Chapter 4: Going to the Mountain to Pick Hawthorns

Young Master Xu tossed a few handfuls of fish feed, growing weary of the koi fish’s frenzied splashing. He clapped his hands and stood up. Jiang Ni had already prepared a silk cloth soaked in warm water for him to wipe his hands, but Xu Fengnian didn’t take it. Three years of hardship had made luxury feel foreign again, and transitioning back to extravagance required time.

He left the Listening Tide Pavilion alone, turning back at the last moment to tease, “Sister Jiang Ni, don’t even think about sneaking into the tower to steal a martial arts manual. You know any of the guardians inside could crush you—your little dagger ‘Divine Talisman’ won’t save you. Those old geezers aren’t half as chivalrous as I am. A girl like you should stick to grinding ink and adding fragrance to sleeves. Alright, stop glaring—I noticed how pretty your eyes were the moment I saw you.”

After teasing his maid, Xu Fengnian headed toward the stables he shared with his second sister. Along the way, he couldn’t resist flirting with the pretty maids—grabbing a waist here, holding a delicate hand there. For the more voluptuous ones, he’d shamelessly brush against their ample bosoms and quip, “Oh my, carrying around so much extra weight must be exhausting,” earning a chorus of tinkling, bashful laughter.

The stable was absurdly lavish, more extravagant than most wealthy estates, yet it housed only a single, lonely chestnut-colored lame horse.

Old Huang, the stableman who had served the manor for years, was chatting with the horse. When he spotted the young master he’d spent three hard years with, he grinned toothlessly. Xu Fengnian rolled his eyes and asked in surprise, “Old Huang, where’s your box? Why aren’t you carrying it?”

Old Huang, with his thick, unrefined Western Shu accent—a dialect most in the empire despised—was a man of few words. The tiny state of Western Shu, with its mere sixty thousand soldiers, had met the same fate as the Western Chu Dynasty—crushed by the Northern Liang King. But unlike Jiang Ni, Old Huang was obedient and harmless.

During those three years of bitter wandering, if not for Old Huang’s skills—fishing, climbing trees, stealing chickens, and even teaching Xu Fengnian how to weave straw sandals—the young master would’ve starved to death far from home.

The old servant carried a tattered cloth bundle containing a single sandalwood box, which he adamantly refused to let Xu Fengnian open. At first, Xu Fengnian had assumed it was some legendary weapon case, thinking his father had at least sent a hidden master to protect him. But after their first encounter with bandits, where Old Huang fled faster than a stray dog, Xu Fengnian’s hopes were dashed.

Every time he tried to coax Old Huang into opening the box, the old man would just shake his head and grin. Xu Fengnian would curse, “It’s not like I’m asking your wife to strip naked for me!”

Once, in Qinghe County, while Old Huang was relieving himself, Xu Fengnian couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at the box. But no matter how he fiddled with it, he couldn’t unlock its secrets. The box itself was icy to the touch, and when Old Huang caught him, the look he gave was more pitiful than a maiden Xu Fengnian had teased in Lingzhou’s streets.

Perhaps as divine retribution, Xu Fengnian fell ill the very next day. Old Huang brewed medicine, boiled water, and even stole sweet potatoes to roast, tirelessly caring for him. For ten days, the old man carried Xu Fengnian on his bony back—an uncomfortable ride, but one that left the young master with unspoken gratitude.

After that, Xu Fengnian never tried to steal the box again. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what secret it held—though he doubted it was anything earth-shattering. What grand secret could an old stableman possibly have?

One memory remained vivid: after narrowly escaping bandits, Xu Fengnian had asked, “Old Huang, are you a martial arts master?”

Old Huang nodded with a shyness that would’ve been charming on a beautiful woman.

Xu Fengnian pressed, “A really high-level one?”

Old Huang grew even shyer, tilting his head slightly before nodding again.

Recalling how they’d just been chased by peasants wielding wooden spears and cleavers, Xu Fengnian suppressed the urge to punch him. “How high?”

Old Huang blinked, pondered, then gestured—first matching Xu Fengnian’s height, then lowering his hand slightly. Any hope Xu Fengnian had clung to evaporated.

So, Xu Fengnian had every reason to resent his father, the Great Pillar of the State. Not only had the man failed to assign him a proper bodyguard, but he’d also neglected to teach him the most basic rule of the jianghu: don’t flaunt your wealth. Instead, he’d encouraged, “Son, survival is priority number one when traveling. Here, wear this indestructible Black Tortoise Armor, these gloves woven from Ice Silkworm silk, and take these three or four peerless martial manuals—like the *Supreme Purple Sun Scripture* from Wudang. Toss any one of these into the martial world, and you’ll spark a bloodbath. Study them when you can—who knows, you might become a master overnight! See how much your father loves you? Oh, and take these silver notes. Those jade pendants at your waist? Each is worth hundreds of taels of gold. Run out of money? Just pawn them. You’ll live like a king.”

At first, Xu Fengnian had thought it sounded perfect—a carefree journey with endless wealth, beautiful women, and famous heroes to befriend. But reality proved otherwise. He’d been nothing more than a fat sheep for slaughter, loved and hunted by all. In the end, those “peerless manuals” were only good for toilet paper.

Only half of the *Gold-Devouring Scripture* remained—an incomprehensible text no matter how he looked at it. But it finally proved useful when he encountered the White Fox-Faced beauty, more stunning than any courtesan in Lingzhou. Recognizing its value, the stranger agreed to escort Xu Fengnian home in exchange for the manual.

For half a year, Xu Fengnian tried every trick to befriend this rare, genuine master who harbored no ill intent. But the White Fox-Faced man remained aloof, keeping his distance unless bandits blocked their path.

Entering the stable, Xu Fengnian fed the lame horse a handful of hay and sighed. “Red Hare, if Second Sister sees what’s become of you—a once-proud Ferghana steed reduced to this—she’ll knock my head clean off.”

For three years, this horse, a falcon, and Old Huang—thankfully not yet senile—had been his only companions.

After feeding the horse, Xu Fengnian remembered the intelligence report that the White Fox-Faced man was still in the city. He decided to leave the manor and seek some long-missed fun.

Back when he was down on his luck, the man had mocked, “If you’re a noble young master, then I’m a woman.” Now, Xu Fengnian had every reason to flaunt his restored status.

Before, he’d taken his father’s influence for granted. Now, he still believed in leveraging it—but with newfound appreciation. After two years of suffering, he understood how precious privilege was in this merciless world.

Old Huang, attuned to his master’s moods, rubbed his hands and mimed drinking.

Xu Fengnian laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll treat you to the finest, most expensive Huadiao wine. Let’s go!”

Just as they stepped out, they ran into the old Daoist who looked every bit the celestial immortal. No guessing needed—the charlatan was here to beg Xu Fengnian to convince his younger brother to study at Dragon Tiger Mountain.

Twelve years ago, Xu Fengnian had set dogs on this very priest. Thanks to his late mother’s Buddhist faith, he held monks in some respect. But fortune-tellers? He smashed their stalls on sight. This old Daoist had been unlucky.

Back then, the disheveled, lice-ridden priest had barely escaped with his chastity intact. Their first meeting had been rocky, but it ended passably. Before parting, young Xu Fengnian had lectured the Dragon Tiger Mountain patriarch: “Old man, if you’re going to swindle people, at least invest in decent robes. Every Daoist immortal in those fantasy novels wears a grand yellow crown and robes—looking ready to ascend to heaven with one last breath. Why not learn from them? Next time you show up looking like this, I’ll set the dogs on you again!”

Clearly, the old Daoist—surnamed Zhao—had taken the advice to heart. Now, he wore pristine robes, a towering yellow crown, and carried an ancient peachwood sword. Everywhere he went, he received the reverence he’d never known in his earlier, vagabond days—a stark contrast to the dour faces back on the mountain.

Xu Fengnian slung an arm around the priest’s shoulders and whispered slyly, “Old goat, sending my brother to Dragon Tiger Mountain is all well and good. But shouldn’t your sect show some gratitude for this ‘heaven-sent bond’ with my father? Otherwise, why shouldn’t he train at Wudang instead? Their scenery’s better, and I could visit him whenever.”

The old Daoist hesitated, glancing around before surreptitiously pulling out a yellowed ancient manual. Reluctantly, he offered, “This *Riding Dragon Sword Manual*—”

Xu Fengnian instantly recoiled in disgust, pointing toward the Listening Tide Pavilion. “Damn it, Zhao, you’re insulting me. If I wanted martial manuals—for inner energy or weapons—do you think I’d need to look elsewhere? Have some shame.”

Unlike the clueless priest, Old Huang had learned to read his master well. He smirked alongside Xu Fengnian.

The old Daoist suddenly remembered the manor’s famed “Martial Repository”—the Listening Tide Pavilion. Flushing, he withdrew the manual, embarrassed. “Then what would you prefer?”

