Amidst the teasing laughter of the young girl, the winds atop the ridge grew fiercer, causing everyone’s robes to flutter and rustle like mournful whispers. Against this backdrop, the young knight appeared even more radiant and poised. One might even say, without exaggeration, that he resembled “a celestial being descended from the heavens.” Unconsciously, it was hard not to marvel at how the barren and rugged lands of Liang could nurture such a dashing figure, one who could put even the most refined scholars of Jiangnan to shame.
Even someone as proud and extraordinary as Jin Baoshi had to admit that this unexpected guest, regardless of his martial prowess, at the very least had an impeccable appearance. Were he in the scholarly circles of Jiangnan, where refinement and bearing were highly prized, he would easily become a favored guest of the noble houses.
The old man seemed to have recognized the young man’s identity, his gaze complex—filled with the kindness of an elder, the pity of an outsider, and the satisfaction of seeing a kindred spirit.
Under the scrutiny of many eyes, the young knight, who had boldly declared he would fulfill the duties of a host beneath the hooves of thousands of Northern Mang cavalry, deftly turned his horse and gestured for the carriage to proceed first. Han Guzi nodded slightly, and the coachman Song Xinsheng lightly flicked his whip with a soft “Hup,” urging the horses forward once more.
Han Guzi had taken in eight formal disciples. His first disciple, Yu Songyang, was a man of few words but swift in action, a renowned scholar at the Shangyin Academy famed for his profound annotations—though he was also “bold in revising the classics.” His scholarly debate with the Neo-Confucian master Yao Baifeng had stirred the intellectual world, with the two exchanging eighteen letters each, earning Yu Songyang the nickname “Eighteen Strokes of the Brush.” His reputation in the Liyang literary scene was mixed. Next was the eccentric poetic genius Chang Sui, known as the “Immortal of Wine,” followed by Xu Huang, a distant relative of General Xu Gong and a master of military strategy; Sima Can, a strategist from humble origins; Xu Weixiong of Northern Liang; Jin Baoshi of the Langya Jin clan; Liu Duanmao, the eldest grandson of the Yangling Liu family; and finally, the least known—the ill-fated prince Zhao Kai, who had carried a silver flask to the Western Regions only to perish beyond the Iron Gate Pass.
Han Guzi’s disciples were a diverse lot—men and women, refined scholars and unorthodox rebels alike. Though only eight in number, they spanned Confucianism, military strategy, philosophy, and diplomacy. What mattered most was that each was a true dragon among men, earning the old master the unparalleled reputation of “Yielding a Head” in Liyang. It was said that wherever Han Guzi appeared, be it before emperors or commoners, all would defer to him. The origin of this title was unclear—some attributed it to the Western Chu’s Grand Preceptor Sun Xiji or State Preceptor Li Mi, while others insisted it was the work of the notoriously arrogant Huang Sanjia. Regardless, Han Guzi’s fame only grew as luminaries like the Lu brothers, Yao Baifeng, and Qi Yanglong entered the imperial court. Though he remained reclusive and aloof from politics, many speculated when he would finally be summoned to the capital, where he would undoubtedly assume the prestigious and powerful position of Minister of Rites.
To accommodate Han Guzi’s frail health, the convoy moved slowly. Yet to the north, the dust kicked up by the Northern Mang cavalry was already visible, their approach imminent. The atmosphere grew tense. Even the usually fearless and carefree Han Guoxiu grew anxious, frequently glancing northward as if she could already feel the ground trembling. Earlier, she had tried to provoke the young knight with Sima Can’s sarcastic remarks, but he neither retorted nor showed anger—much to her frustration. She had prepared countless clever comebacks, only to find her opponent even more dull than the “Wooden Uncle” Yu Songyang.
Han Guoxiu couldn’t resist shouting at the rider’s back, “Those are thousands of Northern Mang barbarians coming! Are you really up for this? If not, just say so—don’t drag us down when they charge!”
The young knight turned with a grin. “When a lady asks if I’m up for it, I always say yes.”
Sima Can barely stifled his laughter, wary of becoming the target of Han Guoxiu’s temper. Jin Baoshi frowned, her impression of the man plummeting as she mentally categorized him as a shameless rogue.
The naive Han Guoxiu pressed, “Really? Don’t pretend to be brave! When those barbarians charge, no one will save you!”
The knight, seemingly in good spirits, merely chuckled.
Jin Baoshi turned and lightly rapped the girl’s forehead. “Silly girl, stop talking.”
