Chapter 717: The Thirteen Armors of the Spring and Autumn Period

Behind the mountain, a forest of stone tablets stood.

Stones were scattered across the ground, with more still being erected. Most remained blank, but hundreds on the periphery already bore names, all inscribed in cinnabar. These were soldiers of the Longxiang Cavalry who had fallen in the battle at Liuzhou against the northern Qiang riders at the end of the Xiangfu era. Ancient wisdom held that ink made the characters thin, while cinnabar gave them weight. Thus, the ideal cinnabar script was strong and firm in form. The calligraphers responsible for these inscriptions were two renowned masters from Beiliang—Mi Qiong and Peng Henian, who lived separately in the northern and southern parts of Beiliang, earning them the reputation of “Southern Sinew, Northern Bone.” These two venerable calligraphers had long harbored a rivalry, refusing to associate with each other even unto death. Moreover, during the time of General Xu Xiao, they had held the Beiliang military and politics in low esteem. However, when the news spread that the Beiliang Prince’s Mansion would erect thirty thousand stone tablets, Mi Qiong was the first to arrive at Qingliang Mountain. He asked a few questions, received answers, and decided to stay. He then wrote a letter to Peng Henian, whose tone roughly went: “You grandson named Peng, dare you come face me, old man, and show what you’ve got?”

Soon after, Peng Henian arrived at Qingliang Mountain, bringing along his treasured writing tools. He settled down next to Mi Qiong, and the two old rivals, in their twilight years, became neighbors. Amid their exchanges—more accurately, their heated arguments—Deputy Governor Song Dongming personally handed them a list. It contained names and two simple instructions: birthplace and time, death place and time.

Initially, the two elders still harbored the desire to outdo each other. But when Mi Qiong wrote one name, he suddenly burst into tears: “Liu Hongyi was a young man from Chunsui County in Lingzhou. When he was a child, he was unruly because of his military family background. I even scolded him for squandering such a noble name. He was only twenty-one. How could he die so suddenly?”

From that day on, Mi Qiong and Peng Henian grew increasingly silent, speaking only occasionally to the stone carvers responsible for engraving the cinnabar script. They no longer wished to talk much.

Today, the two elders heard that someone had arrived at the tablet forest, and their hearts tightened with complex emotions. They hurriedly packed and went to see, only to discover it was the Prince of Beiliang himself. The old men were not accustomed to bowing to anyone, so their greetings were clumsy. Xu Fengnian quickly helped them up, but offered no idle pleasantries. After a moment’s hesitation, he divided the stack of rice paper into four portions, handing one to Song Dongming, and the other two to the calligraphy masters. In silence, the four began inscribing the tablets. Behind each of them, two or three skilled craftsmen stood ready with tools, waiting to carve. As dusk fell, the sound of chiseling echoed through the air.

Xu Fengnian and Song Dongming finished slightly earlier than the two elders. When Mi Qiong finally completed his last inscription, night had already fallen. With cinnabar-stained hands, Mi Qiong approached Xu Fengnian, his tone heavy with unhidden reproach: “Why is there war even in the heartland of Youzhou?”

Xu Fengnian replied softly: “Northern Qiang spies and assassins have infiltrated, carrying out large-scale attacks on Youzhou officials…”

Mi Qiong pointed his finger directly at Xu Fengnian’s face, shouting in fury: “When your father was alive, there were Northern Qiang assassins too, yet they were kept outside the pass! How can you be the Prince of Beiliang? Aren’t you the greatest martial artist in the world? Are you just going to sit and watch? Watching our people die, and then pretending to care by writing their names on a stone after the fact?!”

Song Dongming was about to speak, but Xu Fengnian, wrapped in a thick cloak, waved him off. Looking at the old man, he said with genuine regret: “I failed.”

Peng Henian was less fiery than Mi Qiong, but he too was displeased. Still, he tugged at Mi Qiong’s sleeve, restraining him.

After Xu Fengnian had walked far away, Mi Qiong, his face dark with anger, spat heavily at the retreating figure. He smashed his priceless crab-shell green inkstone, “Self-Reliant Man,” onto the ground: “I’m done! I’m leaving Beiliang! I’m going to Jiangnan! As long as I live, I’ll spend every day writing ‘Xu Fengnian is a bastard’ over and over!”

Not long after, Song Dongming returned the same way. He saw Mi Qiong standing still with his eyes closed, while Peng Henian crouched beside him sighing. Neither had picked up the inkstone. Song Dongming bent down, picked it up, but did not immediately return it. Instead, he looked toward the peak of Qingliang Mountain and said solemnly: “You two probably haven’t heard of Huang Qing, the Sword Aura Master from Qiman, or the Copper Figure Ancestor of the Chess and Sword Bureau, or what they were capable of. You certainly haven’t seen a real dragon. In fact, I haven’t either. But I do know two things: one is that Huang Qing died in Liuzhou, and the dragon raised by the Qiman was also destroyed, along with hundreds of cultivators hiding in the western capital of Qiman. The second is that here, two tablets were nearly carved with two names, both surnamed Xu: Xu Longxiang and Xu Fengnian.”

