Xufengnian woke up with a splitting headache, swaying as he sat up. He grabbed a bamboo water flask from the bedside and took a sip of spring water before heading to the table. He poured the last two pills from a blue porcelain bottle and downed the remaining cold water in the flask. As the headache subsided, he felt instantly refreshed. Glancing at the embroidered winter saber resting atop a pile of secret manuals, he reached out and grasped it, hearing the metallic hum of the blade vibrating. Only then did he realize that his internal energy was flowing smoothly, nourishing every bone in his body, as if he possessed boundless strength. Instinctively, he wanted to draw the blade but suppressed the urge.
Stepping outside the hut, he saw the ox-riding young grandmaster struggling to light a fire under a pot of winter bamboo shoots.
Xufengnian asked, “Did you steal my chess pieces?”
The young grandmaster feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Xufengnian frowned. Before he could even threaten to draw his blade, the ox-rider, already guilty, bolted in panic. The two or three catties of winter bamboo shoots had been painstakingly dug up with a hoe, but survival took precedence over delicacies. Xufengnian walked to the stove, boiled the bamboo shoots, and leisurely ate every last bit with chopsticks. Only then did he head to the cave beneath Xuanyan Peak, where he found a small pile of uncarved pebbles—likely the ox-rider’s attempt at making amends. Smiling, he sat against the wall and, following the advanced sword techniques described in *The Green Waters Pavilion’s Sixty-Year Sword Manual*, began carving chess pieces with his embroidered winter saber. However, the first stroke was too erratic, splitting a hard pebble clean in half. Xufengnian paused, no longer rushing, and instead sat cross-legged to calm his mind, regulating his breathing.
Throughout his journey, he had already noticed his heightened senses, but now he felt an even deeper clarity and vitality within. The Daoist mantra—*”One breath in, one breath out, each breath returning to the root—this is fetal breathing”*—suddenly resonated with him in a profound way. Opening his eyes, he murmured to himself, “Is this the Great Yellow Court?”
The ox-rider cautiously appeared at the cave entrance and chuckled, “It is indeed the Great Yellow Court. The Young Master must not waste it.”
Xufengnian scoffed self-deprecatingly, “Waste it? Already done.”
The ox-rider shook his head with a knowing smile. “It’s too early to say that.”
Xufengnian said calmly, “The hundreds of books in the hut—I’ll gift them to Wudang. Will you accept?”
The young grandmaster grinned foolishly. “We accept!”
Xufengnian smiled. “And what if I offer Wudang Mountain a thousand taels of gold in incense money every year? Would you dare take it?”
The ox-rider pondered for a moment before replying with a bitter smile, “Not sure we’d dare.”
Xufengnian dismissed it with a wave, signaling for the ox-rider to leave. Hong Xixiang retreated but then stepped back in, whispering, “Young Master, about the stolen chess pieces… please don’t hold a grudge.”
Xufengnian said softly, “Get lost.”
After spending half a day adjusting to the blade’s force, Xufengnian effortlessly carved the chess pieces, their shapes smooth and round. Gazing at the two piles of black and white stones, he exhaled in satisfaction—only to accidentally scatter them with his breath, mixing them up. Cursing in the Western Shu dialect, he reorganized them before heading to the Purple Bamboo Forest. There, he chopped down two arhat bamboo stalks, carried them back to the hut, split them open, and spent a day weaving two chess boxes—a skill honed from three years of hardship on the road, where he had learned to make straw sandals.
Placing the 361 chess pieces into the boxes, Xufengnian glanced at the hut where the secret manuals remained untouched. Then, with the saber at his waist and the chess boxes in hand, he stepped outside to survey the desolate vegetable garden. His two maids, Sweet Potato and Green Bird, stood silently nearby. Only Hong Xixiang from Wudang came to see him off—just as sparse as the welcome party had been.
As expected, Hong Xixiang escorted him to the “Xuanwu Shall Prosper” memorial archway.
Xufengnian could already see the 200 fully armored Northern Liang cavalry waiting in formation. Glancing back at Lotus Peak, he suddenly asked, “How does that saying go again?”
Sweet Potato, ever intuitive, giggled. *”A single day in the mountains, a thousand years in the mortal world.”*
Xufengnian chuckled. “Has that white-fox-faced guy from the Listening Tide Pavilion reached the third floor yet?”
Sweet Potato shook her head gently. “Not yet. The Wutong Courtyard has been betting on it—I wagered six taels on a year and a half. Green Ant and the others think it’ll take longer.”
