The cow-riding youth hid in the bamboo grove, a bamboo leaf clenched between his teeth as he squatted to watch the unfolding drama. Truth be told, this young martial uncle harbored no ill will toward the young master of the Northern Liang estate. Especially after the latter began practicing swordsmanship on the mountain, every time he brought books to Wudang, there would always be one or two unrelated to martial arts but of excellent quality. The scenery on the mountain was naturally breathtaking—otherwise, it wouldn’t have been called the “Crystal World” by the ancients. Among the Five Sacred Mountains of the realm, Wudang had been revered as the “Supreme Peak” for over a thousand years during the previous dynasty. Its architecture seemed to touch the heavens and resonate with the earth, each structure surpassing even the vaunted Dragon-Tiger Mountain, let alone the other three peaks, which paled in comparison.
But after gazing at this scenery for over twenty years, even if Hong Xixiang hadn’t grown tired of it, he still longed for fresh faces and new events. The young master had once called this “loving the new without tiring of the old,” which Hong Xixiang considered a good thing. The familiar faces and routines on the mountain were all dear to him. His eldest martial brother was like a kind father; Chen, another senior brother, was well-versed in the classics, though strict—whenever he discovered forbidden books smuggled up from below, he would sigh deeply, circling Hong Xixiang like an ant, sometimes over thirty times in a row. Then there was the taciturn swordsman, Senior Brother Wang, whose skill was peerless. While others obsessed over sword techniques, especially those from the Wu Family Sword Tomb, striving to push forms to their limits, Senior Brother Wang walked a solitary path, cultivating sword intent alone, akin to the legendary Deng Tai’a. Hong Xixiang had once seen him standing atop a boulder by the Wash Elephant Pool, his sword qi splitting the waterfall apart in an explosion of mist. The other senior brothers, each with distinct personalities, were all good men, embodying the demeanor of ancient mystics, and they doted on Hong Xixiang.
But after the young master arrived, things became even more interesting.
Hong Xixiang watched the tense standoff outside the thatched hut, unable to help feeling anxious for the young master. Aside from the noblewoman disguised as a man, the other two from the capital were formidable—especially the gloomy middle-aged man who had exchanged a single move with the eldest martial brother. His internal energy was unfathomable. Had it not been for the sect master’s rare mastery of the Great Yellow Court—a Daoist technique unseen in a century—repelling the enemy wouldn’t have been so effortless. The outside world only knew of the sect’s impenetrable defenses, unaware that breaking through the Great Yellow Court was even harder. Many of the century-old masters on Dragon-Tiger Mountain remained secluded in their blessed grottoes precisely because they had attempted the Great Yellow Court and become trapped in its labyrinth.
The delicate stalemate was effortlessly shattered by the arrival of a lone figure carrying a sword along the waterfall.
Senior Brother Wang Xiaoping—Wudang’s so-called “number one fool”!
Though past forty, Wang Xiaoping was lean and strikingly elegant, carrying a slender peachwood sword named Shentu, its hue like purple bronze. Legend held that an ancient immortal had used this sword to slay a millennium-old fox spirit that had plagued the land. The blade bore both celestial aura and demonic taint, requiring immense will to wield.
The elderly Daoist Wang Chonglou spoke gently, “This mountain is no place for conflict. Why don’t we all go to the nearby Ziyang Palace for a simple vegetarian meal?”
Xu Fengnian chuckled, “A full stomach makes for better fighting.”
The irritable noblewoman, whose beauty was merely passable, sneered, “First the Wudang sect master intervenes, and now the mountain’s top swordsman, Wang Xiaoping, arrives with his blade. Wudang’s hospitality is truly touching. I’ll remember this kindness—next time we meet, I’ll repay it generously.”
Xu Fengnian grinned carelessly. “So, Little Sparrow, you’re giving up on pestering your future husband? Fine, I’ll have a hundred crossbowmen escort you down the mountain. At the base, I’ll summon two or three hundred cavalry to see you out of Liang territory.”
She gritted her teeth, spitting out three “good”s in succession before laughing bitterly. “Good, good, good. I’ll remember it all. Xu Fengnian, just you wait.”
