After entering the city, Xu Fengnian chose a grand inn. According to military regulations of the dynasty, his light cavalry was to submit their military documents to the local authorities and await arrangements for barracks from the Zhizhang City magistrate. Naturally, the Young Master had no intention of complying. As he stepped down from his carriage, Murong Wuzhu and Murong Tonghuang, the younger and elder Murong siblings, had already donned thick veils to conceal their faces. Murong Wuzhu’s gaze paused momentarily upon seeing Yu Youwei cradling Wumei, clearly surprised to find such a stunningly beautiful woman among the cavalry. After the harrowing ambush and counter-ambush they had endured, her spirit had sunk to its lowest ebb. She lowered her head and closely followed Xu Fengnian up the steps. Unexpectedly, she bumped into his back, and her heart leapt in fear, dreading angering this young nobleman who spoke gently but wielded ruthless methods.
Yet Xu Fengnian merely lifted his gaze to examine the two large red lanterns hanging at the entrance of the inn. They bore an inscription: “Arrive early at the Twenty-Eight Lodgings before nightfall; Rise early and view the Thirty-Three Heavens at cockcrow.” About half of the inns across Jianhe and Zhou provinces displayed this couplet. Previously, during his travels, he had puzzled over its meaning in vain. Asking Old Huang and Wen Hua was like asking a blind man about colors. Only when he summoned Yu Youwei and inquired did he learn it was a missing-character couplet. The upper line lacked the character for “lodging” ( Night), while the lower line omitted “sky” ( Heaven). In Daoist tradition, there were Twenty-Eight Mansions and Thirty-Three Heavens, making the couplet a clever and fitting play on words for an inn, revealing the profound influence of the Dragon and Tiger Mountains—the ancestral seat of Daoism—on the secular world below.
The innkeeper, seeing the young nobleman accompanied not only by a beautiful woman but also by a band of fierce-looking armored soldiers, dared not be remiss. Despite a chronic back problem that made bowing difficult, he bent low and did not straighten again upon seeing this refined and elegant young aristocrat in brocade robes and jade belt. He eagerly recommended the inn’s signature wine and dishes. After receiving the room keys, Xu Fengnian, ravenous, ordered the innkeeper to set up a table in a secluded courtyard. A woman of mature grace personally brought a pot of wine. As Xu devoured his food, his eyes caught sight of her tightly cinched waist, so slender that her full hips seemed to curve in a mesmerizing arc. Moving his gaze upward, her ample bosom was equally impressive. While the innkeeper had a disagreeable face with shifty eyes, this woman—likely his wife—was plump and alluring. Clearly, the inn was determined to please this band of foreign military lords.
Xu Fengnian bit into a pastry and looked up with a smile. “This is good. What’s it called?”
The woman carefully placed the wine pot on the table, bowed gracefully with her sleeves drawn in, and her ample chest swayed with the motion. In a voice uniquely sultry, she replied, “It’s a specialty of our inn, my lord. It’s called Lamp-Wick Cake.”
Xu Fengnian, hearing her pleasing accent, gave a knowing hum. “Ah, you’re from Wu Prefecture, aren’t you? That’s the authentic Wu Hanghu dialect—softer and more melodic than the Piling Xi accent. Very pleasant indeed.”
The woman covered her mouth with one hand and clutched her chest with the other, laughing coquettishly. “My lord has a keen ear. Even many Wu natives can’t tell the difference between Wu Hanghu and Piling Xi accents.”
Xu Fengnian gestured for her to sit. “If it’s not too much trouble, won’t you join me? I wouldn’t want you to tire yourself standing.”
The clever woman, ever observant, noticed that as the young noble spoke, his eyes had subtly lingered on her chest. Her heart fluttered with delight. She made no pretense of modesty, sitting down with ease. She knew she was no longer a fresh-faced maiden; feigning youthful innocence would only invite disdain. Better to be straightforward and rely on her mature allure to captivate the man. Yet, upon entering the courtyard, she had dared not look too closely, focusing only on the impossibly handsome young man before her. Now seated, she glanced around and was struck by a pang of self-consciousness. The woman cradling the white cat was exquisitely delicate; the three veiled women, though their faces were hidden, exuded an otherworldly grace that left her feeling awkward and ashamed. She had truly embarrassed herself. Fortunately, the young noble showed no disdain for her faded charms, engaging her in conversation about the customs of Wu Prefecture. This revived her long-dead hopes—perhaps this refined young man had tired of delicacies like bird’s nest and shark fin and now sought a humble but flavorful Lamp-Wick Cake?
Xu Fengnian suddenly asked, “The old man from Niulugang, the Xuanyuan—has he taken a liking to anyone lately?”
Without thinking, the woman replied, “You mean the Murong siblings? Rumor has it they’re to be taken to Mount Hui soon. All the young scholars in Jian Prefecture who adore them are in an uproar.”
Xu Fengnian smiled lightly. “Which Xuanyuan young master is so fortunate?”
The woman hesitated, but when she saw the impossibly handsome young man pour her a cup of bamboo-leaf wine and offer it, she accepted it with trembling hands, her heart fluttering at the touch of his fingers. Forgetting all caution, she spilled everything. “It’s not a Xuanyuan young master at all—it’s the old patriarch himself who’s taken a fancy to the Murong siblings. The elder sister is Murong Wuzhu, and the younger is Murong Tonghuang. They’re the most famous beauties in Jian Prefecture. There’s even a folk song praising them, saying they’re destined for great fortune in the imperial palace. In the capital, there’s a Wutong Palace, and when the siblings were born, a Daoist immortal foretold their fate in a prophecy: ‘The male and female shall enter Wutong together.’”
Seeing the young noble’s gentle smile, she took another sip of wine, emboldened. “I’ve also heard that the Xuanyuan are afraid their fame might reach the palace. You know about the ‘Beauty Rankings’ in the martial world? The Xuanyuan patriarch went to great lengths to prevent the Murong siblings from making the list.”
Xu Fengnian narrowed his phoenix eyes, a faint purple mark between his brows resembling an upright eye, making him appear even more ethereal. “So the old Xuanyuan patriarch has such eclectic tastes? Even Murong Tonghuang isn’t spared?”
The woman was momentarily entranced, only snapping back to reality at a cough from the maid beside her. She lowered her head to hide her embarrassment, then looked up again at the young noble, her lips curving into a Seductive smile. “They say Murong Tonghuang is even more beautiful than a woman.”
Inside the courtyard, Princess Jing’an sat at the table, while the Murong siblings stood behind Xu Fengnian, their veiled expressions differing. Murong Wuzhu’s face was filled with sorrow and longing, helplessly gazing at his back, clinging to him like a lifeline. No matter how fierce the storm the Xuanyuan might bring, she would not let go, even if this fragile reed might be easily snapped by the mighty Xuanyuan clan. She had never been a strong woman; had it not been for her younger brother’s insistence, she would have resigned herself to being taken to Mount Hui as the old Xuanyuan patriarch’s plaything. Murong Tonghuang, on the other hand, was seething, lips pressed tightly together, saying nothing.
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Tell me more about this Murong Tonghuang. I find it hard to believe a man could be so beautiful.”
Behind him, Murong Tonghuang let out a cold snort. If he hadn’t already given his last dagger to Murong Wuzhu, he would have plunged it into this man’s back.
The innkeeper’s wife gave him a strange look, a chill running down her spine, mistakenly thinking the young noble had a taste for men.
Xu Fengnian feigned a look of wounded innocence, making the woman ache to pull him into her arms and comfort him. He quickly recovered, raising his eyebrows with a practiced charm, instantly exuding the allure of a worldly woman. Indeed, beauty came in many forms—youthful charm had its appeal, but the allure of a mature woman was equally potent. She replied with a Seductive smile, “I haven’t seen him myself, but they say he’s so beautiful that lotuses dare not bloom. In Jian Prefecture, they call him the ‘Lotus Youth.’”
Xu Fengnian nodded, musing, “The old Xuanyuan patriarch truly lives up to his reputation as a connoisseur of beauty.”
Even the innkeeper’s wife, though not well-versed in the ways of the world, knew the Xuanyuan clan of Jiangdong was a powerful and prestigious family. She nervously warned, “My lord, you should be careful with your words. We’re not even in Jian Prefecture yet, but better safe than sorry.”
Xu Fengnian smiled and nodded. “I appreciate your concern, madam. As a token of gratitude, I’ll have to ask for more wine and pastries.”
The innkeeper’s wife, a woman of mature allure, understood well. With a seductive sway, she rose, bowed gracefully, and her ample bosom trembled as she turned and left the courtyard. Once she was gone, Xu Fengnian gestured for the three veiled beauties to remove their veils and join the meal. Upon seeing Princess Jing’an’s face, both Murong siblings were taken aback, clearly unprepared for such icy beauty. Murong Wuzhu’s eyes dimmed, while Murong Tonghuang, to his surprise, felt a slight easing of his hostility toward this unpredictable young noble.
