Perhaps unable to endure the self-righteous clamor of those amateurs any longer, the young man rolled his eyes in exasperation. He wore a Guangling saber with green silk Entwined, imitating the third-generation Xu family saber of Beiliang. Though inferior in sharpness to the first-generation Xu saber, and less convenient than the second-generation model, it closely resembled the third-generation Xu saber, bearing a hint of mediocrity. Yet, seasoned tacticians knew there was no single best saber in the world—only the one most suited to a particular warrior. Just as in the northwest provinces of the empire, where soldiers were often tall with long arms and extraordinary strength, the recruits from the Guangling region were somewhat inferior—a natural disadvantage that could not be overcome by wealth or effort alone.
Regardless of his reputation, and regardless of his methods of cultivating followers, Marquis Zhao Yi was indeed a master of raising troops among the feudal lords. Otherwise, this fat pig, no matter how thick his hide, would not dare to shamelessly vie with Beiliang for the title of the empire’s finest soldiers. The Guangling region possessed the newest armor and warhorses in the entire Yuanshi Dynasty, and had quietly produced the latest model of the Guangling saber, yet to be widely distributed. The young man carried one of these newly forged sabers, not yet publicly unveiled, which would soon be named either the Chunsue saber or the Yilou saber—clearly a blade held in high hopes by Zhao Yi and the Guangling generals.
The young man was about to speak when he caught a glare from a man who neither wore a saber nor attempted to feign sophistication. Immediately silenced, he sulkily clutched his bowl and drank, unable to voice his thoughts. What a torment.
A retainer hurried into the inn and whispered something to the unremarkable-looking man, who nodded, rose, and walked directly to Xu Fengnian’s table. With a warm and genial expression, he said, “Young master, do you hold any official rank? If you find it agreeable, perhaps you might consider joining my service. Except for the woman who follows me—I cannot part with her—I have always been willing to give anything else away.”
Xu Fengnian asked, “Are you the General Song Li of Chunsue Tower?”
The man hesitated, somewhat surprised that his identity had been so quickly recognized. His elderly companion in fine robes had earlier remarked that this young man’s demeanor was unusual—either a hidden expert at the First Rank, or a master of inner cultivation who valued spirit over technique. This made the man marvel, for the old man was known for his lofty standards. In the Guangling region, he was considered equal to the former Southeast’s foremost swordsman, Chai Qingshan. Not only was Chai Qingshan a master swordsman whose skill had reached the divine, but he was also the senior uncle of Song Nianqing, the current head of the Dongyue Sword Pond sect. Previously, he had served under Marquis Zhao Yi, but due to the sect’s reputation, Dongyue Sword Pond had reluctantly “expelled” him. Now that Song Nianqing had died unexpectedly, Chai Qingshan had been respectfully invited back to the Sword Pond to oversee its affairs.
Thus, the old retainer beside him was undeniably the greatest swordsman in the Guangling region. His name was simple—Wang Fu—but his saber skills had reached the pinnacle, even predating the fame of Gu Jiantang. It was said that Gu Jiantang, who had entered the ranks of the Ten Greatest Warriors of the World and never fallen since, had climbed to prominence by stepping on this old man’s shoulders. Wang Fu’s prized saber, “Coughing Pearl,” earned him the nickname “Ghost Beneath the Wrist.” In every edition of the martial world rankings, those who analyzed the saber techniques of the realm held similar views—truly accomplished saber users were rare. Among them, Gu Jiantang stood first. Then there was Ma Shulang of the southern frontiers, who had remained formidable for nearly twenty years after reaching sixty, but had now completely retired from the martial world, devoting himself to flowers, birds, fish, and insects, leaving no worthy successors. Thus, Wang Fu had risen one place, surpassing even Yuan Zuozong of Beiliang, who had long since abandoned the saber.
The reason this martial world giant had not entered the rankings was only partly due to his slightly inferior skill. More importantly, he had always been morally deficient. In his youth, he would avoid fighting when encountering superior opponents. When facing equals, he was utterly shameless, employing every underhanded trick imaginable. Once, before a duel, he had even kidnapped his opponent’s wife and child, and when he appeared on the battlefield, he threw the severed thumb of the enemy’s young son. Deprived of the composure that had once steadied his saber, the enemy, whose blade had always been upright and harmonious, fell to Wang Fu’s blade.
