Chapter 1103:

Huang Xiaohe staggered slightly, nearly losing his balance before swaying over to a wine table and slumping into a seat. One hand braced against the tabletop, while the other—the one that had drawn his sword—never left the hilt of Willow-Waist from start to finish. As he sat there, seemingly regaining some composure, he poured himself a bowl of wine with his free hand and let out a low, beast-like chuckle, the sound seeping from his throat in fragmented bursts, never quite reaching catharsis.

Liu Yu was no fool. The world was teeming with scions of powerful families, yet the seats in the imperial court were few. To have climbed to his current position—a sixth-rank official of considerable influence—and held it firmly, Liu Yu was undeniably among the elite. Before that man had provoked Huang Xiaohe into drawing his sword, everything had been under Liu Yu’s control. Imagine a mere scholar, with just a few words, turning the two fairies of Dongyue Sword Pool—He Shanxi and Mu Xin—into bitter enemies. Such skill was hardly lacking.

So Liu Yu took the initiative to ask, “Are you perhaps a senior from the jianghu, recommended by Minister Liu of the Ministry of Justice?”

To his surprise, the man ignored the rising star of Liaodong’s officialdom entirely. Instead, he turned to the armored guard who should have drawn his blade and asked with a smile, “Why stop? You’ve crawled through battlefields and piles of corpses, haven’t you? Isn’t drawing your sword against an enemy the most natural thing in the world? Even if you’ve become a lapdog for some noble brat, shouldn’t you at least bark when your master is insulted?”

The guard, whom Liu Yu had addressed as Liu Rui, forced a bitter smile. “Senior, please spare me the jest.”

Xu Fengnian asked, “From your accent, you’re from Jinzhou? Retired from the Liaodong army?”

Liu Rui, drenched in cold sweat, answered honestly, “Originally served with the Black River Cavalry of Liaoxi. Later, I joined a northern campaign into the grasslands, following my commander all the way to Xihezhou.”

Xu Fengnian nodded. “To be frank, in my eyes, the so-called Liaodong Iron Cavalry—after the eight hundred veterans of the Xu family left Liaodong, especially after Zhao Shui and Zhao Yi—are nothing more than women in armor riding donkeys.”

Liu Yu’s face darkened.

Liu Rui gritted his teeth. “Senior, though your martial prowess is unmatched, I beg you not to slander our Liaodong soldiers!”

Xu Fengnian took a step forward, as casually as strolling through a garden, yet covering the distance in an instant. He pressed a palm against the guard’s forehead, sending the man flying backward like an arrow—head first, feet trailing—smashing through the counter of Qingmei Tavern in a shower of splinters.

After that step, Xu Fengnian found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Liu Yu, though facing opposite directions. He murmured to himself, “From the Liangzhou border cavalry to the Jizhou riders, even the veterans of the old Western Chu cavalry—which of them doesn’t call your Liaodong cavalry beggars scavenging for scraps?”

Liu Yu remained unshaken, his expression calm as he narrowed his eyes. “Senior, what exactly do you want? Whatever it is, I, Liu Yu, will face it.”

As Liu Yu spoke, another armored guard, despite witnessing the terrifying skill of this “assassin,” resolutely stepped forward, determined to protect his master even if it meant certain death.

He Shanxi, the “Mountain-Carving Sword,” sat up from the ground, his face expressionless but his mind roiling with shock. Amidst the turmoil, he felt a sliver of relief—relief that this man would inevitably divert much of Dongyue Sword Pool’s pressure—and a thread of hatred, hatred for the humiliation he’d suffered, hatred for this man’s blind devotion to Mu Xin, that fool who couldn’t see the bigger picture.

Perhaps, without realizing it, he also hated himself—for not having such a steadfast friend in the jianghu, one who would stand by him in times of calamity.

Xu Fengnian turned to face the resolute, handsome man and clicked his tongue. “Such bold words. Truly befitting someone tempered in the six ministries of the capital. It all sounds so familiar…”

Xu Baozao, standing nearby, interjected, “Know when to stop. Even a cornered dog will jump over a wall.”

Xu Fengnian chuckled. “No need to curse the dog for no reason.”

Xu Baozao blinked. “Huh?”

After a moment’s thought, she caught the underlying meaning and rolled her eyes. Still, she had to admit—it was satisfying.

In the distance, the terrified Mu Xin couldn’t help but laugh at the biting remark.

Liu Yu trembled with rage, but after a deep breath, he steadied himself and turned to face the man.

Xu Fengnian jabbed a finger at Liu Yu’s forehead. “You’re a high-ranking official of the Ministry of Justice, trying to intimidate me? Think I’ve never met big shots before?”

