Once upon a time, the land of Chu Yue Tang was overrun by wild boars and wolves, but now it is filled with dog butchers and donkey peddlers, thieves and slaves. The mighty Spring and Autumn era has faded into nothing more than melancholy and sorrow. How ironic, how tragic?
Huang Longshi, the infamous culprit behind the sinking of the Divine Continent, witnessed the pitiful scenes of scholars fleeing northward. Rather than shedding a tear, he merely laughed heartily, composing several songs of schadenfreude for future generations to hum. He claimed that not only should the martial world be grateful for his chaotic reversal of fortune, but the literary world should as well, for “when a nation suffers, poets thrive.”
During the final moves of the grand game of conquest known as the Spring and Autumn era, the exodus of scholars northward was recorded in the official histories of Liyang as a single event: the Yonghui Northern Crossing. Lavished with elegant prose and praised without reservation, it was likened to the tale of the “Eight Noble Clans Crossing Guangling.” However, in the historical records of the Northern Desert, there were two crossings. The first was briefly mentioned, but the second, occurring before Xu Xiao was enfeoffed in Beiliang, was far more significant. Disillusioned with the Liyang court, many Central Plains scholars and elites poured into the Southern Court of the Northern Desert. Today, the so-called aristocratic families that dominate the Southern Court are mostly those who fled north in disgrace, like stray dogs. These great clans, without sparing any effort, schemed covertly in the capital of Tai’an, hoping that the relatively mild-tempered Gu Jiantang would be enfeoffed as King of Beiliang rather than that executioner, Xu. They believed that whoever became the King of a Different Surname would determine whether Liyang’s future policies would be strict or lenient. But the result was bitterly disappointing—the cripple insisted on personally guarding the empire’s northwestern gateway not as a mere frontier official, but as a feudal lord. Thus, they hoped to escape before the gates were completely shut, believing that survival was more important than honor. Even if they were to be cursed for clinging to the Northern savages, they would do so without hesitation. For these colossal families, whose lineage often included three generations of high officials, a change of dynasty was never a catastrophe. To them, the fall of a nation was a minor matter compared to the collapse of a family.
Entire noble families abandoned their ancestral roots. Among their losses were the precious family genealogies and ancestral portraits, cherished for centuries, now scattered across the muddy roads of their flight.
Spring rain drizzled. A young man squatted by the roadside, unable to pick up or flip through the scattered scrolls. He could only gaze at an open page of a family genealogy. The calligrapher was clearly a master, his brushstrokes elegant yet firm. Each word was a gem, succinctly capturing the achievements of an ancestor in just a few strokes. Then, a weary mule carrying four lacquered trunks stepped heavily on the page, crushing it into the mud, its inked characters fading into obscurity. The young man stood up, his eyes following the endless stream of people moving northward—family after family, surname after surname. He turned his gaze back to the mule, whose rope had snapped, causing one of the trunks to crash to the ground, splattering mud everywhere. The mule driver paid no heed, lashing the animal instead—not out of sorrow for the priceless ancient texts inside, but out of frustration at the mule’s slow pace.
After the chaotic procession of mules and horses passed, the following caravan was far more orderly. There were no lowly beasts like donkeys or mules, only high-spirited steeds, ostentatious yet impractical for the journey north. The caravan stretched for nearly four hundred people, and those riding or sitting in carriages—regardless of age—did not seem as anxious as those before and after them. Some children in white robes, their clothes slightly dampened by the spring rain, clustered behind the carriage curtains. Boys and girls alike, they did not carry books but recited verses aloud. An elderly teacher, resembling a village scholar, sat among them, eyes closed in meditation, occasionally joining the students in recitation.
Xu Fengnian, who wandered the Spring and Autumn dream, did not follow this caravan. He stood still, listening as they recited from the *Qian Zi Wen*: from “women aspire to chastity, men emulate virtue,” to “uphold noble conduct, and honor will follow,” and finally to “ride in high carriages, with caps and tassels fluttering.” The sound of their voices gradually faded.
The elderly teacher, who had remained silent throughout, finally spoke once, his voice filled with emotion: “Uphold righteousness, integrity, and humility—even in adversity, never waver!”
