The tavern’s business was booming. Every table was filled with drinkers, and the landlady beamed from ear to ear—a rare sight in days past. She shouted orders while serving wine and meat, mentally calculating how many scraps of silver and copper coins she’d earned that day. She thought of her youngest child, who attended the village private school and kept begging for writing brushes and ink. In the past, the family could never afford such things. Otherwise, what respectable woman would willingly show her face in public? Most would rather toil in the fields, bent over from dawn till dusk. But now, at last, she could grant the child’s wish.
The tables were full, yet more people kept arriving to ask for wine, with no sign of leaving soon. The landlady had to haul out extra stools. Fortunately, the men didn’t mind the shabbiness, focusing only on guzzling wine and tearing into meat. In usual times, drifters stopping at the tavern would often eye the landlady and toss off flirty remarks. Northern Liang women were as bold and fierce as any man; as long as the men didn’t overstep, she’d let them pinch or nudge her when she served drinks without losing her temper. But today, all the drinkers kept glancing east toward the post road, as if waiting for someone.
Before long, no fewer than twenty people had gathered at the tavern. Amidst the crowd, a handsome young man sitting alone at a table stood out sharply. At first, some had thought of joining him, but for some reason, after catching sight of his demeanor and bearing, they’d all unconsciously steered clear. Now, as more drinkers poured in—including some wealthy folk in silk robes—the landlady grew worried for him. Northern Liang was no ordinary place. Elsewhere, folks might come to blows over a cross word, but here, everyone’s temper was forged by knife-like winds and sand, ready to flare at a mere glance. She wasn’t bothered by losing a few extra jugs of wine or pounds of meat because of him; she was afraid he’d get into trouble and take a beating. Such a good-looking young man, all black and blue from a thrashing—it would pain her to see it.
The landlady was about to force a smile and speak to the young man when her fears came true. A group of burly, sword-wearing toughs fixed their eyes on the table with three empty seats. She dreaded the thought of the young man, unaware of the dangers of the martial world, losing his temper and saying something provocative. Swords and blades had no eyes. Even if he had family backing, in Northern Liang, hadn’t she heard every year of scholars getting half-killed? Here, unlike other parts of Liyang, wearing a scholar’s robe meant nothing. Only young men with Liang swords at their hips could cow martial folk. But the landlady had heard that their young Northern Liang Prince had issued an edict: now even generals’ children dared not wear Liang swords privately, and you rarely saw anyone riding horses in busy streets. She didn’t understand matters of state, but Northern Liang’s ways *had* gotten better.
The landlady let out a breath. Though the young man looked young, he clearly had plenty of worldly experience. He took the initiative to chat with the menacing toughs, then smiled and asked her for ten more catties of green ant wine. The five middle-aged men—who didn’t look like they made an honest living—seemed pleased by his accommodating attitude and even cracked a few smiles. When traveling, unless you were the scion of a general’s family, few dared draw a blade in Northern Liang. Besides, even general’s sons had their ranks: their fathers’ official titles and troop numbers determined whether they could tyrannize a county or strut across a whole province. For martial folk in Northern Liang, nearly everyone had suffered at the hands of such scions. All too often, someone would be targeted for no reason, killed on some flimsy pretext, and the officials would be told, “A petty ruffian wielded his skills to commit violence. As descendants of Northern Liang’s iron cavalry officers, how could we sully our family honor? We acted to uphold justice.”
When officials push, people rebel—but rebellion here meant death. In the days when the “Butcher” ruled Northern Liang’s three prefectures, only Wudang Mountain, home to immortals and Daoist masters, had any renown at court and counted as a major martial sect. No other group dared claim to be a great school of the martial world. Why? Because they’d all been crushed by the endless hordes of general’s clans. True masters with real skills were hired as guard dogs, then used to oppress wandering martial artists with no connections. In You Prefecture, there was the Sun family, from the same hometown as Spear Immortal Wang Xiu. Their clansmen were all skilled with spears, but because they refused to Seeking Refuge the government or general’s clans, once their patriarch—the backbone of the family—died, they were quickly wiped out by enemies allied with a general. It was said that of over forty family members, only two or three escaped.