Han Guoxiu blinked in confusion. “Sister Jin, why hit me?” Then, as if struck by sudden realization, she grinned and whispered, “Oh! Do you fancy this dashing Northern Liang fellow? Let me tell you, his looks are decent, but compared to my future husband Xie Xichui, he’s miles behind. My mother always says a man’s character matters more than looks or lineage… Northern Liang men, especially those military brats, are always killing—they’ve got terrible tempers and no refinement. If you dare marry a Northern Liang man, we’re through!”
Jin Baoshi, torn between laughter and exasperation, pinched the girl’s ear. “Is Xie Xichui yours? Who was it that cried to me about sending him dozens of letters without a single reply?!”
As the two girls playfully bickered, the knight bid farewell to Han Guzi and galloped north. Watching him disappear into the distance, Han Guoxiu gaped. “Is he insane? Or did I hit the mark—is he rushing to his death?”
She turned to her grandfather. “Grandpa, who is he? You know, don’t you?”
The old man leaned lazily against the carriage, smiling but silent.
Han Guoxiu pouted. “Mean!”
Beside the carriage, Xu Huang asked softly, “Is it him?”
The old man hummed in affirmation, gazing at the sky with a sigh. “Chang Sui once wrote a poem: ‘At fifteen or twenty, a youth on foot could seize Northern steeds. Brushing armor white as snow…'”
Jin Baoshi instinctively gripped her sword hilt, her spirit soaring as she silently recited the next lines with the old man: “‘…he fought across three thousand miles, a single blade holding back a million troops!'”
But what happened next left everyone but Han Guzi stunned. After galloping a mile, the knight halted—and the elite Northern Mang scouts, the Black Fox Riders, abruptly turned tail. Soon, the main force of armored cavalry slowed their charge, then wheeled away in a wide arc, vanishing without a trace. A force of two to three thousand had come with thunderous intent, only to retreat without a single drop of rain.
The knight was none other than Xu Fengnian, who had diverted his route upon receiving intelligence from the Fushui Bureau. He didn’t pursue the fleeing cavalry but instead turned back toward the convoy. His presence here as a guard served two purposes: first, the five hundred elite Northern Liang cavalry might not suffice to protect everyone, and Han Guzi was, after all, one of his second sister’s mentors. Second, he wanted to witness the legendary “Yielding a Head” Han Guzi in person and gauge whether he could be persuaded to join Qingliang Mountain. Yet upon their first meeting, Xu Fengnian knew the old man had no such intention—this was merely a scholar’s journey of learning. Forcing the matter would be futile, especially given Han Guzi’s immense prestige, second only to Chief Secretary Qi Yanglong. Even as one of the Four Great Grandmasters, Xu Fengnian couldn’t compel him. To detain the convoy would only turn the Central Plains, which had just begun to view Northern Liang favorably, into outright enemies. Worse, Deputy Administrator Song Dongming, Huang Shang of the Qinglu Academy, and the thousands of scholars who had migrated to Liang would revolt.
Returning to the carriage, Xu Fengnian clasped his hands. “Master Han, regardless, I hope you’ll visit Liangzhou on your return. Even if you don’t enter the city, someone will come out to greet you.”
Han Guzi shook his head with a smile. “This old man barely mustered the courage to travel in his twilight years. I’d rather see new places than retrace my steps. We’ll likely continue west to Qingcang, Linyao, and Fengxiang, stopping at Mount Landuo before heading south to Nanhai, then north to Western Shu, and finally sailing back along the Guangling River.”
Xu Fengnian nodded. “Then I wish you a smooth journey.”
The old man chuckled, feigning senility. “What, leaving already? I can’t be sure those Northern Mang cavalry won’t return. Won’t you escort us further? If we die here, it won’t be a small matter. Northern Liang’s iron cavalry can hold back a million Northern Mang troops, but can you bear the infamy?”
Xu Fengnian suddenly recalled another of his second sister’s mentors—the terrible chess player Wang Jijiu. Why were all her teachers so irreverent in their old age? Sighing, he said, “I’ll escort you another ten miles. Any more, and I really can’t.”
The old man waved vigorously. “Back when the Great General funded that lakeside causeway to get Xu Weixiong into Shangyin Academy, they called it ‘Ten Miles of Spring Dawn.’ This old man, despite his creaky joints, walked it daily for years, rain or shine. So your ten-mile escort feels lacking. Make it twenty, and we’ll call it adequate. Deal?”
Xu Fengnian smiled wryly. “Fine. Twenty it is.”
Han Guoxiu rolled her eyes. “Why do you always say ‘yes’ when asked if you can do something?”
Even the silver-tongued Xu Fengnian was left speechless.
Sima Can finally burst into laughter—this silly girl had unwittingly delivered a fatal blow.
