At the foot of Longwei Slope, a fierce fire consumed the humble inn and the corpses of the armored soldiers, leaving nothing but ashes. Xu Fengnian squatted nearby, lazily stretching out his hands to warm them, gazing at the smoldering ruins. The scene reminded him of Gu Dazu’s military treatise, “The Compendium of Ashes”—a sixteen-volume masterpiece detailing the strategies of generals past and present, the geography of the realm, key defensive positions, and naval warfare. It was the first to propose that topography was the foundation of statecraft and military might, offering profound insights into the lands beneath heaven. Xiangfan was described as the backbone of the realm, while Beiliang was likened to a lion pouncing on a rabbit—an unmatched stronghold. All these ideas stemmed from “The Compendium of Ashes.” Furthermore, the book emphasized the interdependence of terrain and governance, exploring even the mineral veins hidden within mountains—an encyclopedic work indeed. Li Yishan, a man of extraordinary vision, had once praised it as opening a new paradise for future generations of strategists. Unfortunately, when the Southern Tang fell, eight of the sixteen scrolls were seized for the imperial archives, while the rest were hoarded by Gu Jiantang, a bibliophile who acquired them through various means. Beiliang managed to recover only three scrolls, and as a youth, Xu Fengnian had often been punished by Li Yishan with the task of copying these very texts—a grueling ordeal. Now, faced with the author himself, sharing wine and preparing to return to Beiliang together, Xu couldn’t help but marvel at fate’s whims. Had they met sooner, perhaps his master would have gained a drinking companion.
Hu Chunya stared at the carefree figure beside her, dumbfounded. He had ordered his retinue to slaughter so many at Longwei Slope, spilling rivers of blood, yet now he sat idly warming himself by the fire, as if nothing had happened. Why wasn’t he fleeing at full speed? She had no fondness for this white-clad man—not even the tiniest sliver of it. Having narrowly escaped death, she felt no gratitude, let alone the urge to repay a debt. She simply found him insufferable. If she could stomp a few muddy footprints onto his pristine robes, she would be satisfied.
Yet, instinctively, she glanced toward the towering man nearby—nearly nine feet tall. It was he who had stepped out of the inn, and within moments, the outside world had gone eerily silent. He dragged the corpse of the Iron Lu City archer general like a dead dog and tossed it into the roaring flames of the burning inn. Watching from behind the straw hut, Hu Chunya had nearly vomited from the sight.
Meanwhile, the naive young Li Huai’er had watched the entire scene with wide eyes, convinced that divine retribution had struck the elite soldiers. He refused to believe that any mere human could have done such a thing.
The straw hut remained untouched. Inside, the two elderly men, Gu Dazu and Huang Chang, stood side by side, gazing southward in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
By nature, people gather in like-minded groups. Ning Zong, Xu Zhan, and the Zhou Surname woman naturally gravitated toward one another. Taking advantage of the fire, the woman retrieved her sword. Her hands were bloodied and raw, though not seriously injured. She applied a secret salve of her own making, wrapped them in clean silk, and dismissed the matter. Whether traveling alone or in company, a wanderer of the martial world must carry gold and silver, but even more essential were the small vials of medicinal ointments. Though still young, the Zhou Surname woman was already a seasoned traveler, self-reliant and nearing the third tier of martial prowess. For a woman with no family or master to teach her, achieving such a feat was nothing short of miraculous.
Hu Chunya’s words were always blunt, and today was no exception. She asked a question that made Ning Zong’s eyelids twitch with unease: “Do you think he’ll kill us to silence us?”
The woman rested her hand on her sword hilt, saying nothing. To a swordsman, a blade is both lover and mentor—beloved in moments of passion, and stern in moments of discipline. Many had looked upon their swords as one might gaze upon Li Chungan’s wooden sword Maban Niu, or recall Deng Ta’a’s twisting peach branch like a blade. The Wu family sword tomb’s nine swords had held fast to their weapons even in death upon the northern plains of Beiman. Many martial artists had switched from wielding blades to swords, but few swordsmen ever abandoned their swords for other weapons. To begin with the sword in youth and end with it in old age, even if one never achieved greatness, was a path many followed.
Xu Zhan was known for his solemn demeanor. Unlike the obscurely named Zhou Qinhui, Xu had a family name that carried weight, though his household had fallen on hard times. Still, the family’s wealth remained considerable. His father, Xu Daqiu, had authored *The Treatise on Techniques*, a definitive work on staff fighting. Among the bandits and outlaws of the Huai region, the Xu family name still commanded respect, for it was said that Xu Daqiu had once met the legendary spear master Wang Xiu during his youthful travels. At the height of his fame, Wang had recognized Xu’s potential and imparted a secret technique. To the martial artists of Huai, this was akin to having a personal connection with a living immortal. But fortune and misfortune are intertwined. After Wang Xiu was slain by Chen Zhibao, the Xu family’s fortunes began to wane. Xu Daqiu died in bitterness, and Xu Zhan, having witnessed the coldness of the world, grew ever more reserved.
Compared to Hu Chunya’s instinctive loathing, Xu Zhan harbored a deeper mix of concealed jealousy and reverence toward the enigmatic young noble. Yet he did not wish Zhou Qinhui to notice, and the tension gnawed at him.
Zhou Qinhui spoke calmly, “I’ve heard that Master Huang will not be heading to the capital for now, but instead plans to visit the Shangyin Academy. I don’t trust this group, so I’ll be accompanying him. What are your plans, Uncle Ning and Young Master Xu?”
