The party of the heir apparent slightly altered their course on their return journey, arriving at the Guangling River.
It was the eighteenth day of the eighth lunar month, the time of the great tidal bore. Tourists from all corners of the land gathered to witness the spectacle. Since the great peace of the Spring and Autumn period, the previous divisions of national borders had long vanished. Scholars carrying their books to travel and study, and wandering knights bearing their swords, moved more freely than ever before. Alongside this, the trend of seeking out scenic wonders had grown ever stronger. The Guangling tidal bore, the golden summit of Mount Emei with its holy light, and the grand ascent to the peak of Wudang were now known as the three great wonders of the age. The Yan Cliff of Great Swallowwas the best vantage point to view the tidal bore, unmatched in the world. Today, the Guangling naval forces were to hold a grand review, and Prince Zhao Yi would personally attend to oversee the proceedings.
The wealthy elite and high officials of Guangling had brought their families to witness the spectacle. Compared to the common folk, though fewer in number, they naturally occupied seven or eight out of every ten prime viewing spots. They had set up tables and couches, laid out fine wines and delicacies, and invited esteemed scholars from generations of noble families to join them in lively conversation and talk of the world.
As the tide surged into the trumpet-shaped bay, a swift warship from the Guangling navy would lead the wave. For ten miles along both banks, carriages and horses lined the shore in splendor. From the reviewing stand atop Yan Cliff, Prince Zhao Yi would give the signal. As soon as a small boat appeared in the distance, drums would thunder across the sky. As the tide and drumbeats surged together without pause, the common people could see a white line moving westward across the misty river, like a white rainbow spanning the waters. As the wave approached Yan Cliff, it could rise as high as forty feet, towering over the land.
The heir apparent arrived slightly late. The best viewing spots along the riverbank were already filled with tents or tables. Hearing the deafening cheers, he could already guess that the wave-riding warship was about to appear. He abandoned his carriage, leaving Shu Xiu and Yang Qingfeng behind to watch over it. Before parting, the young lord joked, reminding his two attendants that they might as well sit atop the carriage roof to enjoy the view.
Qingniao carried a small jar in one hand and wore at her waist the crimson sword left behind by Lü Qiantang. Xu Fengnian walked at the front, holding the delicate hand of Murong Wuzhu, whose frail frame might easily be swept away by the crowd if she were not guided. She was the kind of girl who drifted with the current, perhaps too shy to even cry out if she were lost.
Murong Tonghuang walked on the right side. Some of the most shameless rakes, eager to cause trouble and take liberties, had barely begun to make their move when Murong Tonghuang slapped them across the face or kicked them fiercely with her legs. She responded with no hesitation, striking and shoving without mercy. Those who suffered her wrath wanted to retaliate immediately, but upon seeing the luxurious fox fur and fine attire of Xu Fengnian, who led the group, they quickly lost their nerve, slinking away to find easier targets. After all, in the sea of spectators, there were plenty of timid commoners who would endure abuse in silence. There was no need to hang themselves on one tree.
Chen Yu and Pei Nanwei, both kidnapped from the bamboo forest, wore thick veils that concealed their faces. Their figures were even more alluring than the ambiguous beauty of the Murong siblings. However, these two great beauties, ranked among the most beautiful women of the age, closely followed the young lord. To his right, Murong Tonghuang slapped away any troublemakers, while to his left, the maid Qingniao cleared the way with her sword scabbard. No one could approach them. The old man in the lambskin coat brought up the rear. With little else to do, his eyes often lingered on Chen Yu, particularly her waist. Even with a century of experience, the old sword immortal had to admit that Xu Fengnian’s taste in women was more impressive than his martial cultivation. Even Li Chungan begrudgingly acknowledged this. The old swordsman had spent these past days admiring Pei Nanwei’s curves, Shu Xiu’s ample bosom, and the twin blossoms of the Murong siblings. Yet the one he watched most was the mysterious Chen Yu, especially her slender waist. “Ah,” he mused, “how truly captivating. A woman’s charm lies in her spirit, seen in her eyes, but also in that vital waist—the bridge between upper and lower. Too much sway and she becomes vulgar; too little and she seems petty. Hence the old saying: a woman’s waist holds the fate of a kingdom.”
