After the legendary figure known as the “Old Monster” Wang died in Northern Liang, the once-mighty Martial Emperor City, which had stood like a divine pillar anchoring the sea, saw its status in the martial world plummet. Especially after figures like Yu Xinlang departed the East Sea one after another, this former sacred ground of the martial world endured a prolonged period of turmoil. The city became a patchwork of competing factions, and with the ban on martial arts lifted, duels between masters became so frequent that finding a high vantage point for a fight became difficult. Clashes between sects were countless, and rumor had it that some busybody had calculated that over sixty sects had risen and fallen within just half a year—though many of these so-called factions were little more than a handful of nobodies. This chaos only began to stabilize after that young man surnamed Jiang spent half a year battling the tides atop the city walls.
As for the young man’s identity, speculation ran wild. Some claimed Jiang Fuding was Wang Xianzhi’s true closed-door disciple, while others whispered he was a celestial exile like Qi Xuanzhen, blessed with immense fortune—destined to be the one who would finally counter the Northern Liang King.
Jiang Fuding, who kept to himself in Martial Emperor City, paid no heed to worldly affairs. Day after day, he battled the tides atop the walls. The once-fair-skinned, handsome young master who had entered Liang with the sword *Guohezu* to challenge the Northern Liang King had now tanned to the bronze hue of a fisherman. Since the boxing master Lin Ya left the city, Jiang Fuding had stopped drowning himself in drink. It wasn’t exactly usurpation—Wang Xianzhi’s residence had become ownerless, and Jiang Fuding claimed it with his fists alone. Those who dared oppose him or lacked the sense to stay out of his way were swiftly crushed.
On this night, the moon rose over the sea.
Beneath its glow, Jiang Fuding, for once, carried a jug of wine to the city walls, sitting cross-legged as he drank slowly. This enigmatic young man had once been an arrogant prodigy of the capital. In the vast city of Tai’an, among his peers, he had scorned the two sons of General Gu Jiantang as too rigid, dismissed the fourth prince as all reputation and no ambition, and deemed the eldest prince Zhao Wu utterly crude. He sneered at the sons and daughters of the high nobility as nothing but gluttonous wastrels. In the end, the only one he truly bonded with was Zhao Kai, the illegitimate son of the late emperor. Before Zhao Kai returned from the Shangyin Academy to the capital—before his death at the Iron Gate Pass in the Western Regions—the two had gotten drunk together. One vowed to achieve unparalleled military feats for the Liyang Zhao dynasty, while the other laughed and said, *”The throne is yours, the martial world is mine. If you ever sit on that dragon throne, how about making me the Carefree King?”*
Jiang Fuding stared blankly at the moonlit sea, lost in thought. In terms of lineage and backing, Zhao Kai was the emperor’s son, the disciple of Yang Taisui. And Jiang Fuding? He was no lesser—the son of Liyang’s Imperial Tutor. Though he had lived under a false name since childhood to evade endless assassination attempts, refusing to bear the surname Yuan, who in the highest echelons of Tai’an dared look down on him? When the youngest son of the former Minister of Revenue, Wang Xionggui—now the so-called “leader” of the capital’s four young masters—had clashed with him, the boy had come crawling on his knees that very night to beg forgiveness.
When young Jiang Fuding declared he wanted to master the blade, that man—the one who spoke in slurred tones—had procured Gu Jiantang’s sword manual for him. At the time, Gu Jiantang, still the Minister of War, had even personally taught him the *Fangcun Lei* technique. That man had also retrieved the sword *Guohezu* from the imperial armory. Over the next decade, no fewer than twenty martial masters had sparred with him—including the transcendent Grand Celestial Realm master Liu Haoshi!
So why had he lost to that man surnamed Xu?
Jiang Fuding hurled the wine jug into the sea with a roar: *”How can I accept this? How can I admit defeat?!”*
Gasping for breath, he pulled a book from his robes, as if to discard it like the jug. But though he raised his arm, he couldn’t bring himself to let go.
This book was his father’s true legacy.
