Six hundred riders had crossed half of the Green Serpent Prefecture, yet Huang Xiaokuai, the Pearl Officer, still hadn’t caught sight of the Prince’s figure. He was beginning to lose his composure—if something untoward had happened to the Prince, how could a mere officer from Lingzhou dare face the General with his head still attached? Fortunately, General Han Laoshan, the deputy commander of Lingzhou, offered soothing words of comfort. Huang Xiaokuai had no choice but to suppress his inner turmoil, for Han General held the distinguished honor of having served as the personal retinue to the Martial Emperor for over a decade, and knew the ins and outs of the Cool Mountain Mansion thoroughly, which eased Huang’s anxiety somewhat.
Northern Liang was no shortage of generals like Dong Yueqi, who, after years of indulgence in luxury, had lost their original purpose. Yet men like Huang Xiaokuai, loyal and grateful, were also not few. The Spring and Autumn Wars had only ended a generation ago, and this grand estate of Northern Liang, with the barbarian tribes of Northern Man eyeing hungrily from beyond the northern walls, barely managed to remain uncorrupted. Many still remembered the blood and smoke of the battlefield, either on their own bodies or those of their forebears.
At a roadside tavern, the wind and snow howled outside like a mournful lament, while large snowflakes fell in thick torrents. Two men, separated by a generation, sat facing each other. They had ordered two jugs of strong, fiery liquor—difficult to swallow but warming to the stomach—and sipped slowly. The tavern was nearly empty, save for a spear without a tassel resting on the table, which somewhat tempered the owner’s inclination to overcharge. Those who could openly carry weapons on the roads of Northern Liang were no ordinary folk.
The tavern keeper, hands tucked into his sleeves, could not help but glance repeatedly at the young nobleman in tattered clothes. He didn’t seem to come from a poor family, so why was he dressed so shabbily in such bitter cold? Did he not fear freezing to death on the street? This accursed, merciless sky—every year at the turn of winter and spring, there were always those who couldn’t survive the chill.
Xu Fengnian, battered and wretched all along the journey, took a sip of the fiery liquor and felt warmth spread through his body. Across from him, Xu Yanbing spoke slowly, “All rivers flow to the sea; all martial paths return to their source. Whether one practices sword, saber, or spear, in the end it is all about forging that single essence of form, spirit, and intent. These words may sound like a summary of the essentials, or they may seem like empty platitudes, but they must still be spoken. When I left my master’s school to wander the Jianghu, my senior brother Wang Xiu and the Sword Immortal of Spring and Autumn, Li Chungan, were at the height of their rivalry. I heard many praises, one of which came from Huang Longshan, the third-place finisher in the Spring and Autumn Sword Tournament: ‘How laughable, the short-sightedness of the world, unaware of the enduring sword qi.’ It described how Li Chungan’s sword intent was unrivaled under heaven, his sword drawn, and the aura surged to the heavens like a mighty spectacle.
At first, I thought it merely an elegant exaggeration. Later, when I myself advanced from the Diamond to the Finger Zen realm, I realized this saying was not baseless. Whether techniques are complex or simple, they must all yield before the words “spirit” and “intent.” And when the myriad forms of intent under heaven are broken down, there are countless varieties—like the many roads beneath your feet. Among them, the path of sword intent is the most eye-catching, for so many swordsmen walk it, creating a landscape of towering peaks, like an unbroken dragon vein.
Cultivating intent for martial artists is akin to cultivating aura for officials—it is essentially the same. Earlier, when I mentioned sword intent to the Prince, it was not simply to urge him to abandon the saber for the sword, but because the old sword immortal, with his twin sleeves of green serpents, and the Sword Grave nurturing flying swords, had a profound foundation. Though his realm may have fallen, it was merely his inner energy that diminished, not hindering the rise of his intent like a tower from flat ground. Especially after the Prince’s epiphany while crafting a qin at Taosai Tower, and how the “Man-Cat” Han Shengxuan could use Finger Zen to slay a Heaven’s Will cultivator, his mastery of Finger Zen was second only to Deng Tai’a in all the world, earning him the title “Unrivaled Under the Heavens, Han the Immortal.” In the Life and Death battles of martial cultivators, it is not like the refined debates of scholars—we only care about winning by any means necessary. Take that West Shu grass hall master killed by the Prince as an example. In theory, he might have seemed like a terrestrial immortal, but against a top-tier martial artist tempered in blood, he was nothing—just a paper tiger, easily torn apart.