Xu Fengnian lowered his voice. “Does Dragon Tiger Mountain have any pretty young Daoist nuns? Older is fine—just not past thirty-five. Beyond that, they’re too old. No matter how well-maintained, they lose that ‘ripe charm.’”

The priest gasped.

Xu Fengnian arched a brow. “What? None? Or you won’t share?”

After a brief internal struggle—or perhaps just for show—the old man whispered, “There are some… but they’re disciples of my fellow priests. I’ve always been selective with students, so my lineage is small. But if the young master wishes to study Daoist teachings, I’d be happy to introduce a few junior female disciples.”

Xu Fengnian clapped his shoulder. “Now you’re talking.”

The old Daoist began silently reciting the *Three-Five Merit Scripture* to atone, thinking, *Ancestors, forgive me—this is for Dragon Tiger Mountain’s thousand-year legacy!*

Then, with urgency, the priest—one of Dragon Tiger Mountain’s three grandmasters—said, “We must choose an auspicious time for the apprenticeship. If we don’t depart today, we’ll miss the window—bad for the young prince’s fortune.”

Xu Fengnian frowned. “Right now?”

The priest nodded gravely. “Right now.”

Xu Fengnian, who’d hoped to take his brother hunting one last time, took a deep breath. He told Old Huang to wait outside, then led the unconvincing “grandmaster” to his beloved younger brother, Xu Longxiang.

A hundred paces from the stable, the old Daoist glanced back at the grinning Old Huang. Some unspoken tension in his steps eased.

Xu Fengnian found his brother squatting, watching ants—again. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Stop that. Dragon Tiger Mountain has bigger ants. Go study there, then come back early with a sack of wild hawthorns for me, got it?”

The idiot prince—genuinely simple-minded—stood up and nodded vigorously, grinning and drooling as usual.

The old Daoist gaped. The impossible task—one even the Great Pillar of the State, who’d once shaken the martial world, had failed at—was solved just like that?

Xu Fengnian wiped his brother’s drool and chuckled. “Silly Huang Man. See this old man? He’s your master now. At Dragon Tiger Mountain, you can beat anyone—except him. If anyone calls you stupid, crush them. If you can’t, have him write to me. I’ll bring the Northern Liang cavalry two thousand miles to storm Dragon Tiger Mountain—to hell with their ‘orthodox Daoism’! Remember: no one gets to bully you. In this world, only we brothers and our two sisters get to bully others!”

Xu Longxiang probably understood half of that, but he nodded anyway.

The old Daoist’s heart pounded in terror.

With Xu Fengnian’s intervention, Xu Longxiang offered no resistance. The manor wasted no time—forty elite cavalry led by the adopted son Qi Dangguo, plus hidden experts from the Northern Liang Manor and a Dragon Tiger Mountain grandmaster, ensured no one would dare interfere.

At the farewell, Xu Fengnian stood before his brother and said softly, “Silly Huang Man, I won’t be around to wipe your drool anymore. But I promise—I’ll still find you the most beautiful woman in the world as your wife. If she refuses, I’ll tie her up and drag her to your wedding chamber.”

The heaven-blessed, dragon-elephant-strong but simple-minded boy felt emotions intensely—especially his deep dependence on the brother who, after their mother, was the only one who’d ever wiped his drool away.

At the age of fourteen, Xu Fengnian stirred up a calamitous storm. The usually lenient Grand Pillar of the State, who never raised a hand or voice against his children, nearly lashed out with an iron whip at his most beloved son. No one dared to intervene or stop him—until the simple-minded Huang Man stubbornly shielded his elder brother, refusing to yield an inch.

Xu Fengnian’s eyes burned with fury as he turned to the old Taoist and enunciated each word: “Zhao, you old ox-nosed priest, I warned you—no one lays a finger on Huang Man. I, Xu Fengnian, may be a worthless wastrel with no strength to even wring a chicken’s neck, but you know damn well what the consequences will be.”

The old Taoist gave an awkward chuckle and nodded with a bitter smile.

As the procession gradually faded into the distance, neither Xu Fengnian nor his father, Xu Xiao, escorted them beyond the city gates.

Xu Fengnian found Old Huang standing beside a jade lion and said with a light laugh, “No mood for drinking today. Maybe later?”

The old servant grinned—simple, radiant, his weathered face like a vast reed field only seen in the wilderness beyond the city. It might not be called enchanting or majestic, but it carried its own sentiment. Like a jar of aged wine, sealed away for countless years.