Song Dongming turned and handed the ancient inkstone back to Mi Qiong, smiling calmly: “If Beiliang ever truly falls, the tablet will surely bear his name—Xu Fengnian—and me, an outsider. At that time, I hope you, Master Mi, won’t refuse to inscribe it.”

With that, Song Dongming slowly departed.

Peng Henian deliberately ignored Mi Qiong’s reddening face, counting on his fingers as if muttering to himself: “Xu Fengnian is a bastard… Wait, no. That’s nine characters, not eight like you said!”

Mi Qiong carefully retrieved the inkstone, rolling his eyes: “Mi Qiong is a bastard. That’s exactly eight characters!”

Peng Henian laughed heartily: “Fine by me! How about it? You’re having a big birthday soon, so I’ll write you a calligraphy piece, how’s that?”

Mi Qiong, abandoning decorum, snapped: “Write my foot!”

The two elders did not immediately leave the tablet forest. Instead, they resumed inspecting the carvings, as they had done before, to ensure there were no errors. Generally speaking, even with cinnabar script, the carvers often lacked the calligrapher’s skill, leading to distortions in form and spirit. Though Mi Qiong and Peng Henian did not demand perfection, they still wished to ensure the work was as flawless as possible. Perhaps they felt this was the only thing they could still do well. Fortunately, the artisans of the tablet forest were fairly satisfactory—not reaching the level of “only slightly inferior to the original,” but sufficient to convey five or six tenths of the cinnabar script’s essence.

The carvers worked slowly and meticulously, far slower than writing with a brush. Mi Qiong, lantern in hand, was inspecting the tablets one by one when he suddenly heard Peng Henian shouting urgently for him. Thinking it was a carving mistake, he hurried over, only to find Peng Henian standing before a row of tablets with no carver at work. The old man was crouching beside a tablet, lantern in hand, his eyes nearly glued to the stone, as if he had discovered a masterpiece by a calligraphy sage. Mi Qiong approached and saw that it was Xu Fengnian’s cinnabar script. At first glance, it was indeed impressive. Yet in Mi Qiong’s eyes, though of high quality, it was still far from reaching the level of a masterpiece.

Peng Henian did not turn his head. He reached out and touched the engraved grooves, then staggered backward, falling to the ground. His eyes shut tightly, tears streaming down his face. He dropped the lantern, covered his face with both hands, and cried out in anguish: “Old Mi, come closer, open your eyes wide—but don’t stare too long! Remember!”

Mi Qiong raised his lantern and looked closely. A chill swept over him, as if standing on the edge of an abyss.

Clearly, this was not the result of Xu Fengnian’s calligraphy alone, but the carving itself that had brought the script to life!

Mi Qiong indeed soon felt a sharp pain in his eyes. He shut them tightly, shaking his head: “The strokes are decisive, like a Kun knife slicing jade! No ordinary stonemason could carve such precision in such a short time. It’s truly divine craftsmanship!”

Peng Henian, still seated on the ground rubbing his eyes, sighed: “It must have been done by someone’s fingers. There’s no other explanation.”

Mi Qiong was astounded: “Many martial grandmasters can use their fingers as blades, but calligraphy is a specialized skill. No one in the world today could produce such elegance!”

Peng Henian said bitterly: “Could it have been a ghost or a deity?”

Mi Qiong stood up, lantern in hand, gazing into the night sky: “Once I did not believe in ghosts and gods, but now I wish they truly existed—to protect Beiliang and destroy Qiman!”

Peng Henian slapped his forehead: “Quickly, we must inform the Prince. No more complications!”

Soon, Xu Fengnian arrived in haste, accompanied by a young and an old figure carrying lanterns. One was Mi Fengjie, the master of Chentian Cavern, whose cultivation was steadily rising. The other was Fan Xiao chai, a loyal retainer from the old Han dynasty aristocracy. During the spy war in Youzhou, Mi Fengjie had guarded Huangfu Ping but achieved nothing. However, Fan Xiao chai had slaughtered the moral sect’s chief priest, Cui Wazi, in a tower in Changgeng City—or rather, had tortured him to death. When the agents from Wutong Courtyard and Fushui Bureau arrived to clean up, they found the floor littered with body parts and bloodstained walls. Fan Xiao chai was sitting on the outer railing, playing with a fly whisk left behind by a martial master, looking more like an innocent girl than a deadly assassin.

