Dian Xiongxu gazed at the picturesque Miao village nestled amidst the verdant hills. Terraced fields climbed the slopes, while a ribbon of clear water wound through the valley below. Stilted wooden houses clustered together, their architecture a stark contrast to the tales of barbarism and pestilence often spoken of by Central Plains scholars. But Dian, a rough and unrefined man, had not come south to admire scenery. He had seen dozens of such secluded villages along the way, many of which had been reduced to ruins by the swords and crossbows of his elite soldiers.
He turned to glance at the silent ranks behind him, flashing a grimy, yellow-toothed grin. Then his gaze shifted cautiously to the general standing beside him. In the world today, there were countless generals and warriors, especially in the Beiliang army. But in Dian’s heart, only two had ever truly deserved the title—General Xu Xiao, now deceased, and the man beside him. As for men like Gu Jiantang and Lu Shengxiang, they were merely passable. And the old men like Yan Zhenshun and Yang Shenxing? Not even worth mentioning.
Dian pulled his thoughts back. He gave no orders, for since leaving Shu, the sixty-odd men had developed an unspoken understanding. Each knew his duty. And it wasn’t as if they were ordinary soldiers. Among them were men like Fu Tao, Wang Jiangwu, and Huyan Nao, all high-ranking martial experts. Before leaving Shu, there had been many who thought themselves fearless rebels, their spirits as wild as untamed stallions. Yet now, they obeyed without question, as obedient as dutiful wives.
From initial suspicion and disdain, they had become comrades who fought side by side, bled together, and trusted one another with their lives. It seemed unbelievable, but Dian found it perfectly natural. This was the secret of the man he followed—their invincibility. His military strategy was always simple: command generals, and command soldiers. He had not spent his time in Shu currying favor or building alliances. Instead, he gathered those young officers he privately called “not yet terminally ill,” and led them into the war-torn lands of the former Nanzhao Kingdom to hunt heads—and to teach them how to kill with their own hands. Only after that did he tell them to think for themselves how they would lead and kill in the future.
Dian had followed him for years. He understood the theory, even managing to recite thousands of words from the military treatises the general had written. But like all his comrades, he knew what to do, yet struggled to do it well. Sometimes, when drinking with Master Wei, the old scholar would speak in cryptic, lofty phrases. Eventually, Dian gave up trying to understand. He only knew one thing: when following the general into battle, victory was never in question. The only uncertainty was how great the victory would be.
Perhaps sensing Dian’s gaze, the general turned and looked at him. Dian, now the commander of the Shu infantry and general of Bazhou, chuckled and asked, “General, that young man, Su, is after all a royal prince of the former Shu emperor. He must have bodyguards. Let me have a go at them. It’s been too long since I’ve had some fun.”
The general smiled, neither agreeing nor refusing. Dian flushed with embarrassment, knowing his hopes had just been dashed. And he had no intention of pressing further. The general’s rules were absolute—no one, not even the heavens, could change them. This training expedition was about teaching them how to command soldiers, and the general had never once lifted a hand in battle, no matter how dire the situation. Not that it mattered—what need was there for him to fight, when the rest of them could handle it?
At this thought, Dian felt a twinge of resentment. *You, Xu, with your so-called title of “World’s Strongest” taken from Wang Xianzhi—who knows how much of it was real? If you had to stop the Northern Wei cavalry from invading the south, could you even do it?* But Dian seemed to have forgotten that once, if anyone had told him that the young prince, a mere ornament in the court, would become a martial expert ranked among the greatest, he would have sooner believed he was a woman capable of childbirth. Back when the young prince went to Wudang Mountain to “cultivate,” Dian, Master Wei Fucheng, and the other Beiliang generals had all joked that he was probably smitten with one of the pretty female Daoists up there, and that his sword practice was just a flimsy excuse.
General Anyi Fu Tao, General Zhaolie Wang Jiangwu, and Deputy General of Shuzhou, Huyan Nao Nao—these three, nicknamed “Prince Consort,” “Foolish Young Master,” and “Tiger-Eater,” were as different as night and day in temperament. Yet all three held the silent, unshakable loyalty of the man they followed. Wang, from a noble family, could discuss books, inscriptions, and philology with him. The martial-obsessed Huyan could spar with him in swordplay. That was expected. But even Fu Tao, known for his reclusive nature, found himself at ease in conversation with him.
Dian had long since stopped being surprised. The general had never known defeat. On the battlefield, his reputation was known across the Liyang court. In matters of love, had he not won the heart of Xie Xie, the beauty of the Rouge List, the moment he arrived in Shu? And in politics, even the Emperor held him in the highest esteem, appointing him Minister of War the moment he arrived in the capital—while the two Lus, Lu Baijie and Lu Shengxiang, were merely deputy ministers. How could they compare to *his* general?
Inside the mountain-ringed Miao village, the moment the soldiers appeared, the villagers knew their fate was sealed.
These were supposed to be remote, untouched tribespeople. Yet someone had somehow procured weapons and armor. Most of the armed men were elderly—those who had lived through the Spring and Autumn Wars that had ravaged the Central Plains. The younger ones—children and women—had no idea why their fathers and husbands suddenly bore gleaming blades. Even some old men had donned rusted armor. If not for this sudden calamity, the young might never have known the village’s secret.
The village was no fortress hardened by war. It had no defense against the elite of Shu. Before the soldiers even reached the foot of the hill, some villagers returning from work were shot down by crossbows—arrows piercing chests or skulls in a single strike. Some barely had time to turn before they fell. Most terrifying was the silence of the soldiers. After killing, they merely retrieved their arrows, placing them back into their quivers without a word.
