South of the Guangling River in Liyang, the common folk could scarcely imagine a place where frost still lingered past the start of summer.
This was Liangliao—a land of black mountains and white waters, where the first snow of the Liyang Dynasty might fall, and perhaps its last. The winter storms here were known as the “Great Smoke Bubbles,” darkening the skies and blotting out the sun. During the bitter cold of last winter, two men entered Liangliao from the northern capital under the personal escort of Qi Jiejie, the foremost swordsman of the imperial city. Such an escort was warranted, for one of them was Yu Xinlang, a martial grandmaster whom many factions sought to court in secret. After Yu Xinlang declined the emperor’s invitation to remain in the capital, Emperor Zhao Zhuan had Qi Jiejie accompany him to deter any ill intentions from other forces.
As the first disciple of Wang Xianzhi, befriending Yu Xinlang was akin to inheriting the legacy of the Martial Emperor’s City in full. Even if the other three—Lou Huang, Lou Banque, and Lin Ya—could not be swayed, at the very least, one could forge goodwill with these peerless masters who shared a common bond. Thus, at the border, Qi Jiejie relayed a message from the emperor: no matter when Yu Xinlang returned to Tai’an City, His Majesty would receive him as a friend.
By the banks of the Songnen River in Liaodong’s Jinzhou, there lay a small riverside village of about a hundred households. Most of the men were hunters, and legend had it that one family’s ancestors had once captured two gyrfalcons in their lifetime, both offered as tribute to the Liyang military governor’s office in Liangliao. The well-crafted bow passed down in that family was an additional reward from the governor’s office beyond the bounty.
Two distinguished guests had taken shelter in the village. At the end of last winter, a group of hunters encountered a black bear that had inexplicably skipped hibernation. It was these guests who drove the beast away. Since then, the village men often sought martial advice from the younger man, while the children adored playing with the girl who always wore green.
With summer’s arrival, the girl in green was overjoyed to shed her heavy furs. She had suffered frostbite the previous winter, though she bore it without complaint—unlike Yu Xinlang, who felt guilty. Initially, she hadn’t taken to Liangliao, for their arrival had coincided with the fiercest blizzards, the terrifying “Great Smoke Bubbles” serving as a harsh welcome. But after settling in the village, she found joy in new experiences: ice-fishing with friends, sledding on frozen rivers, and daily snowball fights with a dozen children her age. So when Yu Xinlang mentioned leaving for northern Liaodong, she balked—and he never pressed the matter again.
Over time, they began to feel like natives. Yu Xinlang took up hunting with the village men, learning to raise young eagles under the guidance of seasoned hunters. She, too, grew accustomed to the local quirks: windows papered on the outside, households brimming with pickled vegetables, and parents threatening misbehaving children with being “hung in a basket.”
Today, Yu Xinlang was helping a family cut tall, hollow-stemmed plants—locally called “sheep grass”—for building houses. She watched quietly as he swung his blade, thinking he looked quite dashing. She remembered Old Gao, who had spoken to her privately before leaving the Martial Emperor’s City. Among the many names he mentioned, only Yu Xinlang’s had stuck: *Of all the swordsmen in the world today, some have the best fortune, others the finest innate talent—but none surpass Yu Xinlang in swordsmanship potential.*
Kneeling on the ground, she suddenly felt a pang of sorrow. She knew his surname was Wang, but she called him “Old Gao” because of his towering height—and he never minded.
Then she thought of another man.
The one who had called her “Little Green Robe” with his dying breath.
Yu Xinlang had told her that man was extraordinary, someone even Old Gao had admired for most of his life.
“Yu Xinlang,” she blurted out, “Old Gao asked you to find that man—to accept him as a disciple in his stead. But how do we even look for him?”
Yu Xinlang turned with a smile. “We’ll find him eventually.”
She gave an “oh,” then chirped, “I’m off to play!” and dashed away before he could respond.