Even in old age, Wang Fu remained a scoundrel, his saber techniques delving deeper into the treacherous path, mercilessly slaying promising young martial artists with particular zeal—almost as if he relished each slaughter.
Wang Fu had not drawn the Coughing Pearl saber in quite some time. Just now, he had intended to kill someone merely for amusement. If he had misjudged his opponent and encountered a formidable adversary, General Song Li’s three thousand cavalry would be more than enough to suppress any trouble. A lone swordsman from afar would not stir up much chaos. If captured, he could be used for target practice—these were the kinds of despicable deeds Wang Fu had been committing in recent years while serving the imperial court.
However, Song Li, newly appointed as the General of Crossing the River by the court, had his own plans. Rather than letting Wang Fu indulge his violent whims, he had instead decided to recruit the swordsman. It was not that he lacked fierce warriors for direct combat, but Song Li harbored a strong penchant for collecting both beautiful women and martial experts, treating them as luxurious embellishments rather than necessities. Once acquired, merely catching a glimpse of them from time to time was enough to satisfy him.
Just as in this instance, with Wang Xianzhi having announced his departure from the city and vowing never to return, Wudi City had lost its final safeguard. Many hidden martial experts had been quietly recruited by Song Li, who cared little for their moral character.
Song Li smiled affably, but Wang Fu dared not be too careless. There were countless unorthodox sects in the martial world, and who knew whether the remnants of the Xichu might be targeting this newly appointed General of Crossing the River? If Song Li were to fall into a trap, it would be a serious loss for Chunsue Tower at a time when it was preparing for war. Marquis Zhao Yi would surely flay Wang Fu alive for such a failure. Within Chunsue Tower, everyone knew that Song Li’s current power and prestige stemmed not only from his abilities, but also from Zhao Yi’s trust in him as a comrade-in-arms who would share both fortune and hardship. This was even more crucial. The old hands of Chunsue Tower, such as the cunning Lu Shengxiang, might well harbor resentment over this.
Xu Fengnian glanced briefly at the silent and vigilant “Ghost Beneath the Wrist” Wang Fu, then quickly averted his gaze. Song Li waited a moment, receiving no reply, and smiled wryly at himself, masking his disappointment. Slowly, he said, “I am but a humble general with a minor title. Since I have failed to earn your favor, I can only hope for a future encounter where we might share a good drink together. I have urgent matters to attend to now, so I shall not disturb your tea. Should you ever travel through the Guangling region, no matter the matter, big or small, simply send word to my residence, and I shall come at once.”
Song Li lightly clasped his fists in a bow, smiling as he departed, his demeanor impeccable. He did not act arrogantly or forcefully, instead attributing the lack of interest to his own shortcomings rather than the young noble’s failure to recognize a true master. Had any other martial hero been treated with such humility by a powerful general, they might not have felt gratitude, but at least a touch of goodwill. As Song Li bowed and took his leave, Xu Fengnian also set down his teacup, rising to his feet to watch him go.
Nearby diners, having overheard the conversation without any attempt at concealment, were visibly startled. Their gazes toward Xu Fengnian now carried the same pity one might reserve for a fool who failed to recognize his own fortune.
As Song Li stepped outside, descending the threshold, he softly asked, “Old Wang, did you discern the young man’s cultivation?”
Wang Fu withdrew a porcelain vial of incense from his sleeve, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed it, his voice sinister. “Strange indeed. I deliberately leaked a bit of my killing intent. The boy didn’t feign ignorance, and upon noticing, he immediately ceased his motion of lifting the cup. But then, nothing happened. Unless he’s been trained since childhood by a Daoist immortal, such composure is rare. Ordinary experts might maintain their posture under sudden killing intent, pretending to be as steady as a mountain, but their subtle pupil changes and fluctuations in energy flow are hard to hide. However, I can confirm one thing—watching how he lifted, held, and placed the cup, this young man must be a saber user.”
Song Li smiled. “In usual times, you may kill as you wish, but now is not the usual time. Many things could set off a chain reaction. It is better to avoid unnecessary trouble.”