That man, whose real name few knew, had been Liyang’s undisputed Imperial Tutor—a strategist whose intellect bordered on the supernatural. His opponents had been Xun Ping, Huang Longshi, Xu Xiao, the Prince of Yanchi Zhao Bing, and the faction led by Zhang Julu during the “Eternal Radiance Spring.”
Jiang Fuding murmured, *”Father, you never lost. How could I ever measure up?”*
Slowly, he withdrew his hand, staring blankly at the yellowed book. Its title was written in meticulous regular script—an odd name: *”Night Boat.”* Jiang Fuding knew the reason. That man had once said that of all knowledge in the world, the most difficult to master was that found on a night boat.
The book opened with an absurd little tale: a Confucian scholar, a Daoist priest, a Buddhist monk, and an old boatman set sail together. The scholar spoke of governance and the righteous *Haoran Qi*, the Daoist of immortality’s elusive arts, the monk of profound Buddhist truths that made celestial maidens scatter flowers. At first, the boatman listened in terror, nearly dropping his oar. Then, he grew drowsy, nodding off until he accidentally lost the oar—stranding them all at sea.
This book had been given to Jiang Fuding by Yuan Benxi himself when he brought Song Keli on a journey south to Martial Emperor City. He had dismissed it as mere hearsay and rural ghost stories—crude scribbles unfit for refined company, nothing more than an old scholar’s idle pastime. *”Useless, except for my son to flip through a few pages.”*
The book contained over two hundred thousand characters, each page densely packed. Jiang Fuding could easily imagine the unremarkable scene: a somewhat solitary old man, under the guise of Yuan Pu, sitting in the Hanlin Academy with a cheap jug of wine, a plate of fragrant peanuts, and a rabbit-hair brush sharp as a knife. Drinking alone, writing slowly, pausing to sip wine whenever he found a passage particularly pleasing…
Carefully, Jiang Fuding tucked the book back into his robes and lay down, gazing at the moon overhead. *”When I was little, you told me: ‘Heaven and earth made you a man of seven feet—win as a conqueror, lose as a hero, die as a ghostly champion.'”*
Closing his eyes, he whispered bitterly, *”But the last time we met, you said all you wanted was for me to live well.”*
A long silence followed. The loneliest young man in Martial Emperor City seemed to have fallen asleep.
Bathed in dawn’s light, Jiang Fuding finally opened his eyes and sat up. Softly, he said, *”I’ve decided. The world may forget a hundred, a thousand Jiang Fudings—but it must never forget that one Yuan Benxi.”*
Standing, his eyes blurred with tears, he muttered, *”Father… I’ll settle your score with Zhao Zhuan and Liyang. I’ll help that Zhao Zhu sit on the throne… I… miss you.”*
*”Xu… if you somehow survive, we’ll meet again in the halls of power.”*
Just then, a small boy clutching a bamboo steamer trotted up the city walls. Though dressed shabbily, he carried himself with neat dignity. Even in silence, his solemn expression set him apart from other children. Spotting the familiar tall figure, the boy steadied his breath and called out loudly, *”Jiang Fuding!”*
Jiang Fuding composed himself and turned to the boy—a native of Martial Emperor City, an orphan raised by an elderly couple who ran a bun shop near Wang Xianzhi’s old residence. Rumor had it that Wang’s disciples Yu Xinlang and Lin Ya had frequented the place for breakfast. At seven or eight years old, the boy’s horizons were naturally broad. He owned a scrawny mutt and paraded it around the city like a general inspecting his troops.
Since arriving in the city, Jiang Fuding had had no one to manage his daily needs—especially after Lin Ya left the East Sea. Fastidious in all things, he’d taken to breakfast at the bun shop, spending twenty coppers each time for a small basket of thin-skinned, juicy buns. Over time, he’d grown familiar with the boy who handled the money—a serious child who did everything by the book. Jiang Fuding often wondered how such an eccentric, scholarly little figure had sprung from such easygoing foster parents.
