At the break of dawn, Daoist Luo opened his eyes, only to find his apprentice missing. This was quite strange, for the boy was notorious for his reluctance to rise early and his terrible morning temper. Looking out from his bed, Daoist Luo finally spotted his pupil at the riverside, wielding a branch and practicing strange stances. At first, he thought the boy was merely fooling around, but soon reconsidered, folding his hands behind his back and approaching quietly. As he drew near, he saw that the boy, though inexperienced, displayed a natural talent. With a branch in hand, each time he gathered his breath, he moved with seamless grace, like a swordsman drawing his blade through the paths of dragons and snakes. There was even a hint of the elegance of a true sword master. Daoist Luo’s eyes widened in astonishment. Could it be that the boy was truly gifted enough to grasp sword techniques merely by observing the water, without any formal instruction? Yet, Daoist Luo suddenly remembered that he had never taught the boy swordsmanship—not out of fear that the apprentice might surpass the master, but because Daoist Luo himself was no expert in swordplay, knowing next to nothing about it.
Not seeing the young master Xu nearby, Daoist Luo waited until the boy finished his routine, drenched in sweat, before asking in bewilderment, “How did you learn swordsmanship?”
The little rascal snorted, twirling the branch with a flourish, and grinned, “Master Xu said I have unusual talent, so he taught me this one move. I reckon once we return to Yan Yang Temple, Elder Qingyan won’t stand a chance against me.”
Speaking of the senior apprentice who relied on his seniority and strength, and whose father was the temple’s abbot, the boy’s tone turned vengeful. He always dreamed of mastering a supreme martial art and giving his rival a thorough thrashing. Furrowing his brow, Daoist Luo asked, “Does that young master Xu even know swordsmanship?”
The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Probably not. He said last night that he learned this move from a torn ancient manual he found by chance. I think he just couldn’t learn it himself, so he passed it on to me. He probably hopes to boast that he taught a future sword grandmaster.”
Suddenly remembering something, the boy dashed to the riverbank and picked up two pairs of straw sandals, grinning as he returned. “Master, these are from him. He also asked me to tell you that he liked your poetry, especially the line ‘Sword shifts mountains to mend peace.’ He said it was the best. He memorized all thirty-two of your poems and promised to recite them to his elder sister. That guy talked a lot, but I only remember bits and pieces. Honestly, I didn’t really understand most of it.”
The old Daoist raised his hand as if to strike, but the boy, long accustomed to such empty threats, simply flipped the branch like a sword, shoved the sandals into his master’s arms, and smiled sweetly, “I’ll carry the book chest. Master, remember—now I’m a swordsman! Just wait and see me shift mountains with my blade!”
Daoist Luo chuckled helplessly, “You little brat, don’t forget his kindness!”
The boy ran off, his laughter ringing like bells, “I know!”
Daoist Luo looked down at the straw sandals in his hands and sighed, “You part with your shoes when you sleep, but who knows if you’ll ever meet them again.”
Farther along the riverbank, Xu Fengnian walked alone, his red robe flowing like a drifting crimson cloud over a green undergarment. The yin spirit, naturally drawn to water, floated joyfully on the surface, occasionally surfacing with a fish in its mouth, its face smeared with blood. Xu Fengnian paid it no mind. The two had no idea that, during their river crossing, Xu had secretly stopped the ferryman from being dragged into the water by the yin spirit for a meal. The boy thought it was a water ghost—hardly a mistaken assumption.
The night before, Xu had personally taught the boy a sword move—the mighty “Opening of Shu.” Yet, given the boy’s background and his master’s limited knowledge, even if he practiced every day, it would take him until old age to grasp even half of its essence. In the martial world, a true master is rare, and an enlightened master even rarer. Reaching the fourth level of martial cultivation is a vast chasm; the second level, a towering peak; and the first level, a sky-high gate. Daoist Luo, though diligent and serving as the overseer of a Daoist temple, had spent his life seeking immortality but had not even reached half of the twelve levels of cultivation that even the humblest sweepers of the Dragon Tiger Mountains had long surpassed. Such is the reality of the martial world—some are so poor they cannot afford a single coin, while others are so rich that even a mountain of gold fails to impress.