Curious, Han Guoxiu voiced the question on everyone’s mind: “Why did those Northern Mang cavalry flee without a fight?”
Xu Fengnian replied solemnly, “I don’t know. I only said one thing to them.”
Sensing a trap, Sima Can and Jin Baoshi blurted in unison, “Don’t ask.”
But Han Guoxiu pressed eagerly, “What did you say?”
Xu Fengnian deadpanned, “I told them it was getting late, and Liu Gui called them home to cook.”
Han Guoxiu blinked. “Are those barbarians idiots? They actually believed that?”
Xu Fengnian grinned. “Yep. They really did.”
Sima Can facepalmed. This silly girl had barely escaped one trap before leaping into another.
Jin Baoshi glared at the smirking knight, her disgust peaking. “Think this is funny?”
Xu Fengnian smiled but said nothing.
*For your convoy to travel unhindered, twenty-six Fushui agents died intercepting Zhao Gou assassins—most beyond Northern Liang’s borders.*
Of Han Guzi’s entourage, Yu Songyang, whose family had perished in the Northern Han wars, naturally didn’t join. The poetic genius Chang Sui, the only disciple not to enter Northern Liang, had instead wandered north alone with his sword and wine. Among the three martial escorts, “Stone-Shattering Hand” Song Xinsheng was Han Guzi’s close friend; Qi Zihu, wielder of the famed blade “Forbidden Fire,” acted out of chivalry; and the younger Lu Shouwen at the convoy’s tail came from the prestigious third-rank Kuaiji Lu clan. Though a minor branch, his family valued both scholarship and martial arts, and his third-rank prowess by thirty made him a rising star. Fushui intelligence suggested he, like Liu Duanmao, harbored feelings for Jin Baoshi—but more critically, he might be a double agent, ostensibly serving Zhao Yi’s Guanglin Chunxue Tower while secretly working for Nanjiang. Having killed three Zhao Gou assassins en route, his return would be anything but peaceful—a true case of “forsaking power for love.”
Suddenly, Han Guzi declared he wanted to “ride the wind like a youth.” Despite protests from Song Xinsheng and Xu Huang, Han Guoxiu cheered, earning a scolding from Jin Baoshi. With Sima Can’s help, the old man clumsily mounted a horse. Xu Fengnian edged closer, ready to catch him if he fell. Thankfully, Han Guzi had no delusions of grandeur—he merely swayed precariously as he rode beside Xu Fengnian, with Xu Huang guarding his other side.
The old man chuckled. “An old man’s youthful folly, true—but no hounds or falcons, no finery, and certainly no ‘thousand riders sweeping the plains.’ Compared to those Northern Mang barbarians’ ferocity, it’s rather embarrassing. I’ve spent my life reading and teaching, with over twenty disciples to my name. Yet aside from Xu Gong, now a vice-minister at the border, none have ever slain a Northern Mang foe.”
The old man murmured sorrowfully, “Not a single one left.”
Xu Fengnian smiled and said, “There is one.”
The old man nodded. “Ah, right. My old mind is failing me. That Xu girl—she led the mighty Northern Liang Iron Cavalry straight into the heart of the Northern Wilderness. Back then at Shangyin Academy, her fellow students stole several jars of wine from me. The next day, they were all reeking of alcohol, utterly disheveled. Me? I pretended not to notice. Haha! Even Yu Songyang, for once, was no exception—they say he nearly dozed off during his lecture. So, the Great General did nothing wrong back then, and what you’ve done is even better. Otherwise, this old man, half-buried in the yellow earth already, wouldn’t have dared to defy the world and make this journey.”
Xu Fengnian said, “The old master has indeed defied the world.”
The old man sighed apologetically. “Though you don’t say it, I still owe you—and all of Northern Liang—an apology. This old man acted on a whim and ended up costing many lives. Yet here I am, strolling along as if on a spring outing, patting my backside and leaving without lifting a finger to help. Worse still, for the sake of my so-called reputation, I didn’t even meet that Xu girl when I was right at your doorstep.”
Xu Fengnian replied softly, “The scholars of Shangyin Academy can’t withstand the storms of war. You did nothing wrong. Whether the warriors of Northern Liang hold the northwest or not, this world will always need scholars to govern it. One day, they may even have to step out of their libraries, lay down their books, and stand firm before the tide of war.”
Jin Baoshi, riding behind the three, had been eavesdropping all along. Hearing this, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of surprise and newfound respect. She lifted her gaze to study the rider’s back—dusty, clad in plain clothes, carrying a simple cloth pack, without the standard Northern Liang cavalry saber or light crossbow. He didn’t seem like one of the countless young scions of Northern Liang’s military families, though many had enlisted in recent times. She couldn’t place any young man in Liuzhou who was so… *peculiar*, able to chat so casually with her master. Could he be that obscure strategist from the south, Chen Xiliang, who had risen to fame in Northern Liang?