Yet Chen Yu’s beauty was unparalleled. Even as the old swordsman feasted his eyes, a sliver of doubt crept in. Her timing and circumstances were too convenient. After being taken by Xu Fengnian, she had remained too calm, beyond the composure of a noble lady. He had observed her aura—there was something strange about her, but she clearly was no martial artist. After all, how many could match the legendary old dog Zhao Xuansu, who had mastered the Dao of returning to simplicity? What was her secret? Li Chungan narrowed his eyes. The group finally pushed through the crowd and reached the riverbank, now dominated by Guangling’s aristocrats. Many burly servants stood with arms crossed, intimidating the commoners. The great clans had hired renowned martial artists as retainers, all armed with swords and blades, exuding strength and martial bearing. The two areas were clearly divided, much like how the elite at Baoguo Temple refused to sit with commoners during their flowing-water wine parties.
Xu Fengnian, perhaps owing to the beauty of his companions, had created a circle of empty space around him. Here, there was no need to stand on tiptoes to see the tide. Li Chungan stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at the swift, thunderous wave on the river. His expression grew somber. Once, he had stood alone on this river, sword in hand, riding the tide with unmatched pride. How bold he had been in those days! Now, though his swordsmanship had only grown more refined, he had long since lost the desire to stand out like a tree above the forest.
The old man, who now preferred only to pick his toes in leisure, was unaware that his legendary feat had inspired countless martial heroes to challenge the Guangling tide. Some strongmen had hurled massive cauldrons into the waves, others had sailed boats to duel the tide with swords, and archers with astonishing strength had loosed volley after volley, crashing into the waves and sending up mountains of foam. Lü Qiantang himself had once lived in a thatched hut by the river for over a decade, practicing his sword in admiration of Li Chungan’s legendary exploits. Alas, since Zhao Yi took control of the former lands of Xichu, the Guangling navy had grown mighty and dominant. Who would dare now to strut their stuff on this river? The Guangling navy was unmatched in size and strength among all the naval forces of the empire, far superior to the hollow showpieces like the Qingzhou fleet. In war, the Qingzhou navy wouldn’t even be enough to fill Guangling’s teeth.
Each year, besides Prince Zhao Yi watching from Yan Cliff, the most celebrated figure during the naval review was the wave-rider—a single man steering a swift warship across the river.
Now, as the crowds looked on from both banks, the mighty warship seemed to glide like a feather.
A young general stood at the bow, his armor gleaming, his posture proud and gallant, stirring the hearts of countless young maidens.
In the south, scholars were as numerous as forests, creating a magnificent sight. In any temple or Daoist retreat, the walls were covered with poetry and calligraphy. Even in humble inns that leaked in the rain, one could find writings of talented but unrecognized travelers. Thus, these young women had seen and heard too many examples of literary brilliance from their peers. Yet the young man before them was truly exceptional. In scholarship, he had entered the imperial academy before reaching adulthood, and his cursive script was famed for being written in a single stroke—no matter ten or a hundred characters, each was penned in one continuous motion, unadorned and natural. In martial arts, he had once defeated a renowned sword master serving the Guangling Prince’s court. A man of both literary and martial brilliance, he was undoubtedly the finest young talent in Guangling. Even the arrogant heir of Guangling had willingly sworn brotherhood with him, calling him elder.
As the warship passed, many tourists, prepared with torches and reed flowers, threw them into the Guangling River to pray to the Dragon King. These were mostly the sons and daughters of noble families or visiting clans. Commoners, at most, might bring a single bundle of reeds. Most stood at a distance, too afraid to throw anything. If their strength failed and the reeds landed not in the river but on the tents or tables of the wealthy, they might be beaten senseless. Indeed, some bold commoners who had dared to toss reeds had already been caught by cruel servants, thrown to the ground, and beaten without mercy. They could only crawl back into the crowd with bruised faces. Xu Fengnian, already the most notorious young noble in the empire, was unsurprised by such sights. He had no inclination to intervene in injustice, no knightly heart to rush to the rescue. He simply pressed his thin lips together, wrapped in his snow-white fur cloak, and walked forward in silence. Before him stood two groups of noble families, their goblets clinking. Several burly servants tried to block his path, but Qingniao struck them down with her sword scabbard without a word. They spun through the air before crashing to the ground, unconscious.
Xu Fengnian ignored the noisy chatter of the Guangling aristocrats and approached the riverbank just as the tidal wave surged past. He took the jar and the crimson sword from Qingniao, first tossing the jar containing Lü Qiantang’s ashes into the river. With a single throw of the sword, he struck the jar, scattering the ashes into the rushing tide.
As for Lü Qiantang’s death, Xu Fengnian felt no great sorrow. But since he had promised the Eastern Yue swordsman, he had to fulfill his vow. He clapped his hands, squatted down, and gazed at the surging tide as it rushed forward, murmuring softly, “They say a true hero either lives without regret or dies in glory. No wonder you cursed with your last breath.”
Standing up, Xu Fengnian noticed Chen Yu gazing at the retreating figure of the man on the warship. Her veil hid her expression, but something in her silence felt strange.
Xu Fengnian cast a sidelong glance at the still-chattering Guangling nobles until they instinctively fell silent. Then he turned to the quiet woman with a teasing smile. “What’s this? An old flame of yours?”
She shook her head calmly. “He once spoke of the similarities between calligraphy and swordsmanship. His insights were unique. He said that in cursive script, sparse strokes suggest openness, while empty spaces imply mystery. The rhythm of strokes—expansion and contraction—translates to swordplay. If it is too ornate and grand, it lacks…”
Xu Fengnian interrupted rudely, “All theory, no fun.”
Chen Yu said nothing more, merely smiling.
To speak to a cow of music—wasted effort.
Though Xu Fengnian was petty and narrow-minded, he still retained a sliver of self-awareness. He chuckled wryly, “Well, we clearly walk different paths, Chen Yu. But since we’re family now, why not be honest—do you have someone in your heart?”
Chen Yu asked calmly, “If I did, would you kill him?”
Hearing such a brutal word—“kill”—from the lips of a beauty, it carried a strange allure. Xu Fengnian laughed boastfully, “I like your style. You’d make a perfect little sister-in-law.”
Chen Yu turned her gaze to Yan Cliff, where a fat, bloated man in a dragon robe nearly bursting at the seams stood. She sighed for no apparent reason.
Xu Fengnian grinned and asked, “Don’t scare me. You’re not mixed up with Prince Zhao Yi, are you?”
Chen Yu remained expressionless, saying nothing.
Xu Fengnian slipped his hands into his sleeves and murmured, “Let’s go. Back to Beiliang.”
Chen Yu did not move. After a pause, she said, “Someone has asked me to go to the capital. You won’t be able to stop me.”
Xu Fengnian stopped in his tracks, his expression playful. “Who dares open his mouth so wide, as if he could swallow the heavens?”
Chen Yu fixed her gaze on the young lord’s face, her tone utterly serious.
Xu Fengnian’s expression turned strange.
Chen Yu bent down and picked up a bundle of reed flowers from the ground, tossing it into the Guangling River. “When I was three, the Dragon Tiger Mountains and the Imperial Astronomical Bureau both read my fate. I was born under the ‘Cassia Moon Entering the Temple’ destiny.”
The old man in the lambskin coat, who had been watching coldly, muttered, “Either destined to be empress or imperial concubine.”
Xu Fengnian merely said, “Oh,” and said nothing more.
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