Xufengnian climbed into the carriage. “Then I’ll bet ten taels that he’ll make it within a year.”
Sweet Potato massaged his shoulders as he leaned against her chest. Opening the chess box, he rubbed a piece between his fingers, closed his eyes, and murmured, “Harder.”
Sweet Potato, whose natural fragrance faded in winter, complied softly. But her gaze flickered toward Green Bird, her longtime rival in Wutong Courtyard.
Green Bird remained silent, her eyes fixed intently on the Young Master’s brow.
The unspoken tension between the two maids lingered in the air.
As the 200 cavalrymen entered Liangzhou, the commoners instinctively cleared the main road. Xufengnian halted the carriage midway and sent Sweet Potato to buy some of his favorite spiced beef from a shop he frequented. The meat here was the finest in Northern Liang, marinated in a secret sauce with just the right balance of yellow bean paste, cinnamon, ginger, star anise, and other spices. The aged soy sauce alone was so coveted that many diners tried to steal the bottle after finishing their meal—though none succeeded.
Back in the day, after causing mischief with his troublemaking friends like Li Hanlin and Yan Chiji, Xufengnian would always come here to feast. Li Hanlin, even more domineering, had once nearly strong-armed the entire century-old shop into moving to his estate. If not for Xufengnian interceding on behalf of the tearful old proprietor, the city would have lost this authentic delicacy—though, admittedly, he mostly did it for his own refined palate.
But what fascinated Xufengnian most wasn’t the beef—it was the delicate little girl in the shop. Rumor had it she was the daughter of some distant relative of the owner, connected by ties so tenuous they spanned continents. Strangely, when she first arrived in the city five or six years ago, she had been leading a black-and-white, bear-like yet cat-like creature by a rope. Later, the learned scholars of Liangzhou identified it as a “mo beast”—nicknamed a “panda”—native to Western Shu. Ancient texts claimed it fed on copper and iron, but over the years, no reports surfaced of missing household metalware. Instead, the girl was often seen holding bamboo branches and leaves.
After his travels, Xufengnian never saw the girl or the beast again. Before his journey, whenever he visited the shop, he loved teasing her. Li Hanlin had tried to steal the soy sauce several times, only to have his hands smacked by her bamboo stick. If not for Xufengnian’s intervention, the girl and her pet might have ended up in a beast cage.
While waiting for the beef, Xufengnian noticed an old beggar shivering against a wall, his face ashen, on the brink of death from hunger and cold. The wealthy loved winter—even if they couldn’t afford heated floors, they could still flaunt luxurious furs. But for the poor, this season was the most dreaded.
Beside the ragged beggar, Xufengnian spotted a frail figure crouching nearby, accompanied by a young monk in a green-and-pink kasaya. After exchanging a few words, the little monk hurried off.
Xufengnian frowned. “Even with Buddhism’s many sects, the rules for kasayas are similar. What kind of junior monk wears such colors? That’s reserved for sermon masters. And shouldn’t monks wear their robes draped over both shoulders? Why is this one baring his right?”
Having grown up under the influence of his devout Buddhist mother, Xufengnian was well-versed in monastic etiquette.
Green Bird corrected him. “The little monk is baring his *left* shoulder.”
Xufengnian chuckled. “Where did this kid come from?”
Despite his notorious reputation in Northern Liang, Xufengnian had always been generous to monks, offering alms whenever he encountered them. Most refused money, but he never took offense. So many fortune-tellers in Liangzhou had switched to cheap monastic robes—who cared about betraying their craft when the Young Master’s casual gifts were the real treasure?
Suddenly, Xufengnian narrowed his eyes, spotting a gaunt, middle-aged Tibetan monk in a crimson kasaya walking slowly down the road. When the monk reached the beggar, now on the verge of death, his face filled with compassion.
The little monk returned with a steaming basket of buns, only to find the old man’s head lolling to the side—his life extinguished.
The Tibetan monk bent down, clasped the dead man’s hand, and began chanting sutras.
The little monk handed the buns to the girl, now standing, and bowed his head in silent prayer.
Watching this, Xufengnian felt a pang of emotion.
Whether they came from afar or were just passing through—
Reaching out was Zen.
Bowing one’s head was also Zen.
When Sweet Potato returned to the carriage, Xufengnian suddenly found the beef—which had made his mouth water back on Wudang Mountain—unappetizing. Setting it aside, he murmured, “Even after receiving the Great Yellow Court from Wudang’s grandmaster, I still prefer monks. The Two Zen Temples, where enlightenment is found in just two truths, or the ascetic monks of Nantuo Mountain—they’re far more endearing than Wudang or Dragon-Tiger.”