As Xu Fengnian opened his mouth to retort, Jiang Ni cut in—untimely and tactless as ever—”Garden. Pay me back.”
Xu Fengnian shot her an exasperated glare, which she returned, their eyes locked in a silent battle. To the noblewoman, however, it looked like flirtation. With a cold snort, she stomped away, as if trying to crush Wudang beneath her feet, her two attendants in tow.
On the descent, she stopped repeatedly, complaining of exhaustion. Sitting on a stone slab, she massaged her calves, only now noticing the bloodied soles of her feet. Removing her boots, she took one look and burst into loud, unrestrained sobs that echoed mournfully across Wudang. Her attendants, though of high status themselves, dared not meet her gaze, let alone offer comfort.
After a while, the cries subsided. The woman—whose lineage was the most exalted in the realm—wiped her tears and muttered, “Eunuch Sun, you couldn’t defeat Wang Chonglou, and Zhang Huan is no match for Wang Xiaoping. Sigh, I should’ve brought more imperial guards.”
Only the highest-ranking palace eunuchs were addressed as “Sun the Temple Guardian” or “Grand Eunuch.” There were fewer than ten in the entire dynasty. Even princes or powerful ministers who enjoyed the emperor’s favor would tread carefully around them. That this eunuch could leave the capital incognito revealed the woman’s identity: none other than the lawless Sui Zhu Princess, the only one who could bend imperial rules with impunity.
Eunuch Sun, humiliated by the young master today, had already devised a hundred ways to make life difficult for “Xu the Cripple” upon returning to the capital. Uprooting the deeply entrenched Xu family might be impossible, but harassing the absent Grand Commandant would suffice.
“Reaching for the heavens?” the eunuch mused darkly. “Equaling the Son of Heaven?”
The princess, having lost her beloved pearls, glared upward. “Zhang Huan, I know you’ll report to my father. Write that Xu Fengnian has been biding his time all these years, his debauchery a mere act. This young master harbors towering ambitions. After meeting me in Liang, he treated me with excessive warmth.”
The former prince of the fallen Eastern Yue dynasty froze, unsure whether to comply. Refusal would mean immediate trouble, but agreement meant treason—his already decimated royal house couldn’t afford another blow.
Eunuch Sun intervened in a shrill voice, “Your Highness, state affairs are no jest. A truthful report will suffice. Would His Majesty not avenge you? If he mistakes Xu Fengnian for a true threat, he might insist on the marriage alliance. Then what?”
After pondering, the princess frowned. “True. I’d be the laughingstock of the realm, wed to that trash.”
Eunuch Sun and Zhang Huan exchanged relieved glances. Formerly at odds, their shared Wudang ordeal had forged an unspoken understanding.
Limping downhill, the princess asked softly, “Eunuch Sun, what do you make of Xu Fengnian?”
The eunuch scoffed. “Utterly devoid of virtue. The capital’s rumors didn’t do him justice—every province in Liang curses him. Today confirmed it.”
The princess, conflicted, lowered her voice. “Zhang Huan, his swordsmanship wasn’t bad, was it? He forced you to draw both blades.”
The fallen Eastern Yue prince smiled. “To kill him? One blade, ten moves at most.”
The princess murmured, “Xu the Trash,” and said no more.
Behind them, a hundred Liang elite soldiers trailed at a distance, keeping watch.
On the mountain, the sect master and Wang Xiaoping departed, leaving Xu Fengnian with a vial of pills. Hong Xixiang lethargically went to fetch his ox, while Xu Fengnian stood at the edge of the trampled garden, gazing at the dazed Jiang Ni within.
The young master smiled. “She won’t compensate you, but I will.”
Jiang Ni crouched, tenderly straightening a seedling without a word.
Xu Fengnian knelt beside her, only to be shoved onto his backside.
She looked up, puzzled, then saw blood seeping through his fingers as he clutched his mouth. Not wanting her to witness his frailty, he stood abruptly and left.