Suddenly, Xu Fengnian stopped and crouched down, pulling out the contents of his book chest to air them in the sunlight. Among them was a sword he had traded for with a Southern Zhao noble—a Spring and Autumn Sword, brimming with sword qi, though he could only wield about half of its power. Once, in a rainy alley, he nearly died to the blind female lute master’s “Hu Jia Rhythm.” There was also a black box containing three ancient Qin swords, retrieved from the imperial tomb after leaping from the Dragon Wall. A white robe, a spring thunder, a fox-faced beauty ascending a tower—had she done so?
There was a martial manual, unfinished at the chapter “Tying Green Threads.” There was soft armor he had worn even during his second journey, never daring to remove it. Twelve flying swords, each with a fully matured sword spirit—Morning Dew, Golden Thread, and Tai’e. A pair of straw sandals, yet to be given. He had learned to weave them from Old Huang. The first time he received a pair, he had cursed and kicked it away, calling it unworthy of the name “shoes.” Later, he realized that straw sandals were better than walking barefoot, and eventually grew used to them. When he returned to his mansion in Northern Liang and put on soft boots lined with jade, he found them oddly uncomfortable.
As the hereditary prince of a fiefdom, he could obtain any treasure without effort. Yet, Xu Fengnian had also fought with his life to earn some things. But as time passed, he also lost many things—things he could never recover no matter how hard he tried. How much hardship had he endured? He could not speak of it, for others would only think him ungrateful, like telling a hungry man that rich food is too heavy. So, when meeting others, he could only say how fortunate he was.
One by one, he returned the items to the book chest.
The yin spirit, in its infant form, came ashore and gazed at him with a look of pity.
※※※
During the reign of the Liyang Dynasty, Xu Xiao personally oversaw the construction of an unprecedented network of postal stations. These stations were the nodes, the roads the lines, and along these lines were beacon towers, military strongholds, and forts, forming a vast and intimidating system. Today, the eastern border defenses of Liyang still follow this framework. Meanwhile, the Northern Qiang, having absorbed many refugees from the Central Plains, has begun to replicate this proven military structure with great effort.
In the Jiayu County of Longyao Prefecture alone, there are a hundred beacon towers, arranged in three lines, spaced ten miles apart, stretching endlessly. When war breaks out, smoke rises in sequence, signaling danger across the land. Once, the Empress of Northern Qiang personally patrolled the border at night. In a moment of inspiration, she climbed a beacon tower and lit four torches herself. In an instant, the entire prefecture was ablaze with fire, the three lines of beacon towers like three fiery dragons. That night, they discovered that one beacon tower had failed to send its signal on time. The commander and his deputies, along with six others, were executed on the spot. The ten beacon captains had their arms severed, and the prefectural commander was demoted to a common beacon soldier, never to be promoted again.
In Northern Qiang, certain roads were reserved exclusively for military use. Once, a powerful royal relative engaged in illegal salt and iron trade collided with a Southern Qiang cavalry unit in Longyao Prefecture and slaughtered them all. Somehow, the news leaked. The Empress personally executed her nephew, saying, “Smuggling salt and iron may not warrant death, but riding on the imperial road deserves it twice.” Then, the young legitimate son of the man was dragged from his home and hanged to death. After that, no commoners dared to use those roads again.
The postal roads near Ligǔ Garrison had long been on high alert. When four thousand iron cavalry swept through, every station and beacon tower was destroyed without exception. Everyone knew that the six thousand defenders of Ligǔ were already trapped like fish in a pond, too afraid to retreat or fight. The great garrisons of Wazhu and Junziguang had already fallen. Before Maolong, Ligǔ was forced to bear the cruel mission of sacrificing lives to wear down the isolated enemy force, praying that the generals in the Southern Qiang court would quickly come up with a countermeasure. After two battles, the once-proud Southern Qiang garrisons no longer dared to claim their forces could rival the elite troops of Northern Liang. Ligǔ faced annihilation, and panic spread. With the city sealed, many noble families either wept bitterly or indulged in drunken revelry, saying, “If we must die tomorrow, let us drink tonight.” The common people, unaware of the danger, remained calmer than the informed elites, who had already lost all hope.