Han Guoxiu whispered in Jin Baoshi’s ear, “Sister Jin, I think this guy might just be *him*.”
Jin Baoshi chuckled and shook her head. “Impossible. You don’t practice martial arts, so you don’t understand the aura of the world’s greatest grandmasters. I’ve met several first-rank martial experts…”
Han Guoxiu cut in, “Oh, I know! It’s all about ‘dragon strides and tiger steps, deep as an abyss, towering as a mountain.’ And for the older ones, it’s ‘immortal grace, majestic as a peak.’”
Then she muttered to herself, “Now that you mention it, this guy really doesn’t seem like a master. Especially when he smiles—it’s downright untrustworthy. He’s not even as impressive as that Lu Shouwen who took a blade for you.”
With a dramatic sigh, she added, “What a shame! I was really hoping to see that Xu Fengnian on this trip. So many of our academy sisters are practically swooning over him. If I’d seen him, they’d be green with envy when I got back! Haha! I’ve decided—I’ll tell them I *did* see Xu Fengnian, and I’ll describe him as ten feet tall, built like a bear, with a full beard and arms as thick as their legs! All that talk of ‘dragon grace and phoenix bearing, Northern Xu and Southern Song’—well, we’ve seen Song Maolin with our own eyes, and he’s *handsome*. Except for my husband Xie Xisui, no one in this world can compare to Song Maolin. Just imagining their faces when they hear my description, how heartbroken they’ll be…”
The girl buried her head against Jin Baoshi’s back, laughing uncontrollably.
Jin Baoshi shook her head, smiling faintly. “You little devil. Be careful, or you’ll never find a husband. At least leave your friends some hope.”
Han Guoxiu pouted childishly. “No way! They keep saying my husband isn’t worth one ten-thousandth of Xu Fengnian!”
Liu Duanmao moved to interject, but Lu Shouwen had already ridden up beside Jin Baoshi and Han Guoxiu. Liu, with his naturally intimidating face, could only look on mournfully. The sharp-eyed Sima Can sighed inwardly. How many times had he told this junior brother that Jin Baoshi wasn’t the type to judge by appearances? Yet every time Liu saw her, his courage failed him. Back when their youngest brother Zhao Kai was still at the academy, he’d once tricked Liu into drunkenly confessing his feelings. Though Jin Baoshi hadn’t been swayed, it was clear she didn’t dislike him. Yet Liu, sober and terrified, had trembled for days. Zhao Kai had planned to push him to seize the moment, but after the younger brother’s sudden departure—and the shocking news that followed—Liu had retreated entirely, drowning his sorrows in wine for half a year. Only after Jin Baoshi scolded him harshly did he finally let go of the wine jars he’d clung to, mocked by others as his “wine wives.”
Originally, the six male disciples (aside from Xu Weixiong and Jin Baoshi) had agreed to get roaring drunk together once Zhao Kai and Liu Duanmao had won their respective ladies. They’d planned to drain their master’s entire wine collection in one go.
Sima Can’s eyes reddened as he gazed south. *Little brother, we promised to stand side by side as ruler and minister, leaving our names in history.*
Sima Can bore no hatred for Northern Liang, nor for the young man who had once been its heir. He simply missed that carefree junior brother of his.
Lu Shouwen rode alongside Jin Baoshi and Han Guoxiu, but instead of speaking to the woman he’d fallen for at first sight, he turned to Han Guoxiu with a gentle smile. “Seeing those Northern Wilderness barbarians—were you scared?”
Han Guoxiu, who secretly favored the cowardly Liu Duanmao, rolled her eyes. “Terrified!”
Lu Shouwen sighed but didn’t take offense. Compared to the girl’s earlier hostility, this was progress. Shifting his gaze slightly, he asked softly, “Lady Jin, why did the Northern Wilderness cavalry retreat on their own?”
Jin Baoshi shook her head, smiling faintly. “I don’t know. That man wouldn’t say, and the master wouldn’t reveal the secret.”
Lu Shouwen nodded and fell silent, riding without pressing further.
Sima Can, snapping out of his thoughts, couldn’t help but lament that his junior brother Liu had met his match.
At the front, Han Guzi and Xu Huang—one who knew, and one who had guessed earliest—were aware of Xu Fengnian’s true identity.