The landlady, having seen countless drinkers come and go, sometimes wondered: selling wine was hard enough, but those martial folk, who seemed so bold and unyielding, probably had it even harder.
Glancing east toward You Prefecture, she spotted a cloud of dust rising at the end of the post road. She barely gave it a glance—Northern Liang cavalry passed by often, and she’d learned to judge their numbers. This looked like a hundred-odd riders, nothing remarkable in a land famous for its iron cavalry and warhorses. But then she saw everyone in and around the tavern—whether sitting on chairs or stools—spring up as if their seats were on fire, their eyes blazing with a fervor keener than if they’d caught a glimpse of a woman’s private charms. Puzzled, she thought, Could it be some great figure arriving? She was just a country woman selling cheap green ant wine; whether it was the martial world or the imperial court, most things went in one ear and out the other. A woman who was content counting a handful of copper coins each day—was she supposed to fret over the Northern Liang Prince’s military affairs? Lately, drinkers had prattled on about things like the “Wu Family Sword Tomb,” but she’d paid no mind. She kept a sharp eye on all the drinkers leaving their seats, fearing they’d slip away without paying.
After her busy spell, the landlady finally had a moment to rest—and to look again at the young man who’d ordered so much green ant wine. She smiled to herself. Who said only men could admire beauty? Women liked looking at handsome men too. He stood up then, under the shade of the big pagoda tree beside the post road table, hands tucked into his sleeves. She studied his profile, envying his captivating eyes. When he looked at her, there was none of the ravenous hunger she saw in most men—just clarity, like the old well in the village, whose water stayed clear year-round. Good for quenching thirst, even better for brewing wine.
She couldn’t help laughing aloud, wondering which lucky girl got to be stared at by such a handsome youth every day. If it were her, she’d skip meals to save up for rouge and powder she’d never used before.
The landlady was right: a hundred riders were heading into Liang Prefecture. But even a woman who knew nothing of the martial world could tell these riders were unusual. They all carried swords, yet wore no armor or crossbows like Northern Liang cavalry, nor were their clothes as fine as a noble’s retinue. Each had a face as hard as stone; many looked seventy years old, yet sat straight as military spears on their horses, with a vitality no village elder could match.
When the hundred riders glanced almost in unison at the tavern, even she stepped back in fright, and nearly everyone else did too. But for some reason, after the lead rider galloped past without a glance, the rest followed without stopping. The landlady sighed in relief. Good they didn’t stop—she’d have been too scared to charge them for wine.
The young prince, deliberately ignored by the hundred Wu riders, lowered his arm, choosing not to speak. It was a bit awkward. Xu Fengnian, of course, knew more than anyone present: the lead rider, Wu Liuding, had chosen to look the other way, so the sword servants could only follow their “Sword Crown.” Xu Fengnian wasn’t annoyed. He sat down and asked the landlady for another half catty of green ant wine. His goodwill was there—whether the hundred Wu riders accepted it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to grovel. If not for the Wu family great-grandfather he’d met once, he wouldn’t have waited at Liang Prefecture’s border. Let Wu Liuding put on airs—Xu Fengnian wasn’t about to get petty.
Xu Fengnian drank calmly, mentally assessing the hundred riders’ strength. Wu Liuding, the second rider Cuihua, and the six or seven behind them were all top-tier masters. If, in a deadlocked battle, these hundred swordsmen were given a clear path to the enemy general, who could stop them? Tuo Ba Pusa was out of the question—Northern Mang’s war god needed no guards on the battlefield. Hong Jingyan could probably handle them, but Murong Baoding would struggle.
Yet in army clashes, tales of slaying a general amid ten thousand troops were rare even in the Spring and Autumn period. With the advent of powerful, easy-to-assemble crossbows, few could cut through battle lines like heroes in stories, let alone charge in and out repeatedly. A Yufu crossbow, operated by several elite soldiers, was called the “Fifty-Foot Flying Sword” by martial folk—within fifty yards, before its force waned, a Yufu bolt struck like a sword immortal’s flying blade: impossible to dodge, let alone counter.