Xu Fengnian thought to himself: These are not the disgraced dogs of history, fleeing in shame. They are the true bearers of the northern migration, the true inheritors of culture. One day, they will return to their ancestral homes to pay homage. But the old teacher, he knew, would never see the willows of his hometown again, nor the glow of fireflies on mossy stones.
Amid the stream of people, an old Confucian scholar, long abandoned by all, stepped forward and stared at Xu Fengnian. To the living, his foolish demeanor was nothing new. On this journey north, too many old men had died of illness, despair, or drowned themselves in rivers.
The old scholar, drenched in spring rain, smiled as he stroked his beard: “At last, I have found you.”
“Did you foresee this?” Xu Fengnian instinctively asked, though his voice was silent. Yet this old scholar, who would one day offer him a bun, could see him—and “hear” his words.
To the eyes of others, the old man merely nodded and smiled to himself. “The Daoist said, no—rather, one day in the future, I will tell you in Daomaguan: ‘This Daoist, Yuan Qingshan, does not calculate heaven or earth, only people. Zhao Xitao bestowed the Great Dream of Spring and Autumn upon your younger brother, Xu Longxiang—it is a long and dark path. But that bun is a lantern to light the way.’”
Yuan Qingshan smiled. “Two dynasties have destroyed Buddhism, yet only Beiliang remains faithful. Since you are willing to bear this burden, you deserve the fortune that Liu Songtao once held. You have built the lantern’s frame, and thus the blood of the monk Longshu will light its wick. Alas, I never did get to see the other two ‘you.’”
Xu Fengnian asked, “Do you not fear that the Northern Desert will be destroyed by Liyang?”
Yuan Qingshan shook his head calmly. “Dynasties may rise and fall, but the righteous spirit must endure.”
Xu Fengnian looked up at the gray sky and murmured, “This ‘I’ has seen Qi Xuanzhen sit atop the Demon-Slaying Platform, slaying the Heavenly Demon. I have seen Li Chungan, clad in green, wield his sword into Xishu, his blade rolling like a dragon against the city walls. I have seen the Sword Emperor of Xishu defend the nation’s gates with a single sword, until his blade shattered and his body was trampled into pulp by horses. I have seen Deng Tai’a ride a donkey into the martial world, wielding a branch. I have seen Wang Mingyang, the defender of Xiangfan, take his own life after the city fell, holding a jar of his wife and children’s dried bones, which he once used to cook. I have seen countless people and events, yet I have never found what I was seeking.”
Yuan Qingshan spoke in riddles: “One heart, two paths, three dreams in Spring and Autumn—each seeks something. Not beyond the roots of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism. The latter two are naturally close to you; you need not seek them, for they have already found you. It is only a matter of time. But the Confucian righteous spirit—if you seek it deliberately, you may never find it. Even if you search for Cao Deyi, the chess master, or Zhang Julu, the prime minister with the green eyes, you will find nothing but futility.”
Xu Fengnian sighed. “Then how do I block the path?”
Yuan Qingshan closed his eyes, fingers moving in calculation. When he opened them, he said slowly, “This Daoist is no immortal, and I cannot predict what happens after my ascension. But here and now, no matter how hard I calculate, you cannot stop Wang Xianzhi.”
Xu Fengnian showed no anxiety. Yuan Qingshan gazed at his aura, his fingers moving rapidly, his expression shifting. “Strange! The more I calculate, the more certain your death becomes! If that is so, why will I later trade a bun for a copper coin with you?”
The Confucian-clad Northern Desert National Master fell into thought. After a long while, he looked up. “Perhaps this is the flaw in the Dao of Heaven. Even I cannot foresee all people and events. I must not speak to you too long—I must escort these scholars into the Northern Desert. Xu Fengnian, take care of yourself.”
Xu Fengnian nodded.
He remained in place, trailing the muddy caravan, watching them head northward toward what would one day be the border of Youzhou.
Then, without thinking, Xu Fengnian closed his eyes. In this black-and-white Spring and Autumn world, he had closed his eyes many times. Each time he opened them, it was like a new dream. He could never predict where or when he would awaken, or who he would see next.
He opened and closed his eyes several times.