Wang Fu grumbled an unwilling “Hmph,” putting the vial away, as if refraining from killing was akin to accumulating a merit. Smiling wickedly, he added, “That boy probably doesn’t realize he just walked through the gates of hell.”
Song Li mounted his horse, and with seven or eight riders, rode toward a military outpost a few miles away. A scout had reported an interesting development—there were two young women causing trouble, having incurred the wrath of his soldiers. One of them had even dared to threaten him, claiming she would make the General of Crossing the River regret his actions. Song Li was not particularly angry, merely intrigued. He was well aware of the temperament of his elite troops, which he had raised like wolves—useless unless they learned to kill on the battlefield. North of the Guangling region, the forests were rife with bandits and horse thieves. Several groups of over a hundred riders not only committed atrocities with impunity but also toyed with local soldiers as easily as cats toying with mice.
Song Li had an even crueler method—once his soldiers became hardened and difficult to eliminate, he would send batches of unsuspecting new recruits to fight them, using them to hone each other’s combat skills. If they died, they died for nothing.
As they rode down the street, Song Li suddenly mused, “Who would have believed Wang Xianzhi would die at that man’s hands?”
Wang Fu, always disdainful of others’ good fortune, sneered, “If it weren’t for someone recognizing Lou Huang’s corpse being carried by Lao Lou, no one would believe it.”
Song Li chuckled, “So isn’t that Xu fellow the new Number One Under Heaven?”
Wang Fu, ever resentful of others’ success, scoffed, “Even if that young prince survives, he’s lost most of his life force. He’ll probably need several batches of miraculous pills from Wudang every year just to stay alive. What kind of Number One is that? In my opinion, Wang Xianzhi is indeed dead, but in reality, it was the combined effort of Beiliang’s elite forces and some hidden assassins that managed to take him down.”
Song Li smiled faintly, offering no comment.
Back at the inn, Xu Fengnian returned to his room with nothing to do, so he let his nine flying swords emerge from his sleeve. He did not even attempt to control them with his energy, nor did he pay them the slightest attention. This was a mystical concept often found in the secret manuals of the Wu family sword vaults, used to describe a higher realm of sword control—“where the heart leads, the sword follows.” The latter was clearly a superior level, requiring years of careful cultivation to nurture a sword embryo filled with complete spirit and intent.
Yet the nine swords now swirling and darting about the room were not only living sword embryos but also seemed like young children who had been blessed with intelligence by an immortal.
In terms of physical resilience, after his battle with Wang Xianzhi, his body was left in ruins, far inferior to the Realm of the Indestructible masters of the martial world. In terms of energy depth, the Ghost Beneath the Wrist, Wang Fu, had not been mistaken—Xu Fengnian was no match for the various masters of the Realm of Pointed Mysteries. But the Xu Fengnian of today could not be judged by ordinary standards.
When he had killed Zhao Huangchao, following an instinctual urge to head to Wudi City, he had initially planned to seek out Xuan Yuanqingfeng, the current Alliance Leader of Mount Hui, as a bodyguard, naturally intending to strike a major deal with her as well. Otherwise, he would not have dared to make such a request. However, Xuan Yuanqingfeng had refused to associate with him—or rather, with Beiliang—and Xu Fengnian did not press her. Yet, during their close encounter and silent standoff with this top-tier martial expert, Xu Fengnian had noticed something strange—not only did his flying swords stir with excitement, but he also felt an inexplicable surge of courage. This feeling was not unfamiliar—it was the same defiant spirit possessed by the “himself” of eight hundred years ago and by Wang Xianzhi, a fearless confidence that the world was his enemy, yet he remained undefeated.
In the past, Xu Fengnian had understood this mindset, but only vaguely, as if it were something he could not fully grasp. But after that battle, especially after leaving Mount Hui alone, the closer he got to the East Sea, the more he found himself unable to suppress these “unintentional” impulses. Just like now, the flying swords danced joyfully without any discernible pattern, as if swimming freely in water. Xu Fengnian could clearly sense their delight, even feeling as though he could converse with them.