In Maolong’s Tizi Mountain Beacon Tower,
Built atop a hill, the tower was solidly constructed with compacted earth and reinforced with thick red willow branches. Due to its proximity to the military stronghold of Maolong, the tower was staffed with twelve beacon keepers—three more than usual. In recent years, beacon towers across the land had been staffed exclusively with Northern men, but in the past two years, Southern men had also been allowed to serve, balancing the numbers. This caused great dissatisfaction among the Northern elite. In Tizi Mountain, the twelve keepers were evenly split between North and South. Of the three beacon commanders, two were from the South, and the third, a deputy commander, was a rough man who was constantly outmaneuvered and ostracized by the others, leaving the Northern keepers in an awkward position, their situation worsening day by day. Once, they dared to sneak a drink or two, but now even that was forbidden, and any caught would be whipped.
The oldest beacon keeper in Tizi Mountain was a typical Northern man—shaven head with a braid, rugged features, and a strong build. Unfortunately, he was a timid coward. In the past, he drank more than anyone when off-duty, but now he had even given up alcohol. The two Southern commanders enjoyed mocking him, treating him like a beast of burden, assigning him the most grueling night shifts. The old man never complained. The only time he lost his temper was when his beautiful daughter came to visit and was intercepted and harassed by the commanders, dragged into a grove halfway up the hill. The other keepers watched with amusement, wondering how such a weak man could produce such a lovely daughter. If she had taken after her father, she would have been a burly woman, unmarriageable for life. As for whether the deputy commander succeeded or failed in his advances, no one could say for sure. The Southern keepers despised him, and the Northern ones hated him. The old man was a man without a place, living a lonely and bitter life—except for a new recruit named Yuan Huai, who was the only one who would speak to him.
Yuan Huai was a fresh-faced young man, his waist as slender as a woman’s. Everyone in Tizi Mountain knew that the beacon commanders were indiscriminate in their desires, caring little for gender. Many suspected that Yuan had traded his body for the position. While being a beacon keeper was a lowly, unprofitable post compared to the regular border troops, it was still better than many trades—no sun, no hunger, and a steady monthly wage.
Yuan Huai was off-duty during the day, and since the old man no longer went out to drink, he had nowhere else to go. He always stood in the shadow of the beacon tower, gazing out at the horizon, never tiring of the view. Yuan was a handsome young man, and many whispered that he had traded favors for his position.
Yuan Huai didn’t look at the old man as he asked, “How many beacon towers do you think Liyang has?”
The old man, not old but looking aged, rasped, “Not sure anymore. Five or six years ago, there were about twelve thousand.”
Yuan Huai touched his green headscarf and asked curiously, “I heard the beacon commander say that in Liyang, the inner provinces light a torch every midnight to signal peace. Why don’t we do the same?”
The old man, with a voice like wind scraping against stone, replied softly, “After conquering the Eight Spring and Autumn States, they feared rebellion, so they used the peace fire to send messages to Tai’an City.”
Yuan Huai laughed, “Then the Liyang emperor must be exhausted. If he doesn’t see the peace fire one night, he can’t sleep and has to summon his ministers.”
The old man said flatly, “Everything is tiring.”
In all of Northern Qiang, the beacon towers do not light peace fires. This was a direct order from the Empress.
Only when there is unrest do we light the wolf smoke. I will still give you peace.
How arrogant!
Yuan Huai sighed, rubbing his now-rough face, “The steps of my family’s ancestral hall must be covered in moss.”
The old man said nothing.
Yuan Huai continued, “Back home, I used to catch fireflies at night, put them in a bag, and use them as a lamp for reading.”
He turned and joked, “Old Xiang, your daughter is so pretty, like a fairy in a painting. Why don’t you let her marry me?”
The old man rarely smiled, neither agreeing nor refusing.
Yuan Huai demanded, “Give me a straight answer! Are you a real man or not?”
The old man shook his head.
Yuan Huai muttered, “Stingy!”
Yuan Huai was impulsive, always changing the subject. “Old Xiang, when do you think I’ll become a beacon commander?”
The old man looked at him for a moment and turned away, saying, “You? No way.”