The boy, who shared the elderly couple’s surname Gou, handed over the steamer and said gravely, *”Twenty coppers. On credit. If you forget, I’ll remind you.”*
Jiang Fuding sighed. *”Gou Buli, it’s just twenty coppers. I won’t stiff you.”*
The boy glared. *”My surname is Gou, given name Youfang! From the sage’s text: ‘While parents are alive, do not wander far. If you must wander, have a direction.'”*
Only with this peculiar child did Jiang Fuding—long dormant in the East Sea—show traces of his former aristocratic charm. Smirking, he said, *”You don’t even know who your parents are. Why ‘have a direction’? That nickname your childhood friend in green gave you fits better. Gou Buli—’Dog Won’t Acknowledge.’ Rolls right off the tongue.”*
The boy scowled. *”Do not speak improprieties.”*
Jiang Fuding laughed. *”What does a brat know of propriety? Back then, the one who taught me ‘propriety is principle’ was none other than the Sage of Zhang Manor—the Duke of Yan himself!”*
The boy frowned. *”I don’t know if that teacher had learning, but I know his student didn’t learn well.”*
Unfazed by the child’s teasing, Jiang Fuding sat on the wall, opening the slightly cooled steamer. He plucked a tiny bun between two fingers, tossed it into his mouth, and savored the rich flavor.
In Tai’an, he’d eaten countless delicacies hailed as the world’s finest—yet none lingered in memory. Now, these two-copper buns had become an addiction.
After devouring six or seven, Jiang Fuding chuckled darkly. *”Tai’an once had such heavy rain, it drowned so many fish.”*
Gou Youfang sighed. *”Not funny.”*
Jiang Fuding gazed at the remaining bun. *”True. Men eat dirt all their lives; dirt eats men once.”*
The boy stayed silent—too young for such reflections.
Suddenly, Jiang Fuding turned to him. *”After reaching second-rank minor master, breaking into the Vajra Realm takes grit. Finger Mystery needs talent and insight. To command heaven and earth’s grandeur demands innate roots. As for Land Immortal… that depends on elusive fate. Gou Buli, do you want to learn martial arts?”*
The boy shook his head firmly. *”No.”*
Jiang Fuding blinked. *”In Martial Emperor City, surrounded by martial artists, you don’t want to learn?”*
The boy said softly, *”They say martial arts is a bottomless pit. No amount of silver fills it. I have no money.”*
Jiang Fuding stared at the last bun in the steamer, suddenly delighted. *”Gou Buli, I counted ten buns earlier. Why is there an extra today?”*
The boy replied calmly, *”Grandpa said martial artists need to eat more to train. I asked for one extra—just one, or we’d lose money. Grandpa doesn’t earn easily.”*
Jiang Fuding first wanted to laugh, then felt a pang of warmth. He hesitated before picking up the eleventh bun.
Finally, he ate it slowly, gazing into the distance. *”What I could give you… you might not want. And in the long run, it might not even be good for you. But I’ll be leaving this city soon—probably for good. I’ll miss you, little brat. I hope you live well. And if you grow up someday, and I’m still not eaten by dirt… come find me. I’ll treat you to wine.”*
Hearing of Jiang Fuding’s departure, the boy felt a pang but kept his face blank. He simply nodded. *”Okay.”*
Jiang Fuding lifted the steamer with one hand, surveying the vast, tide-swept sea. He laughed heartily:
*”Have you not seen the Three Mountains and Five Peaks piercing the clouds?*
*Have you not seen the endless northwestern sands that scour men to bone?*
*Have you not seen the great river rushing to the sea, never to return?*
*Then listen—life is but a hundred years.*
*If you seek immortality,*
*Find it in a cup of wine!”*
The boy, infected by Jiang Fuding’s fervor, grinned and joked for the first time: *”When we meet again, you’d better treat me to good wine.”*
Jiang Fuding hurled the steamer into the sea and ruffled the boy’s hair. *”No problem!”*
The boy froze, then yelped, *”Jiang Fuding! Why’d you throw it? I needed to return it to Grandpa!”*
Jiang Fuding stood dumbstruck, thoroughly chastened.
Many years later, in a martial world where the old masters had all passed, a saying would circulate:
*Yu Dilong was not the true invincible.*
*For the world still had Gou Youfang.*
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