A young Miao couple had been whispering by the river. The man, known for wrestling a tiger barehanded, saw the soldiers approach. Instinctively, he pushed the woman down to shield her. But the arrow had already been loosed. It struck both their foreheads in one shot, killing them together in a tragic embrace.
The merciless killers began their slow, methodical ascent.
What chilled the Miao most was the cold precision of the soldiers’ killings. They moved like seasoned farmers harvesting rice—knowing exactly how much force to use, no more, no less. When the first group of Miao warriors charged down the hill, the soldiers used light crossbows to pick them off. If someone closed in, they drew their swords and struck once—always fatal. If a foe somehow dodged, the soldier did not break formation to chase. Instead, he trusted the next soldier in line to finish the job. When the forty or so attackers were all dead, not one had escaped the second strike.
This clean, almost surgical efficiency terrified the second group of over sixty Miao men. They halted at the edge of the Lusheng Square, where the elderly and weak stood behind them. After this, only the helpless remained—women, children, and the elderly.
The armored soldiers entered the Lusheng Square, their crossbows and swords glinting in the sunlight. The Miao villagers huddled together. An old man, his hair white as snow, stepped forward with a spear. He had once traveled to the Central Plains and could speak the official language. But the moment he opened his mouth, an arrow pierced through it, driving him backward. The arrow, embedded in his skull, jutted out like a rice stalk pulled from a paddy field, leaving the villagers pale with terror.
Neither Dian nor the three generals flinched. Not even the soldier who fired the shot showed any hesitation. To them, this was the natural order of war. Before the man who now led them had been granted a royal title and sent to rule, each had their own pride and style of command. But under his quiet, unyielding guidance, they had learned one truth: war was simply about killing. It was not like writing poetry, where beauty and flourish mattered. It had to be simple and effective. Efficiency saved energy, and energy built momentum. With each battle, the army’s power grew, until even a losing fight could be turned around, and a certain victory became inevitable.
On this southern campaign, the man had spoken little, and never led from the front. Yet at the start of the march from Shu, he had said a few words that lingered in their minds: *I will teach you what a general and a commander must do—and what they must not. You will teach your subordinates the same. Give me five years and twenty thousand soldiers, and I will give you all a place in history.*
Now, Fu Tao, the proud “Prince Consort,” believed it. Wang Jiangwu, the eloquent scholar-general, believed it. Huyan Nao, the sword-obsessed warrior, believed it. Every officer believed it.
Because the man who now gazed upward at a stilted house on the hill was *him*.
And where he looked, there was a balcony known as the “Beauty’s Rail.” It seemed empty.
But behind a window, a young man, dressed differently from the Miao, watched him through a crack. He had been watching since the moment the man looked up.
The youth, barely past his coming-of-age ceremony, was sweating, lips trembling. The stoic composure of a swordsman or the elegance of a scholar—those were luxuries he could not afford. He had fled from the Northern Wei, through Beiliang and Shu, all the way to Nanzhao. Even now, he sometimes felt as if it were a dream. In the early mornings, half-awake, he still thought he was lying on the hard bed of his “home” in the Northern Wei. Though he had confirmed that he was indeed the lost prince of Shu—the son of an emperor mourned by white-haired exiles—he could not bring himself to see that kingdom as his own.
His real name was Su Ying. His father was the emperor of Shu. His uncle was the famed Sword Emperor who had died defending the gates of the kingdom.
But to him, he was simply Su Su. It felt more natural, more comfortable. He had once been a nobody in a small Northern Wei town, dreaming foolish dreams. So when he came to Nanzhao with *her*, he preferred to wander the countryside rather than endure the company of those aged nobles who once seemed untouchable. And she, blind and silent, never refused. With a zither on her back, she walked beside him through the martial world—*his* martial world.
He said he wanted to be a great swordsman. She said, “Fine.” And she bought him a legendary sword, dressed him like a noble heir, and taught him how to speak like a master swordsman.
She would play the bloodthirsty female demon, and he would be the hero who defeated her.
They staged four or five such performances across Nanzhao. She killed over two hundred truly despicable men, while he made grand entrances—reciting poetry, standing beneath the moon, appearing like a noble scholar. In the end, the blind, zither-wielding demoness would always flee in disgrace, pursued by the hero’s dazzling swordplay.
Later, they would meet in secret. He would tell her how famous martial artists had gawked in disbelief, how beautiful female warriors had stared at him with admiration.
She would only smile gently, saying nothing.
Now, Su Su stared at the man who seemed to sense his presence. His voice trembled: “I know… even if you’re close to reaching the Heaven’s Image realm… you can’t beat him.”
The blind zitherist who had once nearly killed Xu Fengnian in the rain nodded calmly.
Su Su turned to her, forcing a bitter smile. “They must be here for me. I’ve lived a good life. No regrets. Doesn’t matter how they found me. You should go.”
Xue Songguan nodded again.
Then she moved, opened the door, and stepped outside.
At that moment, Su Su felt a pang in his heart.
*Birds of a feather fly together, but when disaster strikes, they scatter.*
But she wasn’t even his wife.
If only she were.
Then even if she left, he would let her go willingly.
Suddenly, Su Su snapped out of it. Like a madman, he burst from the room.
And he saw her descend gracefully into the Lusheng Square, standing before the armored soldiers.
Su Su laughed through his tears.
The timid youth who had lived in fear for twenty years in a foreign land, the clumsy young swordsman who had once sprained his ankle during their act—he had never felt such courage in his life. Leaning over the rail, he roared with all his might:
“Wife! Wait for me!”
But Xue Songguan did not let him savor this moment of valor. She tore the cloth from her zither, plucked a single string, and Su Su collapsed into unconsciousness.
Then, the blind woman turned her face “toward” him.
She only felt a little regret.
They say when the music ends, the players part.
She would never see him again.
He would never see her either.
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