He muttered to himself, “The Buddhist concept of a mustard seed containing Mount Sumeru, or the Daoist idea of hiding a universe in a sleeve—neither seems to fit.”
Suddenly, the flying sword Pi Fu spun around him with a playful twirl, as if greeting him, then vanished through the window.
Xu Fengnian stepped out of his room, calmly descending the stairs and leaving the inn, eventually walking beyond the town’s edge.
Far off, he spotted General Song Li astride his horse. On the Posthouse road, two young women appeared to be in trouble. One was tall and spirited, her sword already drawn, clearly a daughter of a martial family. She had not yet reached the level of emitting sword qi from her blade’s tip, but she was protecting another woman behind her, whose delicate frame and graceful demeanor suggested a Jiangnan lady.
Judging by the signs, they had recently lost a martial contest—her arm hung limply, trembling slightly, forcing her to switch hands to hold the sword.
Song Li had not spoken yet, but the young retainer beside him, wearing a saber with green silk Entwined, had slowed his horse, his expression smug. His saber was drawn, spinning lightly, while his steed circled the two cornered women leisurely.
Xu Fengnian stood in the shade of the Posthouse road, unobtrusive, when he overheard the voice of the northern swordswoman, laced with scorn.
“I had thought the Guangling region was not entirely filled with scoundrels, especially since even the capital knows of a man named Song Li, who claims he will ‘kill all who betray the people the moment power is in his hands.’ But it seems that hearing of him was better than meeting him—he is nothing more than a despicable brute who abducts innocent women.”
Song Li smiled faintly at her words and finally spoke.
“Lady, you wounded twenty of my men by your own skill, and I have nothing to say against that. But Master Liang then challenged you to a fair duel—he lost, and you would be free to go. If you lost, you would hand over the woman behind you. A fair wager, only natural. Your sword skills are indeed high, but your sportsmanship seems lacking.”
When Xu Fengnian heard this, he was about to turn and leave.
The graceful woman behind the swordswoman was about to speak, but was silenced by a glance. After turning her head, she fixed a deadly stare upon Song Li.
Song Li smiled and said, “You needn’t say anything like ‘you lose, so I’ll follow you.’ You and I both know the truth: without your protection, in today’s world, the lady behind you wouldn’t make it three miles. I’m no good man, but I am honest. I’ll speak plainly to both young ladies: I only require that she step across the threshold of the Song family’s mansion, then I’ll let her go, without laying a finger on her. But let me make one thing clear beforehand—everyone in Guangling knows this: whether or not I touch her body is unimportant, but from that moment on, she will be considered my woman.”
The tall and heroic woman sneered coldly, “Such despicable words, Song Li—do you dare speak them in the capital?”
Song Li waved his hand from atop his horse and laughed, “How could I dare?”
Gradually, Song Li’s smile faded, and he pierced through the veil of pretense, “As for you, or the lady behind you, neither of you are mere daughters of humble households. I suspect you’re noblewomen from Tai’an. But now that you’ve come to this region, you must follow local customs. No matter how noble your blood, I can swallow you whole, and leave no trace after. So consider carefully—don’t truly provoke my wrath.”
The swordswoman exhaled heavily and said solemnly, “I came to Guangling to seek out Zhao Zhu.”
On this journey out from the capital, aside from her long-held desire to wander the martial world alone, she indeed intended to meet the young man known for his penchant for building pyramids of enemy skulls.
The woman behind her was her closest confidante. But she had come to meet a faithless lover from her childhood days. Once a promising young man destined for a bright future, he had mysteriously vanished after his family’s downfall. It had taken great effort for her to find even a trace of him. This time, she had gritted her teeth and secretly fled Tai’an, an act so rebellious it could be considered a grave offense. Upon returning, she would never again be allowed to leave the capital. Moreover, this time she had dragged her friend along to meet the man, who did not refuse to see them—but what she encountered was even more heart-wrenching. The man claimed he had already arranged a marriage and intended to settle down in that remote, desolate place. Her disbelief at his fickleness prompted him to bring along the unfamiliar woman. This stranger, whose background was worlds apart, whose looks, talent, and vision were nothing remarkable. Yet when she saw the man standing beside this rustic village girl, she felt her heart sink. For in that moment, she knew—he truly loved her.