Yuan Huai snapped, “Why not me?”
The old man said softly, “To be an officer, you must be deep and reserved, like a woman’s bosom.”
Yuan Huai was stunned, then burst into laughter, “Hey, you actually know how to reason!”
The old man said flatly, “Everyone knows a few big truths, especially old men like me.”
Yuan Huai rolled his eyes, “Talking to you is so boring.”
A young beacon keeper strode in, ordering the old man, “Old Xiang, go with me to the market and buy a few jugs of wine. I’ll owe you the money.”
The old man said nothing and turned to leave, knowing that the soldiers owed him at least thirty or forty taels of silver, maybe even fifty. But he was just a pushover, used to being taken advantage of. Yuan Huai stepped in to help, offering to go instead. The soldier, used to getting his way, glared at Yuan, but seeing his delicate face, his anger faded. Still, he felt a stir of lust. But Yuan might be the commander’s favorite, so he dared not go too far. He tried to grope him, saying, “Good buddy,” but Yuan ducked and slipped away. The soldier, disappointed, glared at Yuan’s back with a mixture of frustration and desire, muttering to himself that he must be desperate for a woman. He turned back to the old man, spat a wad of phlegm, and strutted off.
The beacon tower on Tizi Mountain had two horses. One was temporarily ridden by the beacon chief to the military town Maolong, where the wine market was more than twenty miles away. Yuan Huai told the beacon soldier guarding the horses to treat all the brothers to drinks, thereby gaining permission to ride down the mountain.
On his way down, Yuan Huai passed a loosely disciplined squad of border cavalry. The leader, a dashing young man with a similar temperament to the men in the beacon tower, noticed him and gave a playful glance, even whistling. Yuan Huai suppressed his disgust and spurred his horse to quicken his pace.
The cavalry unit numbered six riders. One of them, riding half a horse-length behind the young squad leader, quietly asked, “Shall we eliminate him?”
The young leader, who had appeared frivolous moments ago, turned serious, narrowed his eyes, and shook his head slightly. “Leave him for later. Remember, the beacon towers near major strongholds might have more than nine soldiers.”
The clean-faced rider chuckled. “Brother Hanlin, we’ve already eliminated a whole line of them. We’ve taken down seven beacon towers ourselves. I know the risks well enough!”
Li Hanlin, who had grown increasingly grim, exhaled deeply. “Caution never hurts. We can’t afford to lose more brothers in Nangnuo. After we eliminate this tower, our job here will be done. When we return…”
Li Hanlin did not continue.
How many would return?
Li Shiyue bit his dry lips, his eyes cold, and nodded grimly.
Half a mile from the Tizi Mountain beacon tower was a checkpoint. One of the beacon soldiers was napping against a tree in the shade, so deeply asleep that he didn’t wake even at the sound of hooves, which weren’t muffled. In a stroke of luck, a single crossbow bolt pierced his skull and pinned it to the tree trunk. He died instantly, his head barely twitching backward. The riders deliberately paused at the checkpoint briefly before slowly riding up the mountain.
Outside the beacon tower, two Southern Dynasty soldiers were joking around, eagerly waiting for Yuan Huai to return with wine. When they saw a rider in Maolong light armor lazily appear in the distance, they assumed it was a military officer coming to visit friends. Smiling, they approached to flatter him. The six riders dismounted simultaneously. Li Hanlin laughed and casually slung an arm over one of the soldiers’ shoulders as they walked toward the tower.
“Hey,” he said casually, “is your beacon chief around? I finally got a chance to sneak out for some fresh air. We agreed to go drinking in Maolong tonight—don’t chicken out on me! If Beiliang really attacks, I might not even survive. Might as well enjoy myself while I still can with a few women.”
The soldier was filled with envy and smiled in agreement. “Absolutely, sir! That makes perfect sense. If you trust me, I’ll be bold enough to guide you around Maolong. I know all the best brothels there.”
Stepping into the shadow of the beacon tower, Li Hanlin laughed heartily. “You’re a smart one, kid. I like that.”
Smart indeed—he was truly on the right path, the path to the underworld.