He saw the entire process of building the Qingliang Mountain Mansion. He learned why the old man in the sheepskin coat had been sealed beneath the great pavilion—it was the ruins of Fengdu, the hometown of the female Grandmaster of the Green Robe, one of the Four Great Masters. While many believed Fengdu to be a ghostly underground city, the truth was that the Grandmaster had chosen a place by a green lake and named it Fengdu. Perhaps she believed that the dead of heart could only find peace in a land of the dead. Or perhaps she simply loved the color green, like the desert’s lone emerald.
The old man, one-armed and swordless, held the mountain alone, repelling hundreds of Xu Xiao’s elite riders. Later, Xu Xiao came alone several times, bearing fine wines from the Central Plains, rare treasures in the poor land of Beiliang. He sat beside the old man, speaking of thoughts he could share with no one else. Often, he drank until he was drunk, babbling drunkenly beside the old man, only to be carried down the mountain by Li Yishan.
One day, the old man finally accepted a new jar of wine from Xu Xiao. For the first time, he spoke, asking the mighty King of Beiliang what he thought of the wine. Xu Xiao frankly replied that this nameless cheap wine was far inferior to the past vintages, but it was cheap, easy to drink, and got him drunk quickly—good enough. The old man took a sip and said the wine was called “Green Ants.” Once, someone had tried to persuade him to drink it, but he had despised its harshness.
Later, his second sister composed a poem. The name “Green Ants” became known beyond Beiliang, spreading through Liyang’s court and commoners alike.
Then, closing and opening his eyes again, he saw two girls entering the Wutong Courtyard of Qingliang Mountain for the first time. One was still called Hong She, and the other was Qing Niao, though she later took the surname Wang—Wang Qing Niao.
At that time, their personalities were completely different from what they would become. Hong She carried the aura of the Northern Desert, her gaze sharp as a blade, hostile to all, even the young master she was meant to serve, the Beiliang Crown Prince Xu Fengnian. Qing Niao was the opposite. Her father was Wang Xiu, the youngest and last to die among the Four Great Masters, the “Spear Immortal.” Doted upon in her youth, she entered the mansion not as a servant, but as a young noble guest. At the time, her uncle Liu Yanbing, who had not yet changed his surname, brought her into the Prince’s Mansion. She did not meet the young Xu Fengnian.
Later, a great tragedy occurred: Chen Zhibao betrayed and killed his master. Liu Yanbing, alone and armed, challenged the Beiliang King, who was guarded by five hundred riders. In the end, it took eight strikes from the sword master Jian Jiuhuang to barely stop him. Surprisingly, Xu Xiao allowed this martial genius to leave, granting him three chances for revenge. After using all three, Liu Yanbing failed to kill either Xu Xiao or the rising star Chen Zhibao on the border. He later became drinking companions with Jian Jiuhuang, who had once been a stable hand. Liu Yanbing learned that the old swordsman, missing a tooth, was actually the younger brother of the Sword Emperor of Xishu. He had come to Beiliang seeking revenge, but over time, his hatred faded.
Liu Yanbing said casually, “A minister dies at the nation’s gate; a swordsman dies in the martial world. The Sword Emperor of Xishu died where he should have.” The old man laughed and replied, “That’s true, though I could never say such a thing.”
He also said he liked the young prince, who never looked down on him for his stables’ stench, who truly saw him as a person, unlike the many noble sons he had met on his travels, who only saw equals as people and others as dogs. Most importantly, whenever the boy went to the stables to fetch a horse, he would secretly bring the stable hand a jar of wine and be happy just watching him drink. The old man said the boy always talked about how fun the martial world was, and he promised that one day he would take him to see the real world of the common people. The boy would surely be disappointed.
At this, the toothless old man laughed so hard he spilled his wine.
Not long after, Qing Niao abandoned her surname. Liu Yanbing changed his surname to Xu and became the personal guard of the old Beiliang King.
For some reason, this Xu Fengnian knew this was the last time he would open his eyes in the Spring and Autumn dream.
He stood near the straw-wrapped body of a young girl, helpless as he watched her mocked and beaten. Then he saw the young prince—his younger self—riding proudly, dressed in fine clothes, astride a fine steed.
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