The woman, who had studied swordsmanship under the foremost sword master for many years, was far from as calm as she appeared. The elder beside the Jiangjun was unfathomably profound, so she had chosen the young retainer as her opponent, confident his blade skills were inferior to her swordsmanship. Yet in actual combat, not only did she lose, but had it not been for his mercy, she would have perished here. Although breaking her vow went against her nature, how could she watch helplessly as her dearest friend walked into a den of tigers and dragons? As Song Li himself said, once she crossed his threshold, there would be no question of her honor remaining intact. Even if later they cut this local tyrant into a thousand pieces and wiped out his entire clan, what good would it do? Yet still, she refused to reveal their identities—she was unwilling, and afraid.
Song Li was slightly taken aback, his gaze growing more fervent. “Zhao Zhu, the Crown Prince of Yan’e Wang?”
She sensed trouble and chose silence.
There are always men in this world who care more for a woman’s status than for her beauty itself. Tai’an was the capital, the most virtuous city under heaven, yet also the most corrupt. She had seen and heard too much—noble youths who could have any fresh beauty they wanted, yet still pursued older women hidden deep within grand mansions, boasting of it among their drunken companions, competing to see who could seduce the highest-ranking noblewoman. She had even heard how those scoundrels treated women with scrolls of imperial edicts—not only those with ebony scrolls, but even those bearing jade or rhinoceros horn scrolls, all were seen as mere playthings.
Upon hearing the name Zhao Zhu, Xu Fengnian, who had already taken a few steps away, halted and reached up to pluck a willow branch heavy with lush leaves.
Xu Fengnian had no intention of approaching, but neither did he intend to stand idly by.
Wang Fu believed the young man had refrained from acting at the inn because he was lucky enough to possess the second-best blade skills in the world.
Soon, he would lose that confidence.
A single willow leaf sliced through the air.
Like a knife through tofu, it severed the brand-new Guangling saber of Liang Meigong, which was not even in its scabbard. The young saber-wielder, who had just defeated the woman and was basking in pride, stood dumbfounded, his expression blank.
Wang Fu possessed the highest cultivation among them all, far surpassing the others. Yet even he scanned his surroundings before pinpointing the culprit hidden in the shade of a tree. Wang Fu’s peculiar nickname, “Ghost Beneath the Wrist,” came from his saber techniques, which seemed guided by spirits beneath his wrist. He was one of the rare few in the martial world capable of overcoming opponents with higher cultivation. Even among prodigies, Wang Fu’s martial talent was exceptional. Otherwise, he could never have reached his current status through mere underhanded tricks. Even a swordsman like Chai Qingshan dared not claim victory over Wang Fu, especially in a life-or-death duel, where Wang Fu might even have the upper hand.
Then, on the road, everyone witnessed a bizarre scene: the mighty Wang Fu, the “Ghost Beneath the Wrist,” first leaned backward on his horse, as if dodging something. Only then did he manage to grasp his saber. As he dismounted, his body lunged forward, his foot lightly kicking the horse’s belly. The powerful warhorse was sent flying sideways. The idle sabers and the real Wang Fu wielding his saber were two entirely different beings. Though the old man had not yet drawn his blade, as he rushed forward, his momentum was like a storm. Yet for some unknown reason, after charging forward six or seven zhang, he was forced to retreat two. Still gripping his saber, he continued forward in a crouched posture, not moving in a straight line, but slithering like a snake across sand.
This great swordsman, the “Ghost Beneath the Wrist,” darted forward and backward like a child at play. After several repetitions, the onlookers finally realized the culprit must be that shady figure in the distance whose face was obscured.
Yet still, no one could figure out why Wang Fu was advancing in such a ridiculous, convoluted manner—not even Liang Meigong, whose saber had been broken.
When Wang Fu finally reached a point a hundred steps from the young man, still gripping his saber without drawing it, he saw the youth casually discard the withered willow branch in his hand. Without a sound, the branch above the youth’s head suddenly snapped upright, broke with a sharp crack, and fell swiftly. The youth caught it effortlessly.
Wang Fu abruptly halted.