They say that the poor rarely produce noble sons, and that the soft and luxurious rarely produce top-tier martial artists. These people, even if they start from high places and appear dazzling, do not understand nor care for unconventional, unorthodox methods. When facing opponents of equal strength, they can only be humiliated.
If it weren’t so, how could those born with masters and secret manuals, so privileged, fail to reach the pinnacle of the Jianghu? What pleases me about the Prince is that during his journey to Northern Man, he placed himself in certain death and gradually honed his realm. He stumbled and staggered, but once he attained it, it was real and solid—unlike many young scions from martial families who possess countless secret manuals but have not written even half a volume themselves. They follow others step by step, never forging their own path—how can they become true talents?
When I left my master’s school, one reason was that I was an adopted disciple, unwilling to compete with my senior brother Wang Xiu. Another reason was that I did not want to remain in a well, unaware of the world beyond, wanting to see the landscapes and people of the Jianghu with my own eyes, and to witness the immortals and sages who come and go in the world. Over the years, drinking and chatting with my senior brother Han Laoshan, he also said that entering the Jianghu too late had caused him to stagnate in the Finger Zen realm for many years, perhaps never reaching the Heaven’s Will realm. Back then, among the four direct disciples of our master, the most gifted was not me, nor Wang Xiu, but a man named Wu Jinling who never appeared in the Jianghu. He entered the first rank at nine, the second at twelve, and the Diamond at seventeen. A prodigy beyond compare, almost rivaling Li Chungan, who was known for breaking through realms faster than anyone else in the world. But after a life-and-death battle with Wang Xiu over the leadership of the sect, he suffered a crushing defeat, lost all his spirit, and his cultivation plummeted. He drank heavily and died drunk in the street, just like this weather.”
Xu Fengnian laughed, “A pity indeed. Otherwise, Northern Liang would have gained another Grand Master who reached the pinnacle.”
Xu Yanbing, rarely sentimental, sighed, “Jianghu, Jianghu—whenever a stone is thrown in, whether it creates ripples in the lake or stirs up waves in the river, there will always be people drowning in it. One day, it might be our turn. If Wu Jinling had been like Zhao Ningshen of the Dragon and Tiger Mountain Celestial Masters’ Hall, he would now be at least at my level or even higher.”
Xu Fengnian shook his head, “Some people are fine as spectators of the Jianghu, but simply not suited to live in it. It’s like those top scholars in the imperial court—few of them ever rise to the rank of second-grade officials. They get scattered by the winds and tides before long, far outmatched by ordinary jinshi graduates.”
Xu Yanbing nodded, “One must believe in fate, especially after accidentally reaching the Heaven’s Will realm, when one realizes that the concept of fortune and destiny is not mere nonsense invented by our ancestors.”
Xu Fengnian drained his bowl of liquor and lowered his voice, “Earlier, while crafting the qin, I had an epiphany—I Enlightened the meaning of coming and going.”
Xu Yanbing, intrigued, set down his bowl and asked with a smile, “Your Highness, what do you mean by that?”
Xu Fengnian tucked his hands into his sleeves, gazing out the window at the fierce snowfall, his eyes distant and dreamy, “I once fought Wang Xianzhi by chance. It wasn’t a particularly exhilarating battle. In the final moments, the old freak could barely muster seven or eight parts of his strength. Afterward, I wandered alone in the wilderness—I don’t know whether my soul had left my body or if I had fallen into madness. First, all the mountains, rivers, and landscapes of the world faded from my mind. That feeling was indescribably wondrous, as if I held the entire world in my hands, yet could discard it like a worn-out rag. It was even more liberating than being an emperor of men. Then, with nothing left outside myself, I grew bored and began to bring those things back one by one. But in this process of losing and regaining, I was merely an observer at first, gaining nothing. Until I helped craft a qin at Taosai Tower, I remembered that the purpose of crafting a qin is to give voice to injustice. Combined with what I saw of Song Nianqing’s Fourteenth Sword, I vaguely sensed that ultimately, this Immortal Sword was crying out for someone’s injustice. And I, in my youth, did many reckless and wasteful things, squandering my family’s fortune. Now, I am merely picking them up one by one again. But the injustice I wish to cry out is not for that. It was during that time, when my spirit was wandering thousands of miles away, just before I gathered my thoughts, I found myself high above the nine heavens. In a daze, I saw dragons writhing, clouds rolling, and rain falling. Many immortals sat upright, each in their proper place among the celestial ranks. Regardless of the shifting clouds, they held fishing rods in their hands—without line or hook—yet they sat high above all beings, repeatedly casting their rods and drawing forth the subtle threads of fortune from all under heaven. Especially over Northern Liang, the fishing rods were lifted more frequently. And the back of one immortal, singing loudly, was strangely familiar to me, yet I could not recall who it was. I have injustice that I cannot cry out. What am I to do? That is why I want to know—if above us there truly are beings greater than us, is there any way to test whether we can slay dragons and kill immortals? Only then can I feel at peace!”