If only Wang Xianzhi hadn’t shattered Gao Shulu’s physique… Xu Fengnian smiled bitterly. No “if” in the world.
He exhaled. The tavern’s fortune-seekers, having gotten their fill of spectacle, left as merrily as they’d come, many leaving extra coins for the landlady. Soon the tavern was empty. The sword-wearing toughs, before leaving, bowed politely to Xu Fengnian, who’d bought their drinks.
Xu Fengnian stayed, sipping slowly. He chatted with the landlady about trivial things like crop yields—not that he had any improper thoughts. The still-charming woman was too sensible to think he did. With no customers to attend to, she sat across from him, setting down a jar of green ant wine and some homemade snacks, saying they were a gift—worth barely a few coins anyway.
As they talked, three more customers arrived: an old man and two boys, all carrying bundles and wooden staves. They sat at the next table. Clearly poor, the old man ordered only half a catty of green ant wine; the boys just sniffed the aroma, watching him savor each sip with closed eyes.
A sturdy boy with faint stubble on his chin whispered, “Grandpa, were those swordsmen really from the Wu Family Sword Tomb?”
The old man nodded.
The other boy was delicate, with fine features and pink lips—almost girlish. A few years back, if some general’s son with a taste for men had spotted him, he’d have been in hell. But now, many arrogant scions rotted in Northern Liang’s jails, and the region was far more orderly. Besides, many rich folk had moved out, and with Liuzhou added to Northern Liang, it was a rare time of peace.
After serving the three cash-strapped customers, the landlady sat back down. She glanced at the delicate boy, then instinctively turned to the young man across from her. He was far handsomer. Their eyes met, and she saw his faint amusement. She laughed, unembarrassed—she was old enough to have a daughter-in-law. “Young master,” she said bluntly, “you’re prettier than the prettiest girl in our village. Your parents must be good-looking too. Don’t get mad if I stare a bit, eh?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Stare all you want—I can’t stop your eyes. But can you round down the copper coins on the bill later?”
She laughed loud. “No way! I already gave you a good jar of green ant wine. Not a single copper less. Though if you let me pinch you a couple times, I might reconsider.”
Xu Fengnian sighed. “You run a tight business—no losing for you.”
She laughed heartily, and he joined in. Women of the northwest frontier, unlike those raised amid Jiangnan’s mist and rain, lacked that soft, lingering grace, but they had a boldness forged only by this land. Xu Fengnian loved her smile, just as he loved Northern Liang. For him, raised here, his ancestral Liaodong had never felt like “home.”
The delicate boy frowned at their banter. The sturdy one snuck a look at the landlady’s chest, pressed against the table edge, and swallowed hard. The old man beside Xu Fengnian remained calm, lifting his bowl and closing his eyes to smell the wine before each sip. A closer look would have shown thick calluses on his and the boys’ web of hand — from years of gripping something. Xu Fengnian noticed, but didn’t pry. Poor folk study, rich folk practice martial arts—and these three clearly practiced spears. Why they were so destitute, even using shoddiest waxwood staves for practice… every family had skeletons in the closet.
The delicate boy hissed through gritted teeth, “Grandpa, I heard the Xun family moved to the Central Plains. That devil He must have gone with them. What do we do?”
The old man’s eyes clouded. He took a sip, then said calmly, “First, master your spearplay. Even if he stood right in front of you, you two couldn’t hurt him with a hundred thrusts.”
The boy froze, eyes watering.
The sturdy boy muttered softly: “How come I heard that this He fellow joined the Yulong Gang? Even became a gang leader—way more troublesome than when he was with the Xun family.”
The old man shot him a glare, and the stocky boy immediately clammed up. The delicate boy’s eyes lit up, but the old man’s voice turned sharp: “Whether he’s in the Central Plains or the Yulong Gang, your top priority is to practice your spearplay. As long as I’m alive, if either of you dares sneak off to seek revenge, I’ll kick you out of the family!”
The tall boy grumbled under his breath: “They say staves take a month, swords a year, but spears a lifetime. With my talent, I’d need ten lifetimes to master it.”