The three casually discussed the war in Guangling. Han Guzi spoke less and less, intentionally or not, while Xu Huang methodically shared his analysis. Xu Fengnian didn’t simply agree but occasionally challenged him bluntly. Xu Huang answered each point, yet their views on the naval battle’s outcome and duration remained far apart. Xu Huang believed the Zhao Yi fleet, reinforced by Qingzhou’s navy, would win decisively. Xu Fengnian argued that in two to three months, Cao Changqing’s Western Chu would prevail. Han Guzi merely said both were half-right and declined further comment.
Later, Xu Huang questioned Xu Fengnian in detail about the Hulu Pass campaign. Xu Fengnian held nothing back, and Xu Huang finally sighed, “Back when Northern Liang boasted of devouring 150,000 Northern Wilderness troops at Hulu Pass, Xu Gong, before taking office in the capital, said it wasn’t an exaggeration—if anything, it was an understatement.”
When Xu Fengnian and Xu Huang discussed rebuilding Tiger Head City in Liangzhou, the old man offhandedly mentioned that Xu Huang had proposed the idea three years prior, only to be ridiculed as a dreamer. In the entire academy, only Kou Jianghuai and Qi Shence had agreed.
Just as Xu Huang casually noted that the Northern Wilderness’s central forces might shift eastward to Liuzhou, Han Guzi—seeming unable to bear the horseback jostling—asked with a smile, “Have we gone ten li yet?”
Xu Huang paused, then nodded. “Just about.”
The old man suddenly grinned at Xu Fengnian. “Whether it’s ten li or twenty, the sentiment matters more than the distance. This old man won’t delay your journey to Huaiyang Pass any longer. Once that Xu girl loses her temper, even her fellow disciples tremble like mice before a cat—and truth be told, so do I.”
Muttering about his age, the old man dismounted with difficulty and settled cross-legged behind Song Xinsheng in the carriage, waving cheerfully. “No wine to see you off—too old, too weak.”
Xu Fengnian reined in his horse, watching as the others rode past him one by one.
The wind atop the ridge grew fierce, whipping his sleeves forward.
Sima Can shot Han Guoxiu a meaningful look, but the girl didn’t catch on. Just as he was about to rub his sore eyelids, she finally snapped, “Spit it out already!”
The old man coughed sternly. “Guoxiu, mind your language!”
The girl grumbled an apology, then turned and flashed Sima Can a *you’re-dead* glare.
The old man gazed ahead and said slowly, “Stop guessing. In a moment, just look back, and you’ll see why the Northern Wilderness cavalry retreated.”
Everyone except Xu Huang and the carefully driving Song Xinsheng turned to look.
The old man laughed heartily. “This ‘avoidance’ title of mine, Han Guzi, pales next to the young man who may one day make the entire Northern Wilderness *avoid* him. I’ve lived all these years in vain! But even so, I’m happy.”
Sima Can and Liu Duanmao, Jin Baoshi and Han Guoxiu, Qi Zihu and Lu Shouwen—all turned to look. Yet all they saw was that lone rider moving away from them, nothing more.
The old man closed his eyes and began humming a tune he’d once heard in a Youzhou market. A little girl had sung it cheerfully while buying wine for her father, her voice pure and bright, perhaps because she’d get to buy treats with the leftover coins.
But now, amid the desert sands and howling winds, the old man’s raspy voice lent the song a mournful, desolate edge.
*”Spring after spring, the orioles take flight.*
*Autumn after autumn, the wild geese return.*
*Year after year, we wait and wait.*
*The blade-bearing sons of Northern Liang,*
*Come home wrapped in horsehide…”*
Han Guoxiu, her neck stiff from waiting, was about to complain that her grandfather had tricked them—
When suddenly, everyone’s eyes widened in unison.
In the distance, a tide of snow-white cavalry surged into view like an unstoppable wave.
Sima Can gasped, “The Great Snow Dragon Cavalry?!”
Xu Huang, still facing forward, said gravely, “No—the White Horse Retinue!”
Han Guzi opened his eyes. “In ancient times, the invincible Qin warriors would roar two words before battle, shaking the heavens.”
Xu Huang closed his eyes, as if envisioning that unstoppable army, and whispered, “*The wind rises.*”
Sima Can, well-versed in history, murmured, “*The wind rises.*”
Behind Han Guoxiu’s stunned silence, Jin Baoshi suddenly wheeled her horse around, trembling as she shouted at the retreating figure, “*Northern Liang! The wind rises!*”
Han Guzi exhaled softly, then laughed loudly. “Eight hundred years ago, the Great Qin’s wind rose! But the era I’m fortunate to live in—how could it be any lesser?”
Because eight hundred years later, Northern Liang fights to the death.
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