He jabbed again. “They call you ‘Little Song Li of Liaodong,’ don’t they? Like having female knights and fairies serve you tea, huh?”

Pointing repeatedly, Xu Fengnian stripped Liu Yu of all dignity. “Playing the young master act with me? Do you even know who’s standing in front of you?”

Growing angrier, Xu Fengnian finally slapped Liu Yu’s head, sending the young official stumbling back with a reflexive flinch. Still fuming, Xu Fengnian roared, “Damn it! Back when I roamed the jianghu, I never got to order fairies around. And here you are, yapping away, poking at my sore spot?”

By now, the disheveled Liu Yu was flailing his arms, trying in vain to block the madman’s fingers and palms.

Xu Fengnian suddenly stopped. Liu Yu swung wildly at the air, as if practicing some long-forgotten, clumsy martial form.

Turning to Huang Xiaohe, who had just downed a bowl of wine, Xu Fengnian noted the bloodstains on the rim. The hand that had gripped the sword was now still, no longer trembling.

With a genial smile, Xu Fengnian asked, “Had enough rest? Want another chance to draw your sword?”

Huang Xiaohe didn’t rise. Clenching his fists on his knees, he swallowed a mouthful of blood and glared at the man. The Ministry of Justice had a secret archive, rumored to be shared with the Zhao Gou only after repeated requests from Minister Liu. It contained classified records of jianghu masters and martial grandmasters, categorized into four tiers corresponding to the four realms of first-rank prowess. Huang Xiaohe had access to all Tier B files, each portrait etched vividly in his memory—yet none matched the face before him now.

Gritting his teeth, Huang Xiaohe asked, “Senior, are you truly determined to ruin my swordsmanship?”

The man replied breezily, “That’s right. Got a problem with that?”

He grinned. “Then draw your sword.”

Mu Xin’s mind reeled.

He Shanxi, however, was struck by sudden dread.

If Mu Xin’s clash with Liu Yu was a calamity, what if she had provoked this man? How would she—and Dongyue Sword Pool—possibly recover?

Her breathing grew labored, as if she were drowning, watching the water rise above her head.

Xu Fengnian rested a hand on Liu Yu’s skull. “Usually, by the rules of your spoiled brat circle, when the son gets beaten, he runs to call his daddy or granddaddy. Go on. I’ll wait.”

Liu Yu’s scalp prickled with terror, fearing his head might explode at any moment.

Never having brushed so close to death, the young man finally understood true fear.

Xu Fengnian released him and strolled toward Qingmei Tavern. Liu Yu fled with his guard in tow.

Huang Xiaohe’s heart pounded like a war drum.

Xu Fengnian sat across from him. “A swordsmanship obsessed with speed?”

He shook his head, pouring himself a bowl of wine. “Could it ever outpace the ‘Ten-Thousand-Mile Sword’ that originated from Dongyue Sword Pool?”

Huang Xiaohe’s face paled.

Xu Fengnian asked, “Ever met Mr. Lu of Zhao Gou?”

Huang Xiaohe flushed, his voice trembling. “Years ago, from afar… He was like a deity.”

That description had taken Huang Xiaohe, a pure martial artist, great effort to articulate.

Xu Fengnian smirked, neither confirming nor denying. “When you return to the capital, if you get the chance, you can tell him about today. No one else. Can you do that?”

Huang Xiaohe grinned. “It would be my honor!”

Xu Fengnian stood. “Then it’s settled.”

Suddenly, Huang Xiaohe shot to his feet, nervous and hesitant. “Might I ask the Northern Liang… ask Senior Xu to share a bowl of wine with me?”

After a pause, Xu Fengnian took the offered bowl and drained it in one go.

As he turned to leave Qingmei Tavern, Huang Xiaohe—the famed swordsman of Liaodong—clasped his fists and declared loudly, “Huang Xiaohe of Liaodong, wielder of the swift sword, bearer of Willow-Waist!”

The man didn’t look back, merely waving a lazy hand. “Your swordplay’s mediocre, but your drinking’s passable.”

Huang Xiaohe’s eyes reddened as he grinned like a mischievous schoolboy who’d just earned a rare compliment from a strict teacher.

Watching the man approach, Xu Baozao was utterly baffled. “What’s going on?”

Xu Fengnian flicked her forehead and whispered, “You can’t survive the jianghu without some theatrics. We’ve had our fun—time to scram!”

Xu Baozao’s eyes lit up. “Right! Let’s bolt!”

Xu Fengnian and the Sword Pool woman locked eyes—a fleeting, weightless encounter after so many years. Emperors had changed, eras had passed, and she seemed distant, awkward in social graces, unsure how to begin.

Fortunately, Xu Fengnian broke the silence first. With a formal salute and a bright smile, he said, “Heroine Mu, long time no see.”