In a cave behind the waterfall, Xu Fengnian swallowed a fragrant dark-green pill, slowly regulating his breathing. The duel with the Eastern Yue blade master had left him with minor injuries—nothing unusual after months of sword training. But the eunuch’s strike would’ve been fatal had Wang Chonglou not intercepted most of its force.
Post-training, Xu Fengnian focused on breath control, instinctively circulating his qi through minor meridians. As his condition stabilized, he opened his eyes to see Hong Xixiang bringing vegetarian fare.
The young martial uncle said softly, “You’re actually a good person.”
Xu Fengnian shook his head. “My maid is mine to scold, tease, or beat. That’s the natural order. But if others bully her, it’s like slapping me.”
The cow-rider sighed. “Such matters are beyond me.”
Xu Fengnian smirked. “All you understand is farting.”
Hong Xixiang, remembering how the young master had once beaten him—mercifully avoiding face and groin—didn’t argue. Hesitantly, he asked, “Was that really the Sui Zhu Princess you rejected?”
Xu Fengnian sneered. “You knew?”
The least Daoist-like martial uncle grinned foolishly. “I’ve heard bits from junior disciples and pilgrims.”
Leaning against the wall, Xu Fengnian traced the ancient scabbard of Xiu Dong, his tone flat. “Years ago, when the old emperor wanted to suppress the martial world, forcing all warriors to grovel like obedient dogs, which of the princes or generals stepped forward? Who bore the empire’s hatred? Xu Xiao—the cripple—fresh from annihilating Western Shu, turned his banner against the martial world, even when it meant alienating his own soldiers. Twenty thousand veterans resigned overnight; countless officers defected. Did Xu Xiao complain?”
Hong Xixiang wasn’t surprised Xu Fengnian called his father “the cripple.” Rumor had it the young master had once chased the Grand Commandant with a broom. The martial uncle, ignorant of worldly affairs, found this father-son dynamic utterly perplexing.
Xu Fengnian continued calmly, “Later, when the current emperor clashed with the Shangyin Academy—who said Western Shu’s destruction would harm the dynasty’s fortune, who pleaded for mercy toward the Western Chu royals lest scholars’ hearts grow cold—who acted? Xu Xiao stormed Western Shu in two months, then hanged the entire Western Chu royal family from the city walls. The emperor slept soundly afterward. And how was Xu Xiao repaid? Countless assassination attempts—on him, on me. If not for luck, I’d be dead. Jiang Ni’s grudge I understand—she was five when her parents died. But those old foxes who’ve lived sixty, seventy years? Why must they drag down promising youths with them? Wouldn’t living well suffice?”
His expression softened strangely. “Death’s fine too. They can keep my mother company.”
The cow-rider stayed silent, fearing another beating.
Xu Fengnian regained composure. “You might not believe it, but at six I held a blade; at nine, I killed. Back then, my dream was to become the world’s greatest warrior, riding the wildest horse, wielding the swiftest saber, righting wrongs, marrying a woman as gentle as my mother. The 300,000 Liang cavalry? Not my concern. But growing up taught me this: the world doesn’t bend to your will. Reason? Many refuse to hear it. So when Xu Xiao forbade me the blade for ten years, then sent me wandering for three, I obeyed. Last year, Old Huang died at the Emperor City’s wall. I never asked Xu Xiao if he’d planned it—didn’t dare. Now I train with the blade, will train with the sword later. Even if I fail, even if I quit halfway, I’ll…”
Hong Xixiang broke into a cold sweat, not daring to breathe.
Leaning against the stone, Xu Fengnian left his final thought unspoken, instead gazing at the luminous pearl embedded opposite. “You begged my sister to live well in Jiangnan. If she’s unhappy, I’ll make you suffer. This unreasonableness? I learned it from the world.”
Hong Xixiang said with a bitter expression, “But I, this humble Daoist, am the most reasonable of all.”
Xu Fengnian, lost in thought, recalled a slender silhouette he had glimpsed by the Luo River during his three-year journey. He murmured, “The blade of longing is the deadliest of all.”
Just as Hong Xixiang was about to flatter him, praising the profound wisdom in the young master’s words, Xu Fengnian cut him off with a sharp, “Silence.”
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