As the three daintily ate, Xu Fengnian signaled Qingniao to fetch a standard-issue Northern Liang crossbow from the Fengzi Battalion. In the military world, “standardization” was a sensitive and crucial matter. From the grandest cavalry and horse policies to the smallest bows and swords, Northern Liang maintained strict regulations. The famed Northern Liang sabers aside, even the crossbows carried by the Young Master were no ordinary weapons. A crossbow, unlike a bow, separated the drawing of the string from the release, allowing for greater precision and power. This particular model even featured a repeating mechanism, capable of firing four bolts in quick succession. Xu Fengnian lowered his head, running his fingers over the crossbow’s trigger and pivot, his expression focused.
Murong Tonghuang asked casually, “A crossbow?”
Xu Fengnian did not answer immediately, instead recalling the legendary “Flying Crossbow” units of the Northern Liang army—mounted archers who roamed the battlefield, picking off enemy commanders from over a hundred paces. These elite units were among the most feared in Northern Liang. To become a Flying Crossbowman required exceptional horsemanship and archery skills, placing them at the top tier of the Northern Liang’s six classes of soldiers, with over 1,200 in total. Of these, 600 were organized into the Dalu Battalion, while the rest served as scouts and spies. An unwritten rule in Northern Liang was that noble sons seeking real battlefield glory must first endure grueling training, shedding layers of skin and pounds of flesh. Only after proving themselves would they be sent to the scouting units, where they would face off against Northern Man spies in life-or-death combat. Only after claiming three enemy heads could they truly establish themselves in the Northern Liang army. Recently, Li Hanlin had written to say he had successfully joined the scouting unit, dreaming of clashing with the Northern Man. His father, upon learning that his only heir had chosen the dangerous path of a scout rather than staying safely behind, flew into a rage and rushed to the border to drag him home, nearly sparking a conflict with the Northern Liang army. Fortunately, the Grand Marshal returned from the capital just in time to dissuade Li’s father from his reckless course.
The Northern Man, ever warring at the doorstep of the Li Dynasty.
Poets and generals on the frontier liked to depict the barbarians as little more than beasts, feeding on raw meat and drinking blood. The Northern Man, a land of fierce people and brutal customs, where even the common folk practiced marrying their stepmothers or their brothers’ widows—a practice unthinkable in the Li Dynasty. Yet the greatest scandal in recent years in the Northern Man was the rise of a woman who had become their empress, bedding three successive rulers, including father and son. The last emperor, who reigned for only thirteen days, was even said to be her nephew by blood—a notion utterly unthinkable in the Li Dynasty. This empress was said to have 3,000 concubines, and though past fifty, still possessed an insatiable appetite for pleasure. A few years ago, she even sent a secret envoy to Xu Shao, offering him the throne if he would defect. The offer, a mix of seduction and insult, was met with swift rejection—Xu Shao executed the envoy and sent a message to the Northern Man: “Even as a servant, your old age is still a burden.”
Xu Fengnian smiled. His father had been cruel indeed, rejecting the Northern Man empress’s advances with such biting sarcasm. Yet the old woman’s composure was terrifying—she had taken the insult with nothing but a smile.
Setting the crossbow aside, Xu Fengnian looked up to see Murong Tonghuang scowling. He frowned. “Don’t give me that look. Even a stray cat or dog I save on the roadside would wag its tail in gratitude.”
Murong Tonghuang glared coldly, his eyes locked on Xu Fengnian.
Xu Fengnian snapped his fingers against the hilt of his Xiu Dong sword. The blade sprang up and struck Murong Tonghuang’s cheek, sending him stumbling backward. Xu Fengnian sneered, “I’m not some pervert like Xuanyuan Daban. I have no interest in you. Just because you look like a woman doesn’t make you special. Can you even give me a son? You’re just a mule—born of a stallion and a mare, good for nothing.”
Murong Wuzhu was stunned by Xu Fengnian’s cruel words.
Murong Tonghuang’s eyes darkened, his laughter a low, bitter sound escaping through clenched teeth.
Summoning unexpected courage, Murong Wuzhu gripped a dagger and turned toward Xu Fengnian.
Xu Fengnian picked up the crossbow again and pressed it to Murong Tonghuang’s forehead.
Murong Wuzhu cried out in tears, “No!”
Murong Tonghuang lifted his head, the crossbow’s tip resting between his brows. Looking up at Xu Fengnian, he smiled—a smile so devastatingly beautiful it seemed almost natural. “I know I was wrong,” he whispered.
Murong Wuzhu dropped the dagger, staring at her brother as though seeing a stranger.
Princess Jing’an wore a strange smile, while Yu Youwei turned away, stroking Wumei’s soft fur.
Xu Fengnian crouched down, gazing at Murong Tonghuang’s face. “How pitiful,” he said quietly.
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