This time, it wasn’t the playful “immortal sister” but a proper jianghu greeting.

Mu Xin’s wrist twitched as she reversed her sword. Gazing at this “stranger,” she returned the salute. “It has been many years.”

Had anyone else been so solemn, Mu Xin—rarely venturing into the jianghu—might have been flustered. But facing this man (no longer young, though his face likely bore a disguise), she remembered clearly their first meeting in a bustling market. Back then, she’d learned that men weren’t the only ones struck by beauty—women, too, could be dazzled by a handsome face. After all, the world’s splendor, whether in landscapes or people, was meant to be admired.

But Mu Xin, though half in the jianghu, had been a reserved woman from the strict Sword Pool. The young man back then had been a far cry from dashing—chased like a rat, covered in dirt, bruised and battered. She was far from smitten.

Yet over the years, though he hadn’t occupied her thoughts constantly, she’d occasionally recalled that young man fleeing through the streets, cursing poetically until the blows grew too painful, when he’d resort to crude language. Alongside that wooden-sword wanderer surnamed Wen, the two youths—and their inconspicuous, gap-toothed old servant—had stumbled into the view of Mu Xin and her Sword Pool peers.

While the others ignored the street brawl, chatting by the tavern window with “suitable” jianghu elites—too lofty to care for such petty squabbles—Mu Xin, still new to the world, had slipped out unnoticed. In a dead-end alley, she’d intervened without even drawing her sword, scattering the thugs effortlessly. To those two young men, she must have seemed every bit the chivalrous, peerless beauty—a true heroine.

Now, Mu Xin found herself dropping formalities, pointing at her own cheek with a frank smile. “So, you…?”

She left the question half-spoken, studying him intently.

The jianghu had its taboos—monks didn’t ask names, Taoists didn’t ask ages—but Xu Fengnian answered bluntly, “Showing my real face would be inconvenient. I’d attract trouble.”

Mu Xin arched a brow. “That sounds like…”

Before she could finish, Xu Fengnian quipped, “Like I’ve either made it big as a renowned hero, swarmed by admirers begging to treat me, or as a notorious villain, hunted by all. Right?”

Mu Xin smiled wordlessly—the answer was obvious.

Xu Fengnian laughed heartily.

Xu Baozao watched them coldly, her expression sour.

Weren’t they supposed to be fleeing? Why was he glued to the spot at the sight of his “immortal sister”?

Noticing his lack of urgency, Mu Xin grew concerned. After a pause, she urged softly, “That dog official Liu Yu will return with troops soon. You should go.”

Xu Fengnian smiled and asked, “If I leave, what will you do? What will happen to your Dongyue Sword Pool?”

Mu Xin, far from grateful, instead scowled and said, “Who do you think you are, taking everything upon yourself?! It’s not your business—one act of bravery is enough. Do you really have to throw your life away before you stop? Such heroics are better left undone! Xu, don’t think just because you’ve somehow mastered martial arts, you can act recklessly. Get out of Fulou Town, the farther the better!”

Finally, the female warrior added, “When has Dongyue Sword Pool ever needed an outsider to save us?!”

Xu Fengnian sighed. “Mu Xin, you’re still the same as ever—still the kind of heroine who does good deeds but refuses to take credit. Back then, you even lied to me and Wen Hua, saying your surname was Qi, didn’t you?”

Mu Xin glared. “A basket of tangerines is hardly a favor. Just leave already!”

Xu Baozao sneered from the side, “His legs are weak—he can’t walk. Maybe the fairy sister needs to help him.”

Xu Fengnian chuckled. “No rush. I’ve suddenly changed my mind. I want to have a chat with that old Ministry of Justice official from earlier. There’s a bit of a grudge—maybe we can settle it.”

Xu Baozao was about to speak.

Xu Fengnian laughed mockingly. “And there’s old business with you too. If you want a peaceful life from now on, shut your mouth!”

Xu Baozao froze, then clasped her hands together and bowed repeatedly in exaggerated gratitude, as if entrusting her entire life to the great hero Xu—utterly shameless.

Mu Xin thought for a moment, then tentatively asked, “In that case, shall I show you around the town?”

Xu Fengnian immediately nodded. “Sure, let’s take a stroll.”

Xu Baozao muttered under her breath, “We’ve already walked all over this dump. What’s left to see? Just the same old roads.”

Xu Fengnian ignored her, but Mu Xin heard every word—though she chose not to react.