Even Xu Yanbing, whose cultivation and insight were unfathomable, was left speechless by such audacious and heaven-defying words.
Xu Fengnian suddenly stood up, gazing eastward, “The Spring and Autumn Sword, suspended outside the Wu Di City in the Eastern Sea, has finally moved.”
※※※
East of the Dongfeng Prefecture lay the Zhuei Prefecture. A young nobleman, elegant and refined, rode leisurely, a white-sheathed long saber resting across his shoulders. His hands lazily draped over the blade, swaying gently with the rhythm of the horse’s gait. A folding fan, carved from jade, hung at his waist, his demeanor calm and composed. Beside him was a retainer who did not ride, but ran nimbly behind the horse, his steps swift and sure.
Suddenly, the nobleman halted his horse and turned his gaze far to the east. The muscular retainer cautiously asked, “Master, has the Northern Liang Prince finally made his move?”
The nobleman’s delicate fingers, pale and slender like a woman’s, tapped gently against the saber sheath, as if soothing the famous blade within. His smile was captivating, “Not yet. But that old man, Sui Xiegu, and his sword have finally had their fill. It’s time for him to face off against Wang Xianzhi with one decisive strike.”
The retainer grinned, “Master, if the Prince indeed kills Di Wuhe, the leader of the Army-Mountain, he won’t be an easy opponent. You should be careful.”
The nobleman rolled his eyes, his gaze resembling a woman’s flirtatious glance, “Insolent! Speak out of turn again and I’ll strike you!”
The retainer, who had only meant to offer a warning, immediately fell silent. A sharp slap struck his cheek, leaving a trail of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Satisfied, the nobleman spurred his horse forward, muttering to himself, “The world says the former Taoist Abbot Hong Xixiang of Wudang was the reincarnation of Qi Xian Xia, the Sword Immortal who Demon Slayer. As for me, I’m distantly related to those uncles, aunts, and elders who were slain by Qi Xian Xia, even if they are of the same generation as me. Age-wise, they’re far older. I don’t know why Hong Xixiang chose to dissolve his body himself. Since that Xu fellow has such a deep connection with Wudang Mountain, who else should I trouble but him? Once I deal with Xu Fengnian, I’ll stay in Northern Liang for a year or two, and then I can take over the leadership of Zhu Lu Mountain from afar. I don’t enjoy the taste of being dominated by a woman. I have no interest in women being above men. Let her fight it out with the Huishan Xuan Yuan Qingfeng first. If it doesn’t work out, I might even pay Zhu Lu Mountain a personal visit to settle matters myself. Even one-on-one, I may still not be her match, but with several thousand cavalry and a hundred imperial guards, even Wang Xianzhi won’t be safe from my wrath. That Demon Sect will, in due time, become rightfully mine.”
The retainer chuckled, “Master could even sit on the Dragon Throne and hold it firmly!”
The nobleman released his grip on the saber sheath, which spun in a wide circle, centered on him and his horse. Within a radius of ten zhang, the snowflakes were crushed into a fine mist.
The retainer clearly heard the nobleman sneer from atop his horse, “Yue Zhang, you may be a Diamond Realm expert who barely escaped the claws of the Man-Cat, but you should still have some dignity. It’s embarrassing enough bringing a clumsy fellow like you along on a journey.”
The retainer grinned obsequiously, “It’s a great honor just to run errands for Master.”
The nobleman smirked, “Looks like the Fangcun Thunder I learned eighty percent from Gu Jiantang has already broken your spine.”
The retainer nodded eagerly in agreement.
The nobleman tilted his head, gazing at the swirling snowflakes in the sky, a look of helplessness on his face, “The Jianghu is so dull.”
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