The old man slammed his wine bowl,said angrily: “Nonsense! Back in the day, Wang Xiu practiced the spear for barely forty years and became one of the Four Great Masters, ranked alongside Old Sword God Li! ‘A year for swords’? Did Gu Jiantang become the best swordsman under heaven in a single year? And our Prince—who took the throne of the world’s strongest after Wang Xianzhi…”
He trailed off abruptly, realizing that the young prince hadn’t actually practiced the saber for all that long.
The tall boy snickered, and even the delicate boy cracked a smile, the heavy gloom on his face lifting a little.
The old man shook his head and kept drinking.
“Grandpa,” asked the tall boy, “they say our Liang swords, the northern barbarians’ curved blades, and the waist sabers of Prince Yanchi’s army in the Southern Border are the three great swords under heaven. Tell us about them?”
“Practice your spear!” the old man snapped. “No matter how fine those swords are, they’re someone else’s. Even if all you have is a wooden spear, it’s in your own hand.”
The tall boy, brimming with curiosity and dreams of the Central Plains martial world, grumbled: “Talking about it won’t cost me a chunk of flesh.”
The other boy—northern in blood, southern in features—was far more composed. He simply asked: “Grandpa, last time you said our Northern Liang army’s spear techniques aren’t proper. Why?”
The tall boy chuckled: “Grandpa’s just boasting. Our army has Xu Yanbing and Han Laoshan, disciples of the Spear Immortal. Who’s he to criticize?”
The delicate boy shot back angrily: “What’s wrong with our grandpa? Back in the day, Wu Jinling—who was even better than Wang Xiu—came to our grandpa for advice on gripping a spear when he first started practicing!”
The tall boy made a face: “Who knows if grandpa’s just spinning tall tales without a draft.”
The old man wasn’t angry. He drank deeply, lost in thought.
Finally, he roused himself, sighing softly: “Not to mention Wu Jinling—once the most talented in all Northern Liang. Among Spear Immortal Wang Xiu and his disciples Xu Yanbing and Han Laoshan, even when I was young, my spear skills and mastery were far inferior. And the gap only grew wider. No shame in admitting that. But remember this: no matter the weapon, it’s wielded by a person. Masters have their ways, ordinary martial artists theirs. Take Wu Jinling: he entered the martial ranks at nine, reached Second Rank at twelve, and became a Vajra at seventeen. The spear in his hand seemed blessed with magic—even casual swings had an innate spirit. Yet even so, at fourteen, he hit a bottleneck. It was then that I tossed off a few thoughts on gripping the spear. After that, he had an epiphany and started over. Such a pity… heaven envies talent.”
Xu Fengnian, who’d been listening, smiled and spoke up: “Wu Jinling’s early death wasn’t all heaven’s envy. In martial arts, too smooth a path is no good. The world talks of ‘sworn rivals’—often, two foes push each other to steady progress in their realms, advancing no matter the speed. It’s like having a whetstone. If Spear Immortal Wang Xiu hadn’t gone to Northern Mang, he might never have become a master later. I’ve also heard that in martial arts, it’s foolish to ‘be a chicken’s head rather than a phoenix’s tail.’ Whether practicing the saber, sword, or spear, once you reach a certain level, you don’t aim for ‘top three swordsmen’ or ‘best saber user’—you aim straight for the best under heaven. Otherwise, why would so many people have humiliated themselves by challenging Wang Xianzhi during his tenure at Wudi City?”
The old man smiled but said nothing. Principles like these—any martial family’s elders could spout them by the dozen. In his eyes, a hundred “famous teachers” weren’t worth one “enlightened teacher.” Besides, at his age, whatever ambitions he’d had in youth had long been ground away by time. Talk of “number one” or “number two” left him cold. Still, out of politeness, he raised his wine bowl to the young man with the bold words. The young man raised his bowl in return, and both drank deep.
The tall boy, bold as a newborn calf, was full of questions. This young fellow had even heard of Wu Jinling—who, though often mentioned in their hometown alongside Spear Immortal Wang Xiu, had died young in the dishonorable way of drunkenness on a street corner. Decades later, few in other parts of Northern Liang knew his name. The boy couldn’t help asking: “How do you know about Wu Jinling?”
Xu Fengnian smiled: “A friend mentioned him.”
The delicate boy, presumably put off by the man’s flirtations with the landlady, turned to stare silently at the post road.
Xu Fengnian glanced at their three waxwood staves of varying lengths, then said casually: “Old sir, one of your grandsons should’ve replaced his stave six months ago—three inches longer. The other should add six taels to his right now.”
The two boy looked puzzled, but the old man’s eyes lit up, then dimmed quickly. He spoke honestly: “No money.”
Xu Fengnian nodded: “A single copper can baffle a hero. Old sir, I’ve got some leftover drink money. Shall I buy you another two catties of wine?”
The landlady was delighted at the prospect of more sales, especially from such a handsome young man. Before the old man could answer, she scurried off to fetch the wine—unintentionally giving him an out. Trusting the judgment honed by years of wandering, he bowed slightly and said smile: “Then this old man thanks you.”
Though life had been hard, the old man was still forthright and generous by nature. He told the tall boy to fetch a longer bench, inviting Xu Fengnian to sit beside him. The landlady added more wine and meat—small portions, but free; otherwise, she’d be a reckless wife.
The old man wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said with smile: “Your observation is accurate—very accurate. Do you practice the spear too? Generally, it takes ten or twenty years to gauge my grandsons’ skill so keenly.”
Xu Fengnian shook his head, smiling: “I don’t, but some around me are masters. Watching them, I’ve picked up a little.”
The old man joked: “Then you must be a master yourself.”
Xu Fengnian joked back: “A little, perhaps.”
The delicate boy cold snorted. The tall boy stifled a laugh—never seen such shamelessness.
The old man didn’t mind. In dealing with people, he feared those with hidden agendas more than those who wore their flaws on their sleeves. He sighed, musing: “Everyone talks about how powerful spear charges are for cavalry, but they overlook the damage such techniques do to the riders themselves. If a charge were a one-time thing, fine. But the northern barbarians we face in Northern Liang are no pushovers. It takes immense skill to grip the spear properly during cavalry combat, and that skill varies by person. Northern Liang has no shortage of cavalry generals and spear masters tailoring methods to this, but in my opinion, while they’ve done well, it’s not perfect.”
Xu Fengnian asked: “Old sir, what do you mean?”
The old man hesitated, fearing he’d overstep with a stranger. But they were just passing acquaintances—why such caution? Besides, he was mooching wine. He went on: “I once chanced upon four or five types of Northern Liang spears, differing in material, weight, and length. They’re subdivided based on the soldier’s unit, height, arm span, strength… far better than Liyang’s armies. But there’s still room to dig deeper. Take the ‘Shu Concubine’ bamboo spear, for example—even after treatment to reduce cracking, its head should be an extra ounce and a half. And the ‘Iron Cicada’ spear for infantry—two inches in diameter is still too thick; it should be trimmed this much.”
He held up two fingers, gesturing slightly.
Xu Fengnian, who’d only meant to chat casually, fell into thought, not rushing to judgment. He wasn’t sure about the weight of the Shu Concubine spear’s head, but regarding the Iron Cicada: Xu Yanbing had indeed mentioned once that this heavy spear was designed for the Chu iron cavalry—with their strong armor—during the Spring and Autumn wars. It had distinguished itself against halberd-wielding elites, and every Northern Liang veteran of the Jing River campaign (second only to Xileibi) had deep feelings for it. In the later stages of that battle, Xu’s troops had even used it as a mace. Xu Yanbing’s point: while Northern Mang had heavy armor, their forging heritage still lagged behind Chu’s after twenty-odd years of strengthening. Northern Mang relied more on light cavalry, making the Iron Cicada unnecessary. But altering it involved not just tangled military interests but the trickiest thing of all: sentiment. Many old cavalry generals had fiercely opposed the change in Wutong Courtyard’s reforms. One had crudely argued: “I’m used to my plump old wife. You give me a skinny lass, I’d rather have none. Let whoever likes her take her—none of my men will touch her.” When Xu Fengnian had reviewed that batch of documents, he’d found it an amusing wake-up call, thinking to let things be rather than push hard.
The old man’s words wandered, heedless of Xu Fengnian’s interest, as he rambled: “This year, I chanced upon two part volumes of *Weapons and Armor Compendium* by the ‘Little Butcher,’ circulating among common folk. Cheap—only six taels—but I still couldn’t afford it. Had to brazenly read without buying. Over a hundred thousand words, meticulous to the last copper. Breathtaking. Even I, who’ve never seen a battlefield, felt a chill reading it, like facing a top martial artist. That ‘White-Robed Military Sage’—favored even by the emperor—included rules for where to build latrines in camps. No wonder Ye Baikui, Chu’s military sage, said: lose the initiative against this man, and you’ll never recover.”
The tall boy blinked: “Grandpa, what does that mean?”
The old man sighed: “It means, in battle against him, once you lose the upper hand, no matter if you still outnumber him, you’re doomed to lose. Same with martial arts duels. But you’re not at that level yet—you wouldn’t understand.”
He gulped down his wine, fuming: “How could such a masterpiece of a military manual end up in common hands? Aren’t we afraid the northern barbarians will get it? How many more of our Northern Liang lads will die because of this?”
He sighed, losing interest in his wine, muttering: “Chen Zhibao lost to our current Prince, failed to become Northern Liang’s ruler—but that’s no reason to squander his efforts! Can’t our new Prince stop this? Or is he letting it happen out of personal grudge?! If so, this old man will truly look down on him.”
Xu Fengnian’s expression flickered. *Weapons and Armor Compendium* had never been strictly banned in Northern Liang’s military; Xu Xiao and Chen Zhibao had both agreed. It was a point of pride among the top brass. Xu Fengnian hadn’t sought to discredit the manual despite Chen Zhibao’s departure for the capital and later fief in Shu. In fact, he’d treated Chen’s old subordinates well, personally cracking down on several cases of deliberate suppression of their promotions. But in the past six months, he’d reviewed eight to ten thousand documents, and not one had mentioned the manual circulating among commoners. Guilt washed over him. He lifted his bowl, took a sip, and said quietly: “The Northern Liang Prince is indeed much to blame in this matter.”
The old man dismissed it with a laugh. What right did common folk have to criticize the prince? Besides, who was Universally Recognized as the world’s strongest after Wang Xianzhi of Wudi City? Even the most ignorant villagers in Northern Liang knew that.
Xu Fengnian looked up: “Old sir, with your knowledge of spearplay, why not join the border army?”
Agony flashed across the old man’s face, but he forced his voice to sound casual: “It’s true, my family has long used the great spear. But before our fortunes fell, we shunned powerful families, hoping only that our kin could practice martial arts in peace, to one day make our spear techniques renowned. We never cared for other things. My grandfather said: practicing the spear refines the heart. A muddled heart makes for poor spearplay—for us spear-wielders, that’s putting the cart before the horse.”
Xu Fengnian’s voice was calm, three words: “Sun family spear.”
The old man—until now as kindly as a neighbor—suddenly shifted, his aura sharp. His hand shot down to grip the waxwood stave on the bench, his cloudy eyes blazing with killing intent.
The two boy stood at once, clutching their staves tightly.
The landlady, who’d been cracking sunflower seeds, jumped in alarm, frozen.
Xu Fengnian held his wine bowl gently, not drinking, and smiled: “I mean no harm. Since I have friends who are spear masters, of course I know of the famous Sun family—from the same hometown as Spear Immortal Wang Xiu. You’ve spoken so freely, I just made a guess. I’ve also heard of the Sun family’s fate. Back then, a young man named He Wushu came to learn from your clan. Old Master Sun saw his talent but disliked his character, so he turned him away. After being rejected, He had several lucky breaks, rising to become a bodyguard instructor for Xun Daniu, a former border general. Grudgeful by nature, he nurtured hatred for the Suns. After Old Master Sun died, he used the Xun family’s influence and his official connections to frame the Suns for betraying Northern Liang to the enemy. Of over forty family members, only six escaped—including two infants. In these ten-odd years, three of those survivors died by He Wushu’s spear: two outmatched, one who betrayed the family. But even that traitor got no wealth—He, ever vengeful, stabbed him to a wall after using him. Am I right… Old Master Sun Qingqiu?”
The old man’s face was like stone. He sneered, his voice bitter: “Good, good, good. So ‘Tiger Head Spear’ He Wushu truly flourished after joining that motley Yulong Gang—sending you to hunt us down even here!”
As he spoke, he signaled to his grandsons, clearly ordering them to flee without him, no argument. But the boys wouldn’t budge, roots taking hold of their feet. The old man didn’t know whether to feel proud or sorrowful.
The Sun family spear—*as long as a Sun lives, the spear never retreats*.
Xu Fengnian still held his wine bowl, chuckling self-deprecatingly: “Old Master Sun, do I look like He Wushu’s lackey? Or an assassin sent to hunt you down? When has there ever been an assassin who buys his target a drink before killing them?”
The tall youth snarled angrily: “You bastard! You must have poisoned the wine!”
The landlady took offense at once. She’d caught the gist of their conversation, and she didn’t believe for a second this young master was a villain—not with that face. She slammed the table, annoyed: “What are you saying? Do I look like I run a den of thieves?! I served all this wine myself, fresh from the jar. Which eye of yours saw the young master poison it?”
Xu Fengnian cut to the chase: “Old sir, do you truly think the three of you—grandfather and grandsons—are a match for me alone?”
The old man said nothing, never letting his guard down, but his expression was dejected.
Having roamed the martial world most of his life, especially a decade of running for his life, he’d honed a discerning eye and a sharp intuition for danger. The moment he’d reached for his stave, the young man beside him—whose qi had felt ordinary a moment before—unleashed a fleeting yet astonishing surge of power. The old man had to admit: he was no match.
Xu Fengnian asked: “Old sir, I have an impertinent request. I want you to join the border army as chief martial instructor, teaching spear techniques. But I won’t meddle in the Sun family’s grievances with He Wushu—and I suspect you’d refuse outside interference anyway.”
The old man snorted coldly: “Mysterious young master, don’t think a few martial skills give you the right to boast so loudly. I’m no naive child. I know the Northern Liang army’s chief martial instructor is a fourth-rank military officer. If you’d offered a common instructor’s post, I might have believed you were some highborn general’s son. But chief instructor? Do you think you can just hand that out like a trinket? Do you take yourself for Li Hanlin, the military governor’s son?”
Xu Fengnian couldn’t help laughing. So Li Hanlin had made a name for himself in Northern Liang? And it sounded like a good one, at that.
The delicate youth, still tensed like a bow beside Xu Fengnian, glared at the man’s infuriating smile, wanting nothing more than to bash his head in with a stave.
Xu Fengnian truly didn’t know how to convince Sun Qingqiu. But this old man could be a treasure for the Northern Liang army—if used well, he might push the border troops to new heights. A Sun Qingqiu, unshackled and pouring his life’s mastery into the army, might benefit Northern Liang more even than Han Laoshan, Wang Xiu’s disciple and current vice general of Ling Prefecture—even if Sun was only third-rank now, his skills fading with age. It was only a possibility, but to miss him would mean losing even that. Xu Fengnian lifted a hand. The movement prompted the old man to lash out instantly: his waxwood stave, seemingly without warning, stabbed diagonally downward at Xu Fengnian’s throat—precise, ruthless, embodying the Sun family spear’s core tenet: *advance without retreat*.
The two youths watched as the “spear tip” of the stave stopped inches from the man. Then, the stave—crafted to embody the Sun family’s “no return” spirit—buckled into a sharp curve and snapped cleanly!
A young woman in tight black clothes had appeared from the shadows the moment Xu Fengnian raised his hand. She had a slender figure, and her face remained utterly expressionless as she witnessed this.
She was Fan Xiaochai, a former death warrior only recently released from Fushui Hall.
Sun Qingqiu clutched the broken stave, his palm split and bleeding. Even though he’d already acknowledged he was outmatched, the ease with which his strike had been nullified left him stunned.
He was certain: even those elusive second-rank masters couldn’t have brushed off that spear so casually. And the young man hadn’t even moved, his qi showing no sign of stirring!
Xu Fengnian didn’t look at Fan Xiaochai, only saying: “You needn’t follow me for the next few days. Take the old sir to the Liang Prefecture border, find Lu Qiu’er. I’ve already approved the appointment. Let Lu Qiu’er decide how to use the Sun family spear techniques.”
He then smiled and asked: “Old sir, a no-cost business that’s sure to pay off—you really won’t take it?”
The old man was ultimately a open-minded soul. After a moment’s thought, he sighed: “We’re at the mercy of fate either way. Let’s see if heaven means to destroy the Suns. I don’t believe He Wushu, a mere Yulong Gang leader, could order someone like you.”
Xu Fengnian relaxed. “Shall we finish the wine first? Then you can head out?”
The old man plopped back down. “Drink? Of course we’ll drink!”
The two youths sat back down, trembling—especially the delicate one, who looked dumbfounded. The hotheaded tall youth, though, was starstruck.
So this really was a legendary hermit master!
So when the young master had said “a little high,” he’d meant *really* high?
Bubbling with excitement, the youth blurted out: “Master! Grandfather always says I have no talent for martial arts. Your eye must be sharper than his—take another look? Could I actually be a prodigy?”
Xu Fengnian glanced at him,unremarkablely: “Realistically, by the time you’re his age, you’ll still be far behind.”
The youth gaped, refusing to give up. His face fell as he pressed: “What? Master, you must be mistaken! Please look again?”
Xu Fengnian shook his head, smiling: “Mistaking you would be harder than getting it right.”
The youth groaned, slumping in his seat.
The delicate youth hid a laugh behind his hand—until the now-less-odious master glanced over, and he glared back instinctively.
Xu Fengnian smiled: “Practice the spear well, and you’ll accomplish great things. No one says a woman can’t master fierce, unmatched spearplay.”
The “youth” flushed crimson.
The landlady, who’d been startled half a dozen times already, looked at the “youth”—no wonder he’d seemed like a girl.
Bold as ever, she joked: “Master, don’t think being a master lets you skip the tab.”
Xu Fengnian pulled out a small piece of silver and set it on the table. The landlady said with smile: “Oh, not a copper extra. Master, you’re a master—can’t you be more generous? Afraid it’ll hurt your masterly dignity?”
Not far away, Fan Xiaochai thought of her own past and began to admire this country woman’s courage.
Xu Fengnian said with smile: “Only when you run a household do you know the cost of oil and salt. No more pretending to be rich these days.”
He suddenly spotted a grayish-white falcon circling overhead, stood slowly, and said: “Old sir, I must take my leave. We’ll drink again at the Liang Prefecture border—I’m sure we’ll have the chance.”
Sun Qingqiu stood too, nodded, and said nothing more.
Xu Fengnian spoke, then vanished in a flash.
The landlady and the two Sun youths gaped, half-convinced they’d met a god or a ghost.
Fan Xiaochai finally spoke, her voice cold: “Finish your wine. Then we head for the border at once.”
Sun Qingqiu grunted in assent.
The tall youth stared wide-eyed at the woman, unable to look away.
The girl in disguise felt a twinge of envy—such a stunning woman, though icy.
The landlady, sitting at the next table, patted her chest repeatedly, clicking her tongue: “Today really opened my eyes.”
The old man took a sip, squinted and murmured: “Ain’t that the truth.”
Fan Xiaochai stood in the shade, eyes closed, resting.
Her intuition told her: Northern Mang had marched.
She cared nothing for the Sun family’s fate. As for He Wushu of the Yulong Gang—for them, he might have been a lifelong enemy they’d never dared hope to kill.
But the gap between her and her own enemy was vaster still.
She knew she’d never kill that man with her own hands.
After all, even Wang Xianzhi had failed.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t die.
Because he faced all of Northern Mang.
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