Xu Fengnian knelt before a tablet, beside him a middle-aged man who led the Prince’s Mansion’s guards. The man was anxious: “We’ve identified him. The stonemason’s name is Wu Jiang, likely a pseudonym. He has been a third-class servant in the Prince’s Mansionfor sixteen years and four months, nicknamed Old Ginger, because he always eats a piece of ginger with his meals. Last year, he was transferred here to work on the tablet forest. My Lord, it is my failure to have misjudged him. Please punish me!”

Xu Fengnian shook his head: “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.”

Xu Fengnian slowly stood and turned to Mi Fengjie: “What do you think?”

Mi Fengjie replied solemnly: “I saw one word, one sword. The sword qi cuts through the sky.”

Xu Fengnian smiled: “Wu Jiang. No ginger. No borders for the Jiang family of Chu?”

Xu Fengnian said softly: “He means no harm. Let this matter rest.”

Xu Fengnian returned to Qingliang Mountain and walked toward the tomb where his parents lay. After Xu Xiao’s death, Xu Fengnian had built a symbolic grave for his teacher, Li Yishan, beside it. Alone, he entered the tomb passage, recalling many memories. His teacher had once said that the saddest words were those on gravestones, because epitaphs were written by the living for the dead. The deeper the emotion, the heavier the brushstroke. Li Yishan’s ashes had been scattered across the border sands of the northwest, as per his final wish. Originally, he had wanted no grave, but Xu Fengnian had built this symbolic tomb anyway, though he had not written an epitaph. Just like the tablets in the forest behind Qingliang Mountain, it bore only the name and the dates and places of birth and death, a gesture he believed his teacher would not resent from beyond.

Xu Fengnian felt that Huang Longshi had died—an inexplicable feeling, yet one he trusted completely.

The three great villains of the Spring and Autumn era—Han Shengxuan, the “Cat Man,” had died by Xu Fengnian’s hand; Xu Xiao, the “Butcher,” was gone; and Huang Longshi, who had stirred chaos with his tongue, had also passed. All three were no longer in this world.

Of the Thirteen Masters of the Spring and Autumn era, Huang Longshi alone had claimed three titles: the greatest Go player, the finest calligrapher, and the foremost diviner—occupying the Chess Master, Calligraphy Master, and Divination Master titles.

Sword Master Li Chungan was dead.

Armor Master Ye Baikui of Xichu had perished in the Xilei Wall battle, paving the way for Chen Zhibao.

The legendary Beauty Master, the Queen of Chu, had faded into oblivion.

Zither Master, the blind musician of the fallen Southern Tang, had drowned himself with his zither after his kingdom fell.

Painting Master Zhou Yufu of Shu had painted a long scroll of Shu’s mountains and rivers before his death, and died drunk while lying upon it.

Land Master Situ Shence, an expert in geomancy and feng shui, had been secretly executed after the unification of the empire.

Law Master Xun Ping had been cooked and eaten by the people.

Daoist Master Qi Xuanzhen had dissolved his mortal form on the Demon-Slaying Platform.

Monk Master Longshu had died outside the Moral Sect of Qiman.

Of the Thirteen Masters of Spring and Autumn, twelve had definitively passed. Only the obscure Blade Master remained, likely lost to obscurity in the tide of history. In fact, since Gu Jiantang had become the acknowledged greatest sword master in the world, this once-fleeting and unnamed Blade Master had been mentioned even less than Li Chungan, who had locked himself away beneath the Tide-Watching Pavilion. By the time Li Chungan returned to sword immortality at Daxueping of Huishan, the Blade Master was even more forgotten.

It was early spring, yet snow began to fall from the sky, and the storm showed no sign of abating. Xu Fengnian paused, reaching out to catch a snowflake in his hand.

He thought of Bai Huerlian, of his—or her—two swords: Chunlei and Xiu Dong.

Xu Fengnian had never known Bai Huerlian’s true identity. Was he truly Nan Gong Puyan? Why had he come to Beiliang? Why had he insisted on entering the Tide-Watching Pavilion?

Tomorrow morning, Xu Fengnian would depart for Youzhou. He would not see Yan Chiji or Kong Zhenrong—not because he had anything against them, but for their own good.

Even if misunderstood, even if never to meet again, Xu Fengnian still made the unnecessary trip back to Qingliang Mountain.

That was what it meant to be brothers.

In his life, Xu Fengnian had only ever called four men brothers: Li Hanlin, Yan Chiji, Kong Wuchi, and Wen Hua.

Suddenly, Xu Fengnian, walking slowly through the snowstorm, saw a strange figure standing before the two graves, his back turned.

This scene made no sense.

The Beiliang Prince’s Mansion was now heavily guarded, far more so than in the days when the young prince had deliberately created a relaxed atmosphere to lure enemies.

Let alone entering this sacred burial ground!

The figure turned slowly, saying in a calm voice: “A traveler returns on a snowy night.”