As he prepared to head home, Xufengnian caught a glimpse of the girl’s profile. His mood instantly lifted. Grabbing the beef, he stood and grinned. “Sweet Potato, Green Bird, I’m going to meet an old acquaintance. You two head back first.”
Stepping away from the carriage, he waited until the Northern Liang cavalry had departed before approaching the wall.
Xufengnian had always liked this not-quite-familiar girl. During his most destitute days with Old Huang in Langya County, they had stumbled upon her—a runaway who called herself “Heroine Li,” determined to wander the martial world. Though she had only scraps of silver left, she generously treated them to a lavish meal, leaving herself penniless. For a month, the three of them scraped by, stealing chickens and dogs, with her often acting as lookout while Xufengnian and Old Huang took the risks. When they fled, the little girl with her twin braids could outrun the wind. Eventually, she left to see the southern sea, and they parted ways. All Xufengnian knew was that her surname was Li, and she loved calling herself “Miss Li.” If you addressed her as “Heroine Li,” she’d stay happy for days, even on an empty stomach.
Now, as he approached, Xufengnian wondered—why was Heroine Li accompanied by a little monk?
Was her family temple-bound?
With that thought, the hand holding the beef tightened around the hilt of his embroidered winter saber.
That Tibetan monk… was no ordinary man.
As he drew closer, he heard Heroine Li’s signature scolding: “Stupid North-South! How many times do I have to tell you?! You can call me East or West, but never ‘East-West’! Doesn’t that sound awful?!”
The little monk in the green-and-pink kasaya, with his delicate features and fair complexion, looked every bit the prodigy—even the younger Xufengnian could tell he was extraordinary. The boy mumbled, “East-West, I think your name sounds nice.”
Heroine Li—no longer sporting her twin braids—pinched his ear angrily. “Say it again, I dare you!”
The monk, utterly oblivious, repeated, “East-West.”
Enraged, the girl jumped and smacked his head. “You’re dumber than Xufengnian by a thousand—no, ten thousand times!”
Xufengnian smirked.
See? Some people *did* have taste.
The little monk muttered, “Monks don’t lie. If I call you ‘Plum,’ you’ll hit me again.”
Heroine Li snapped, “Then answer me this—can monks like girls?! Aren’t you supposed to abstain from lust?!”
The monk, not entirely foolish, tilted his head skyward, pretending not to hear.
The girl glanced at the dead beggar, her expression darkening.
The little monk whispered, “After buying the buns, we’re broke. I didn’t bring much when I sneaked out, and you spent—”
He wisely swallowed the words “like a drunken noble.”
Heroine Li fumed. “I *told* you my dad hides his private savings under the alms bowl in his room! Why didn’t you steal more?! How is that *not* stupid?!”
The monk guiltily admitted, “If I took too much, back at the temple, Master would punish me by making me buy your mom cosmetics.”
At the mention of makeup, the girl’s eyes sparkled with interest, and she dropped the naming issue.
The monk panicked. “We really have no money left.”
Heroine Li sighed dramatically.
From behind them, Xufengnian called out, “Miss Li, need cosmetics? I’ll buy them for you. The biggest shop in Liangzhou sells ‘Green Swallow’s Rouge’—the imperial concubines use it. It’s not expensive, and I don’t even have to pay.”
The girl whirled around. At first, she didn’t recognize the well-groomed Xufengnian, so different from the disheveled wanderer she’d known. After a long stare, she jumped in delight. “Xufengnian?!”
He lifted the beef. “The one and only.”
She patted her barely-there chest in relief, beaming. “I remembered you said you were from Western Liang, so I was worried I wouldn’t find you here.”
Xufengnian smiled. “Don’t worry. In this place, it’s harder *not* to find me.”
The girl didn’t overthink it—she was just happy.
The little monk, however, remained indifferent, preoccupied with what to do with the uneaten buns. He couldn’t consume them himself, and “Plum” didn’t like meat buns.
Just as Xufengnian was about to take the girl to the cosmetics shop—whose owner regarded him as a predator—his hand instinctively tightened on his saber’s hilt.
The middle-aged Tantric monk took but a single step forward.
With an unfamiliar accent, the monk inquired, “Are you Xu Fengnian? The eldest son of the Prince of Northern Liang?”
Xu Fengnian smiled and asked, “And you are?”
The monk replied in a calm tone, “This humble monk hails from the Nantuo Mountain in the Western Regions. I have come to invite the Young Master to journey to Nantuo Mountain.”
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