As Li Hanlin struck, Li Shiyue simultaneously snapped the other soldier’s neck. With a glance, Li Hanlin signaled. Lu Dou, a knife clenched between his teeth and a quiver of spears hanging at his waist, leapt high, gripping the beacon wall with both hands and climbing swiftly and silently over the edge.
A full unit of fifty scouts had been reduced to just these six men: Squad Leader Li Hanlin, Squad Leader Lu Dou, Li Shiyue, and three elite scouts, all of whom had exchanged their Liang swords for Nan swords. Among them, the cyclops Lu Dou had even stopped carrying a sword altogether.
Inside the beacon tower, Li Hanlin was covered in blood. Thinking the mission complete, he assumed that aside from the clean-faced, cross-dressing scout who had ridden down the mountain, every other beacon soldier was dead. He ordered Lu Dou and Li Shiyue to search for any hidden rooms within the tower. Unexpectedly, an old beacon soldier ambushed Li Hanlin from a concealed spot. At the time, Li was retrieving some beacon records when Ma Zhenzhai took the blow meant for him. The sharp short blade pierced clean through the eight-foot-tall Beiliang warrior. The old soldier was clearly an expert—his strike was fatal. As he withdrew the blade, he flicked it in an arc, tearing open Ma’s chest cavity. As Ma lay dying, he muttered about returning to Beiliang, about sending money to the families of fallen comrades. The old soldier struck swiftly. Li Hanlin barely parried, but the skilled attacker still landed a blow to his shoulder. Fortunately, before the old man could follow through, Lu Dou, who had rushed over upon hearing the commotion, punched him so hard in the back that his spine shattered. That wasn’t enough—Lu Dou grabbed the old man’s head and smashed it against the wall like a watermelon being crushed. When the body hit the ground, it was a bloodied mess, unrecognizable. Lu Dou looked at Li Hanlin, who shook his head and said he was fine.
Li Hanlin knelt beside Ma Zhenzhai’s body and gently closed his eyes.
Li Shiyue opened his mouth but said nothing.
Li Hanlin said calmly, “Lu Dou, you’re good at tracking. Take my fastest horse and chase the scout who went down the mountain. Remember, only pursue for twenty miles. If you can’t catch him, return immediately and meet us at the previous beacon tower.”
Lu Dou silently walked out of the tower.
Li Shiyue punched the wall.
Li Hanlin looked up. “Our Longxiang Army never intended to hold Ligu. It’s just a matter of who will fall into the trap at Maolong.”
Dong Zhuo personally led eight thousand cavalry riding day and night toward Maolong.
From the beginning, he had no intention of holding Ligu.
Despite his stout appearance, Dong Zhuo was not at all fat—rather, he was solid and strong. He rode at the head of the column.
Constant streams of scouts reported updates.
Dong Zhuo’s Raven Scouts were the top among the eighty elite scouting units of Nangnuo.
Eight thousand elite cavalry, first-rate in the Southern Dynasty, advanced with unstoppable momentum.
Dong Zhuo habitually ground his teeth, his eyes dark with thought.
Two Engrave (approx. 30 minutes) later, not a single one of the hundred Raven Scouts sent ahead returned.
Finally, a rider galloped in, drenched in blood, his back bristling with crossbow bolts. Dong Zhuo spurred his horse forward, catching the rider before he could fall from his mount. “Speak while seated.”
The dying scout’s lips bled as he forced out clear words: “Three miles ahead—an ambush!”
He died immediately afterward.
Dong Zhuo supported the corpse with his arm, preventing it from falling from the horse. He exhaled deeply, clenched his fist, and raised it high.
The entire army stood in silence.
Battle spirit flared.
Dong Zhuo held his forces steady.
The great banner bearing the character Dong fluttered in the wind.
The ambush lay ahead at a place called Hulu Pass—broad at both ends but narrow in the middle.
The hundred Raven Scouts had surely perished there.
Dong Zhuo was always patient.
Opposite him, the enemy, knowing Dong Zhuo’s cavalry had discovered the ambush and seeing that he had no intention of advancing, surged out from Hulu Pass.
A dark line of soldiers formed like a tidal wave.
Four thousand Longxiang troops.
Eight thousand soldiers under Dong Zhuo.
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