Watching the three of them leave, Huang Xiaohe inside Qingmei Fang was overwhelmed with emotion. Eventually, he took off his sword, Liu Yao, and laid it flat on the table. He stood up, fetched himself a jar of fine wine, and a few plates of peanuts and fennel beans, drinking alone in great contentment. It was as if many knots in his heart had been untied one by one. He had always believed his swordsmanship had reached the summit, but now it felt like someone had dragged him by the neck to the real peak—only to realize his previous position was merely halfway up the mountain. The road ahead was long, both despairing and hopeful.

Still, Huang Xiaohe muttered to himself, “Ten years to cultivate Song Yushu, a hundred years to cultivate Xu Fengnian. Which sour scholar said that? Pretty accurate.”

He Shanxi was in the most awkward position. Liu Yu had been driven off, her relationship with her junior sister Mu Xin was completely broken, and the sudden appearance of a senior martial artist clearly held her in low regard. Still, at least his arrival had eased some of the pressure on their crumbling sect.

He Shanxi, the “Mountain-Carving Sword,” wasn’t seriously injured—far luckier than Huang Xiaohe. But when she arrived at Qingmei Fang and faced Huang Xiaohe, whose cultivation had plummeted, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the gap between them had somehow grown even wider.

Huang Xiaohe glanced at her and sighed. “Sit wherever.”

He Shanxi sat stiffly and began, “Master Huang…”

Huang Xiaohe raised a hand. “Let’s not talk about the martial world today. The only reason I let you sit is because I remember being just as stubborn back then—I even said similar things to my senior brother.”

He Shanxi tried to speak again.

Huang Xiaohe downed a bowl of strong liquor and laughed heartily. “No wonder that man dislikes you. I don’t like you either.”

He Shanxi, furious, stood abruptly and stormed off.

—

After touring the town, Xu Fengnian still hadn’t encountered the expected confrontation—though more and more spies began tailing them. Hearing Mu Xin mention a particularly scenic path, they set off together.

After walking two or three miles, surrounded by lush green mountains and clear waters, they came across a simple roadside pavilion with fixed wooden benches, darkened by countless travelers who had rested there. Such pavilions were rare north of the Guangling River, but in the south, they were often built by charitable families—wealthy households who believed in accumulating virtue by constructing roads and bridges rather than lavish tombs or mansions.

Mu Xin entered first, Xu Fengnian following close behind. Xu Baozao, unwilling to engage with them, crouched sullenly in front of a weathered stone tablet at the corner, studying its inscriptions.

She had been in a foul mood for a while now, though she couldn’t pinpoint why—which only made her angrier. Even the picturesque scenery seemed hateful to her.

This was the first time she had seen that cold, ruthless man show such open affection toward another woman.

Xu Fengnian turned and asked, “Heroine Mu…”

Mu Xin smiled faintly and shook her head. “Just call me by my name.”

Xu Fengnian widened his eyes. “How could I?!”

Mu Xin didn’t understand why he was so insistent on such a trivial matter. Logically, their paths should have diverged long ago—like fallen leaves brushing past each other in a stream, spinning briefly before drifting apart. Even if they met again, there shouldn’t be anything worth getting excited about.

As for whether he might be coveting her beauty, Mu Xin refused to assume the worst of others. She couldn’t believe the young man who had once taken a basket of tangerines from her, grinning through the pain, could be truly wicked.

Even if he were a hypocritical beast in gentleman’s clothing, given his unfathomable martial prowess, she wouldn’t stand a chance against him anyway.

At this thought, Mu Xin’s face flushed slightly.

So she didn’t press the issue of names and instead changed the subject with a smile. “That wandering swordsman surnamed Wen—did he ever master an invincible sword technique?”

She was joking, of course—kindly and playfully.

Back then, unable to resist Xu Fengnian’s persistence, she had reluctantly treated the three down-and-out travelers to a feast at Longyuan Tavern in Lao Jiao Tai. The swordsman surnamed Wen, before even taking a sip of wine, had already begun boasting wildly—more outrageous than any drunken ramblings. It was a memory that stuck with her, much like the man’s piercing gaze before her now.

Xu Fengnian clasped his hands behind his head, leaning back lazily. If not for his extraordinary face—something no ordinary martial artist could hope to possess—Mu Xin would have dismissed him as a mediocre man, standing on the fringes of the martial world, watching its dramas unfold without ever truly being part of them.

Back then, the wooden-sword wanderer had declared with laughable bravado, “If one day you hear of a peerless swordsman surnamed Wen in the martial world—don’t doubt it. That’ll be me!”

Later, she did hear of a young swordsman surnamed Wen in the capital—exceptionally skilled, renowned after just two duels.

Then, inexplicably, news of him vanished, as if swallowed by the sea.

In the end, Mu Xin never connected the two figures in her mind.

Now, Xu Fengnian gazed into the distance and said softly, “Him? He doesn’t practice the sword anymore.”