Ning Zong shook his head. He could not afford to pretend otherwise—his entire fortune had been tied to the Iron Lu soldiers, and now that they were gone, he had no choice but to return and salvage what he could. With Huang’s safety temporarily assured, Ning had no intention of sacrificing his family’s survival for the sake of chivalry. He was straightforward: “Qinhui, after such a disaster, I certainly can’t make it to Shangyin Academy.”
Xu Zhan replied gravely, “Rest assured, Uncle Ning. I will accompany Qinhui and ensure Master Huang’s safety.”
Ning Zong exhaled in relief and patted Xu Zhan’s shoulder.
Hu Chunya clapped her hands in delight. “Sister Zhou, Young Master Xu, you must come visit my home!”
Ning Zong chuckled. He had brought the girl along not only because she insisted, but also for his own reasons. Hu Chunya was the only daughter of the leader of Caishi Mountain, a revered sect in the Huai region, and the foremost martial power in the Jiujang area. Her stepfather, Zhao Hongdan, wielded a drunken sword style, preferring to fight with a cup of wine in hand. The more intoxicated he became, the more elusive and deadly his swordplay became, making him a formidable third-tier master—equivalent to one of the six senior ministers of the martial world. But even that was not all. Hu Chunya did not bear Zhao’s surname because the true leader of Caishi Mountain was Zhao’s wife, Hu Jingxia—a notorious tiger of a woman. Her grandfather was a retired general of the Southern Tang, a veteran of the Spring and Autumn Wars who had commanded thousands of fierce warriors. A ruthless man, he had killed without mercy, and Zhao Hongdan had effectively become a son-in-law by marriage.
After hastily burying the old servant who had served Huang Chang for many years, Ning Zong bid farewell to the group at the foot of Longwei Slope, riding swiftly southward, while Duan Chunan rode north to deliver news. Earlier, Yuan Zuozong had deliberately left behind several warhorses, which now proved useful. Xu Zhan, Zhou Qinhui, and Hu Chunya rode three horses, while Xu Fengnian, Gu Dazu, and Yuan Zuozong rode three more, accompanied by two carriages. Huang Chang and the boy Li Huai’er shared one carriage, driven by Lu Song. The other carriage was driven by the silent assassin Wu, while Wang Lin, who preferred not to ride inside, sat behind the boy, muttering about how Zhou’s womanly curves and arched eyebrows foretold a fertile and passionate nature—one who would bear many sons and bring great pleasure to the bedroom. The boy Wu, who had bickered with Wang Lin since their journey began outside Shenwu City, surprisingly agreed with him this time. Children, especially boys, were always eager to prove their worldly knowledge on such topics, unwilling to be seen as inexperienced in matters of love.
Hardly had they left Longwei Slope when a group of riders blocked their path—about twenty in total, their attire as varied as their appearances. Some wore colorful silk robes even in winter, cradling delicate young boys in their arms. Others bared their chests, wearing live snakes as belts. An elderly man in embroidered robes dozed atop his horse, nodding like a chick pecking at rice. A refined young man fanned himself with a folding fan, draped in fox fur. A towering giant, nearly ten feet tall, held a copper ball in his hands. And a jester-like dwarf bounced atop a horse far too large for him, his robe trailing on the ground. The sight was so bizarre it seemed like a descent into the ghost city of Fengdu.
Hu Chunya stared in disbelief. This time, she truly felt as though she had seen a ghost in broad daylight.
Xu Zhan and Zhou Qinhui exchanged glances, both detecting a flicker of fear in the other’s eyes. Though all twenty were highwaymen, their formation was precise and disciplined. The two recognized one rider near the rear—a bald man with a scarred head, dressed in a robe that was neither Longhu Mountain nor Wudang, but something rare and unsettling. A brilliantly feathered parrot perched on his shoulder. This man was the most feared rogue in the Huai region, killing on a whim. Even the venerable Master Liang had suffered at his hands. Caishi Mountain had once mobilized a hundred riders and several martial heroes to hunt him down after he had violated and killed one of their women, but even Zhao Hongdan and his allies had failed to capture him.
Yet this feared villain was only positioned near the rear of the formation. In the martial world, hierarchy was everything—strength determined rank, and the weak were left to cool their heels.
At the front of the group rode a single figure, keeping a deliberate distance from the others. He was an unremarkable man, solid in build, with no distinguishing features. Behind him, the woman in the colorful silk robe clicked her tongue in mock surprise. “The cries of ghosts echoed across Longwei Slope, and over a hundred souls were sent across the Bridge of No Return with bowls of Mengpo soup. Young master, your hands are as ruthless as any in our sect.”
Xu Fengnian frowned. The *Martial Sect*? Sixty years ago, the great Daoist master Qi Xuanzhen had single-handedly eradicated the Six Demon Lords at the Demon-Slaying Platform, a feat that shook the heavens. Since then, the sect had been reduced to shadows, like rats scurrying in the dark. Could these people truly be their descendants?
Had they gathered here to recruit him into their fold?
Could it be that they had heard of Hong Xixiang’s self-sacrifice—Hong, the reincarnation of Qi Xuanzhen—and believed that the time had come for the sect to rise again?
Xu Fengnian gently nudged his horse forward, the hooves tapping lightly as he smiled. “So, you want me to be your sect leader? Good taste!”
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage