The next day, the truth came to light. The woman, originally named Fan Xiaochai, was from a fallen aristocratic family ruined by the Grand Pillar of State’s schemes—a sacrificial pawn, doomed whether the plan succeeded or failed. Yet, she was useful for making moves, occupying territory, and cutting off the enemy’s roots.
The second young master of the Lin family was merely a fool who had been used, half-dead and oblivious. This scholar, infatuated with Fan Xiaochai’s charm, had no idea that the more enchanting a woman, the more calamitous she could be. A clumsy “chance encounter” had him utterly bewitched, foolishly bringing her into the Northern Liang Palace. Who knew how devastated the Lin family of Qiao State would be upon learning of this disaster?
The assassination attempt the previous night had been crude, a desperate act. Fan Xiaochai had entered the palace under the guise of sightseeing, mapping its layout and sketching the portrait of the heir, Xu Fengnian, before attempting the strike. But their calculations were far inferior to the Northern Liang Palace’s, and they all met their doom. As for the mastermind behind Fan Xiaochai and the fate of the Lin family, Xu Fengnian, now warming wine in the Listening Tide Pavilion, couldn’t be bothered to care. He only wondered if Fan Xiaochai regretted dying for a man she had never met.
Xu Fengnian felt no pity for these moths flying into the flame. Beautiful women were like spring bamboo shoots and night grass—plentiful and inexhaustible. If he mourned every one, he’d exhaust himself. Besides, his three years of hardship as a wandering exile had taught him the crude wisdom of the streets. He remembered a mediocre swordsman he once met, who always ranted about how mercy toward enemies was suicide. That guy, who couldn’t even afford a proper sword, had dreams of grandeur, drooling over the sight of wandering swordsmen like a lecher ogling a beauty.
Xu Fengnian often wondered what that wooden-sword-wielding fool would think if he knew that the old man he pestered about “supreme swordsmanship” was none other than Jian Jiuhuang, who could stand against the monstrous Wang Xianzhi of Emperor City. Did that dreamer ever find a master? Did he ever ascend in swordsmanship?
Before parting at the southern border, the man had boasted, “When I make it big, I’ll treat you to the best braised beef—three pounds, no less!” Three pounds of beef seemed the limit of his imagination.
The true martial world had few peerless masters who could split rivers and move mountains. Most were like that guy—nameless dreamers with absurd ambitions. Xu Fengnian rubbed his face and saw Yuan Zuozong waiting quietly nearby. He quickly stood and offered the third-rank Longwu General a seat. Yuan Zuozong, surprised, sat rigidly and said, “His Highness asks how to deal with Fan Xiaochai.”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “As it should be.”
Yuan Zuozong nodded and rose to leave.
Xu Fengnian didn’t stop him but called out, “Brother Yuan, let’s drink together sometime—until we drop.”
Yuan Zuozong cracked a rare smile. “Agreed.”
Xu Fengnian took a prepared jug of wine and headed to the Listening Tide Pavilion’s eighth floor, where his master, Li Yishan, was copying texts. The gaunt, disheveled man, though obscure in both martial and political circles, commanded deep respect in the Northern Liang Palace. Xu Fengnian poured wine into a gourd, filling the air with its aroma.
Li Yishan set down his brush and smiled faintly. “You’ve shed some of that playboy aura. Three years of wandering did you good.”
Xu Fengnian grinned but then grew serious. “Master, can Old Huang retrieve the Yellow Reed Sword from Emperor City’s walls?”
Li Yishan shook his head after a sip.
Xu Fengnian was stunned. “If even Old Huang can’t, is Wang Xianzhi truly invincible?”
Li Yishan sniffed the wine. “Invincible? There are those above the first rank. Wang Xianzhi is peerless but not unbeatable. The martial world today is divided, with no single supreme ruler. Besides, martial prowess is but a step toward the heavens. A lone warrior can’t sway the tides of the world—otherwise, the Northern Liang cavalry wouldn’t have trampled the martial world back then.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. The phrase “A million soldiers bow, but one traitor is feared” had haunted the Liyang court for years—a veiled jab at the Grand Pillar of State’s power. Even Xu Xiao had laughed at it, though he cursed the idle scholars who spread it.
Li Yishan handed the brush to Xu Fengnian, who copied texts under his watchful eye. After a while, Li Yishan dismissed him. “Go see your guest. They’ve reached the third floor.”
Xu Fengnian slipped downstairs and found the enigmatic White Fox Face standing by a bookshelf, flipping through a martial manual. The sheathed Xiudao blade marked his place.
White Fox Face barely glanced at Xu Fengnian before returning to reading.
Dejected, Xu Fengnian retreated.
In the vast Northern Liang Palace, only the idle heir seemed to have nothing to do.
Later that year, the Grand Pillar of State held a modest coming-of-age ceremony for his son in the ancestral temple. The three symbolic crowns Xu Fengnian received carried heavy implications—political entry, military succession, and a mere formality.
After the rites, Xu Fengnian visited his mother’s tomb, a grand mausoleum with fourteen types of stone beasts—far exceeding imperial standards. The tomb’s opulence had drawn criticism, but Xu Xiao had ignored it all.
Standing before the tomb, Xu Fengnian’s eyes reddened. His mother’s favoritism, even in death, was boundless.
Xu Xiao watched from a distance, knowing his son would hum the “Spring God Ballad” his mother had taught him.
That night, a secret letter arrived. Xu Xiao hesitated—should he deliver it on such a day?
At dawn, he finally ordered, “Yin, deliver the letter. He’s a man now.”
No reply came, but the order was obeyed.
Xu Xiao had twelve elite guards named after the earthly branches. For his son, he had begun training another ten, named after the heavenly stems—though only four remained after two perished during Xu Fengnian’s exile.
From the Yellow Crane Tower’s summit, Xu Xiao gazed at the city lights, reflecting on his life—two sons, two daughters, 300,000 iron cavalry, six adopted sons, countless experts, and hidden schemes. Wealth and power beyond measure, yet enemies just as numerous.
He murmured a fragment of an old poem: “Fifty years of glory, whispered to the mountain ghosts.”
As dawn broke, the Grand Pillar of State stood alone, waiting for the sun to rise.
Xu Xiao descended the stairs and asked, “Ugly One. If Yuan Zuozong could submit to my son, what about Chen Zhibao?”
From the shadows came a hoarse voice, grating like a blunt knife on stone, “Reporting to my lord, he cannot.”
Xu Xiao rubbed his temples and chuckled. “If I recall correctly, during the battle at the Princess Tomb in Luoyang, Chen Zhibao saved your life. With such a bond, couldn’t you at least try to cover for him? Aren’t you afraid he might drop dead today?”
Silence.
Loyalty. Filial piety. Righteousness.
In Northern Liang, this order must never be disturbed. Those who disrupt it die. If the “Ugly One,” destined to forever lurk in the shadows, were to cover for Chen Zhibao, it would merely be a trivial matter of adding one more corpse to the pile.
Xu Xiao’s thoughts were inscrutable as he murmured to himself, “The Little Butcher.”
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