It was both a gesture of goodwill and a sign of submission.
Wang Fu differed from many top martial artists in one key aspect—he had never once set foot in Wudi City.
After gaining fame in his prime, he had not yet earned the title “Ghost Beneath the Wrist,” but was instead known, with mixed opinions, as “Wang Busi”—Wang the Immortal—for whenever he fought an opponent, he killed them, and he always survived. He never challenged anyone who might kill him. Thus, in his entire life, Wang Fu had never lost a single duel. Even though he lived close to Chai Qingshan for many years, the two had never once exchanged blows. Over the past decade, Wang Fu had drawn his saber fewer times, but ten years ago, even while carrying the “Kechu,” one of the top ten famous sabers in the world, he had still withdrawn without a fight against a young man. Not long after, not only did Wang Fu learn the identity of that saberless, swordless youth, but the entire world did as well—Taohua Sword Sage, Deng Ta’a!
This time, Wang Fu once again chose not to draw his saber, regardless of his reputation as a top martial artist or his status as an elder.
It wasn’t that he believed himself without a chance—it was that once he drew his saber, it would be a fight to the death.
Two strangers meeting by chance, with no deep enmity, if it had been Gu Jiantang facing him, perhaps the old man would have been willing to fight regardless of life or death.
After all, every swordsman dreams of overcoming Deng Ta’a, and every saber wielder dreams of challenging Gu Jiantang. As for martial artists in general, few would dare to dream of defeating Wang Xianzhi.
Wang Fu refused to believe Wang Xianzhi had been slain by that young prince of Xiliang alone.
Wang Fu stood rooted to the spot, his heart heavy with frustration. There were too many young martial experts in the world—too many to count even among those he had slain himself. Yet they seemed to grow like wild grass, springing back after every wind.
The young noble, whom he had previously underestimated, did not press his advantage, but merely twirled the willow branch between two fingers, clearly not intending to make peace.
It was as if he were waiting for Wang Fu to draw his saber.
This upstart youth, appearing from nowhere, was far too arrogant!
Wang Fu’s thoughts fluctuated several times, but he never drew the Guangling saber at his waist.
If it truly came to a life-or-death duel, without the Kechu saber at his side, he would feel deeply unsettled.
Song Li rode forward, joining Wang Fu’s side. The audacious Jiangjun’s expression was complex as he spoke slowly, “No wonder this young master was unwilling to acknowledge me.”
A cool breeze stirred the thick willow leaves, deepening the shade beneath the tree, yet the young man remained silent.
Song Li smiled, “Since the young master has intervened, I am not a fool who refuses to turn back until he hits a wall. I promise that as long as those two ladies remain within Guangling east of Shuzi Prefecture, I will ensure their safe passage. How does that sound?”
Song Li could not see the expression in the shade, but Wang Fu, who stood facing the youth, saw clearly—a faint, almost mocking smile.
Song Li tilted his head slightly, then suddenly pulled the reins, turning his horse around to face the hundred elite riders behind him. He raised his arm slightly, signaling a retreat.
Though Wang Fu’s fingers left the saber hilt, he never turned his back, instead retreating backward.
As the riders galloped away, Liang Meigong watched the blood flowing from the gash on General Song Li’s cheek.
Carefully, he asked, “General, shall I summon a thousand riders to surround and eliminate him?”
Song Li did not nod but turned to Wang Fu, “Wang Lao, would a thousand riders be enough?”
Wang Fu sneered, “A thousand riders against a wooden post that doesn’t move—no matter how hard the post, it’s likely enough. After all, there aren’t many land immortals like Li Chungan. But do you think that fellow will stand still and fight us head-on with a thousand riders?”
Song Li did not grow angry but smiled, “Then how about three thousand riders, and I’ll ask Wang Lao to block his escape route?”
Wang Fu scoffed, “Is it worth it for two women of unknown origin? Even if we suppose they are of noble birth from the north, are you not afraid of trouble once you’ve caught them? This isn’t like the blood on your face—you can’t just wipe it away.”
Song Li sighed, “Indeed.”
Wang Fu seemed to realize his outburst was inappropriate in front of Song Li. He pulled out a delicate porcelain vial filled with crushed spices, sniffed it deeply, and then spoke with a softened tone, “Our Emperor still worries about Cao Qingyi, fearing he might suddenly appear at his bedside. General Song, I know you’ve never held the martial world in high regard, treating them like pets—keeping them for amusement. But there’s something I couldn’t say before, that I can say now: they say a commoner’s rage can stain ten paces with blood. Some might ask why Cao Qingyi failed so many times to breach the palace, or why Xu Jiyan, with so many enemies, still died peacefully in bed. It’s not that martial experts are useless—it’s because Tai’an once had Han Diaosi and Liu Haoshi, and now has a host of guardians led by the Wu family sword tomb. Xiliang is no different—Xu Yanbing, Yuan Zuozong—each a match for ten thousand. In the end, it’s all about who can overcome the other. In these past twenty years, many unruly and fearless martial experts have died—not by soldiers’ hands, but by other experts.”
At this, Wang Fu, the “Ghost Beneath the Wrist,” joked, “General Song, do you want me to act like a chambermaid from now on, guarding your room day and night? Even if I were willing, I doubt your many wives would approve.”
Song Li lightly pressed his thumb against his wound and smiled.
Beside him was the young woman who had traveled with him. It was only because of her long, graceful eyes that Song Li had taken an interest, sparing her family the toll they owed for passage. She was merely a concubine’s daughter, worth several tens of thousands of taels of silver. Yet she had also gained favor with Song Li, a rising power in Guangling. Not only was her clan secretly delighted, but the young woman herself was pleased. In ordinary circumstances, marriage required matching status—how could she dare dream of a general bestowed by the imperial court?
Song Li turned his head slightly, gazing at the woman whose name he still did not know, and smiled, “If you stare at my wound a moment longer, I’ll have your eyes gouged out.”
The woman, already pale from the bumpy ride, turned deathly white with fear.
On the road, the two women had found unexpected salvation, but when they tried to step forward and thank the knight-errant, he had vanished in the blink of an eye.
The timid woman clutched her chest, breathing heavily, filled with lingering fear, “Gao Xia, let’s return to the capital?”
The tall woman, who had just sheathed her sword, whispered softly, “After we see Zhao Zhu, I’ll take you back.”
Only upon closer inspection could one notice that her eyes were a deep green.
Zhang Shoufu, the man with a purple beard and emerald eyes.
This woman had no beard, but those green eyes were the same.
Another person from the capital—her identity was not hard to guess. She was the daughter of Zhang Julu—Zhang Gaoxia.
Beside Zhang Gaoxia stood a woman, a genuine princess of imperial blood, the most precious and noble lady in all the land. She had long admired the young and promising daughter of the Song family. Coincidentally, Zhang Gaoxia had business in the martial world and decided to travel, so the two of them secretly left Tai’an City and headed south. In the early days of their journey, they traveled like springtime wanderers, enjoying the scenery. Though they occasionally encountered minor troubles, Zhang Gaoxia always resolved them effortlessly with her sword skills. Before entering the Guangling Dao region, they even made a detour to visit the Wudi City, curious about the commotion there.
After Wang Xianzhi left the city, his disciples—Xinlang Lou Huanglin, Yahu, and others—also abandoned the city to travel afar. Without any masters left to maintain order, the city’s martial artists initially dared not cause trouble. But once they confirmed that Wudi City had truly become leaderless, chaos began to stir. Fortunately, a cavalry unit soon stationed itself outside the city, calming the unrest somewhat. However, the inner city wall, famous for being embedded with countless legendary weapons, suffered greatly. Despite the efforts of the elderly servants of the Wang family to guard it, famous swords and blades disappeared daily. Fortunately, none of the weapons lodged high upon the wall had yet been taken.
Zhang Gaoxia had brought the princess to Wudi City partly for leisure, but also out of a personal desire to see the legendary weapons up close. As a swordswoman herself, the princess spent a full hour beneath the wall, carefully examining every famous blade. High upon the wall were treasures like the Huanglu Great Sword, the Duyu Thin Sword, a blade from the Dongyue Sword Pond, and the pair of swords once worn by a legendary couple three hundred years ago—“Huamei” and the ominously named “Yujunjue.” There was also the peculiar “Half-Shoulder Small Spear” from the Nanhai Guanyin Sect, and the swords “Take It Seriously” and “Be At Ease,” once worn by the top sword experts from the Wu family’s Sword Tomb. The sight was overwhelming, a collection of countless legendary blades, each representing a fallen master swordsman and a tale of heaven-shaking defeat. Had her companion not grown bored, Zhang Gaoxia could have stayed there for an entire day and night.
The princess asked curiously, “Gaoxia, do you recognize that swordsman? Did you get a good look at him back then?”
Zhang Gaoxia shook her head regretfully. “No, I didn’t.”
The princess sighed. “If only we were still in Tai’an City, we might have repaid his kindness.”
Zhang Gaoxia murmured to herself, “From now on, there will be no more room for the martial world. If there is any more conflict, it will be nothing but countless lives lost pointlessly on the battlefield.”
Suddenly, the princess grew angry. “That Song Li is truly detestable!”
Zhang Gaoxia hesitated but held back her thoughts. Once, she had overheard her father speaking about figures in Guangling, including Song Li, the favored general of the Guangling King. In truth, Song Li had long been a hidden agent of the imperial court, secretly placed within the Spring Snow Pavilion. Yet, according to her father, Zhao Yi had begun to suspect this in recent years but had not confronted him directly. Instead, he had continued to grant Song Li resources—money, grain, soldiers, and horses—without hesitation. Moreover, Song Li did not answer to Zhang Lu, nor even to Gu Jiantang’s Gu Lu, which had by then become merely a name without real power. Zhang Gaoxia privately suspected that Song Li should perhaps be called Zhao Li instead, suspecting that his true patron was among the most powerful elders of the imperial court—those who had once fought alongside the late emperor and had remained silent for far too long.
Her father, the Grand Chancellor, had once confided in her, his only daughter, saying with a rare smile that those old men, buried up to their necks in earth, were merely waiting for two people—one outside and one inside—to die first. When news of Xu Xiao’s death reached the capital, Zhang Gaoxia had secretly entered her brothers’ forbidden study and found that her father, though the “outsider” had died, did not seem pleased. Instead, he appeared somewhat desolate.
As she left the study and closed the door, she faintly heard her father say, “Throughout history, it has always been rare for great generals and ministers to die peacefully in old age. Xu Xiao won.”
Back at the inn in the town, Xu Fengnian did not leave in haste. His journey to the East Sea (Donghai, the Eastern Sea) was not meant to draw attention, but if the forces in Guangling Dao thought they could take advantage of the chaos, he would not mind imitating Cao Changqing and paying a visit to Zhao Yi and his son Zhao Biao.
As for Song Li, he knew far more than Zhang Gaoxia did. Though Song Li was publicly the most favored figure in the Spring Snow Pavilion, even rumored to have taken the place of Lu Shangxiang, this was not true. In fact, Lu Shangxiang had been summoned to the capital and appointed as the Minister of War—a public move by the court to poach talent. Song Li, however, had been secretly undermining the Spring Snow Pavilion. Yet even Zhao Yi likely knew only half the truth—Song Li was not only an agent of Tai’an City but also a pawn of Prince Yan Chi Wang Zhao Bing. As for who Song Li would ultimately remain loyal to, such matters of the heart were known only to heaven, earth, and Song Li himself.
Song Li, a chess piece manipulated by many hands, had managed to move himself into a winning position—not by luck, but by skill. Therefore, he did not stir up trouble at the inn. The next morning, Xu Fengnian quietly left the region at dawn.
In truth, during their encounter on the The Post Road (postal road), if Wang Fu had managed to close the distance to within one zhang of Xu Fengnian, Xu would certainly have died.
But Xu Fengnian was even more certain that, given a hundred years, Wang Fu would never close that distance.
Because Wang Fu was no Gu Jiantang.
A single step’s difference often meant the distance between heaven and earth.
The carriage slowly approached the East Sea (Eastern Sea).
The sound of the tide grew louder.
Besides the heirloom sword case, Xu Fengnian would take away from Wudi City treasures so numerous that the entire world would be stunned.
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage