also earned the name “Terrace of Martyrs.”
There were two paths leading to Guanyin Terrace—one from the west, the other from the north. Xu Fengnian ascended from the west. As he reached the summit, he saw seven or eight figures standing side by side near the southern edge of the terrace, loosely divided into two groups. They were all gazing southward, where, on this clear day, the slender ribbon of the Guangling River could faintly be seen.
When Xu Fengnian stepped onto the terrace, two or three people turned to look at him. Sensing no unusual aura from this unexpected visitor, they dismissed him as just another traveler and paid him no further mind. Only one exceptionally dashing young man spared him an extra glance.
Xu Fengnian was mildly surprised. This man had already reached the near-perfect Second-Rank Minor Grandmaster realm by his capping age—a sure sign that he would ascend to the Finger Mystic and even Heavenly Phenom realms in the future. In today’s subdued martial world, he was undoubtedly among the most promising rising stars. After all, prodigies like Chen Tianyuan and Tong Shanquan, who defied conventional logic, belonged to the rarest echelons of the millennium-spanning jianghu. The more typical martial elites—figures like Lu Jiejun of Jiagu Terrace or Feng Zongxi, the Divine Fist of the Central Plains—were those who made frequent public appearances, sparring and refining their skills, or occasionally showing up at places like Great Snow Ridge or Youyan Manor. Otherwise, if they remained aloof like gods in the clouds, they’d be nothing more than distant idols to ordinary folk—Buddhas in shrines or immortals in paintings.
Xu Fengnian paused and turned to see the girl limping toward him. She met his gaze, then stopped in her tracks.
He hadn’t expected her stubbornness to last this long. He didn’t mind, but neither would he indulge her.
The only person in the world who could make Xu Fengnian willingly admit defeat or apologize—without needing any justification—was probably his daughter, Little Sweet Potato.
Just as the Confucian Sage Xuan Yuan Jingcheng was to Xuan Yuan Qingfeng, or the White-Clad Monk Li Dangxin was to Li Dongxi.
*You’re my daughter. Of course I’ll spoil you rotten—no explanations needed.*
As the girl brushed past him, her face remained stiff with resentment.
The earlier visitors at Guannan Terrace turned to look, most paying little attention to the unremarkable “master and servant.” Among them, a richly dressed child of about seven or eight eyed Xu Baozhao’s figure with an unsettlingly mature gaze. From the side, her silhouette was striking—full peaks, a cinched waist, and curves that only seasoned connoisseurs could truly appreciate. Even at his tender age, this precocious child’s discerning eye was far beyond what common-born youths could fathom.
Xu Fengnian sighed. In times of peace and plenty, idle minds turned to lust.
He wondered: Once the newly ascendant Liang faction truly consolidated power, would their descendants—those who’d never experienced the Northwestern wars—retain the same unspoiled hearts as their forebears? Would they grow indistinguishable from the early Central Plains scholars? Would they roll their eyes at their elders’ wartime tales, finding them tedious instead of stirring? Would they take their privileged lives for granted, lounging on the family’s laurels?
The thought soured his mood. Not quite disheartened, but thirsty for a drink.
Perhaps sensing the strangers’ appraising stares, Xu Baozhao instinctively moved closer to Xu Fengnian—choosing the lesser of two evils.
He led her to the western edge of Guannan Terrace, where they gazed toward the distant northwestern frontier—the endless yellow sands and unseen beacon fires.
*The tree may crave calm, but the wind will not subside.*
A young man in white robes, nibbling on a mooncake, cast a sidelong glance at Xu Baozhao’s twin-bun hairstyle. His eyes lit up; her plain face didn’t deter him—clearly, he’d already learned to appreciate a woman’s fuller charms.
A foppish companion, attuned to his master’s whims, stepped forward. Without resorting to outright bullying, he approached Xu Fengnian and Xu Baozhao with a smile. “Meeting here, in this remote corner of Difu Mountain, is surely fate. Might I ask where you two hail from?”
Feeling emboldened by Xu Fengnian’s presence, the girl sneered. “Fate comes in two flavors: auspicious and ill.”
Xu Fengnian flicked her forehead and smiled. “We’re from Qingzhou, Jing’an Circuit. Is there something you need?”
The young man flourished a sandalwood fan with one hand and adjusted his jade belt with the other. “The mountains and rivers here are divine. Why not enjoy the view together? We’ve some snacks to share.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Why not? Though my chamber maid has a sharp tongue. I hope you’ll forgive any offense.”
The man smirked. “No matter.”
Xu Baozhao trembled with rage at the “chamber maid” remark. She stomped on Xu Fengnian’s foot, missed, and found herself dragged along by him toward the leering noble.
When the two groups merged, the young martial prodigy remained silent, still gazing into the distance. The others—men and women alike—studied Xu Fengnian and Xu Baozhao. The white-robed noble at the center, exuding refined elegance like a preening peacock, introduced himself softly: “I am Zhang Shi, a scholar at Bailu Academy.”
Xu Fengnian feigned admiration. “The newly restored Bailu Academy! I hear the court recently bestowed the plaque *‘Literary Pillar of the Central Plains,’* and the Vice Minister of Rites gifted *‘Solitary Splendor of the South.’* Dean Zhang Su is a titan of Jiangnan’s literary world. To study there—impressive indeed!”
The fan-wielding sycophant seized the moment. “Our Zhang Shi is the dean’s eldest grandson—no ordinary student!”
Zhang Shi shot him a mock glare, but the sycophant pressed on: “It’s common knowledge! Who hasn’t heard of Jiangnan’s *‘Zhang of Peach Blossom Spring,’* the top provincial graduate?”
He turned to Xu Fengnian. “You’ve heard of *‘Zhang of Peach Blossom Spring,’* surely?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “I’m afraid not. Do enlighten me.”
The sycophant puffed up. “Not only is Zhang the provincial champion, he’s been a literary prodigy since childhood. At eleven, his poem *‘Seeking the Recluse of Peach Blossom Spring’* took the world by storm.”
Xu Baozhao scoffed. “That *‘Peach Blossom’* poem reeks of old man Zhang Su’s ghostwriting. What ten-year-old spouts such world-weary drivel? Only middle-aged failures or jaded elders whine about unrecognized genius—”
Xu Fengnian clapped a hand over her venomous mouth. “Children say the darndest things.”
Zhang Shi’s face darkened.
A sword-browed woman beside him glowered. Only the delicate girl clinging to the martial prodigy stifled a laugh at Xu Baozhao’s biting critique.
Female warriors adored scholarly nobles for their refinement; noble ladies swooned for roving swordsmen’s freedom.
Thus it had always been—especially in the jianghu of Li Chunang’s era.
After Li Chunang came another legend: Xu Fengnian, a century in the making.
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