Watching her go, Yu Xinlang chuckled. He had worried she’d find Liangliao dull, but clearly, he’d been mistaken. The only trouble was her picking up local slang—phrases like *”Are you stupid?”* and *”Get lost!”*—which made him break into a cold sweat just thinking about it.
As for that yet-to-be-found “junior brother”—the one who was, in a sense, their master’s final disciple—Yu Xinlang wasn’t anxious. He trusted they’d meet when the time was right. It was a strange intuition, but he was patient.
Five hundred years of the martial world had produced only one Wang Xianzhi—and only one Li Chungang.
At dusk, after helping the villagers, Yu Xinlang returned to their borrowed home. The host had prepared dinner, but the girl was nowhere to be found. Mimicking the villagers, he bellowed her name. A reply soon echoed from the riverbank, and she came running, lifting her skirt as she skipped over the threshold. Seeing Yu Xinlang and the family waiting at the earthen *kang*, she stuck out her tongue at him before sitting down apologetically.
“You shouldn’t keep your hosts waiting,” Yu Xinlang chided softly.
The middle-aged village woman, who adored the girl, waved it off. “No matter.”
The man, whose southern features stood out, poured Yu Xinlang a cup of wine. He was an outsider who had married a local—his family had fled to Jinzhou generations ago from Dongyue, escaping the wars that ravaged the Central Plains. Unlike the heavy-taxed Dongyue, Liangliao enjoyed relative prosperity, thanks in part to its ties to the Liyang imperial family and the benevolent rule of Prince Zhao Sui of Jiaodong.
Yu Xinlang had chosen this household because he felt a kinship with the man’s rare scholarly air. When Yu Xinlang mentioned leaving for Jinzhou the next day, the man lamented the loss of a drinking companion. Half-drunk and emboldened, he lowered his voice. “Brother Yu, are you going to see the Northern Liang King’s ancestral home? Truth be told, it’s not much to look at. Common folk can’t even get close—guarded by the prince’s men—and most say it’s just a few shabby huts. Many who went for a look left disappointed.”
“Many visit Jinzhou for that?” Yu Xinlang asked.
The man gulped the last of his wine. “Oh yes. Stories abound. Our village is just eighty *li* from Jinzhou. Whenever we find valuables—sable pelts, fox furs, or even ginseng, which the authorities ban—they trust me, the ‘accountant,’ to sell them in the city. So I know Jinzhou well…”
His wife, though fond of their guests, kicked him under the table at the mention of illegal ginseng sales.
Unfazed, the man continued, “That infamous ‘Butcher’—though he left Jinzhou over twenty years ago and died up north—still fascinates the locals. A decade back, it was wild. Rumor had it that ruined nobles from the Central Plains, nursing grudges against him but too afraid to seek revenge in Northern Liang, tried digging up the Xu family graves. If not for Prince Zhao Sui’s friendship with the Butcher, they might’ve succeeded. Frankly, our prince suffered by association. Given his talents, he deserved better than his current obscurity. You mentioned Prince Zhao Ying of Huainan died heroically—well, our prince may not rival the Butcher or the Prince of Yanchi, but he’s surely above the likes of the new Prince of Jing’an, no? Otherwise, why would the late emperor station him here, facing the Northern Barbarians? Only Northern Liang shares that burden. The late emperor must’ve trusted his ability.”
Yu Xinlang nodded. The late emperor’s placement of his princes had been deliberate—keeping Zhao Ying close in Huainan, exiling the ambitious Zhao Bing to the southern frontier, entrusting his full-blooded brother Zhao Yi with wealthy Guangling, and leaving the unruly Prince of Jing’an in vulnerable Qingzhou. Only Xu Xiao and Zhao Sui were sent to the northern borders.
The man, though no scholar, had unknowingly drained two bowls of wine—his usual limit. Yet, in the joy of good company, he poured a third despite his wife’s protests. Holding the bowl, he inhaled the aroma but didn’t drink. Instead, he gazed at Yu Xinlang with unfocused eyes, as if speaking to himself.
“My ancestors’ Dongyue was destroyed by General Gu Jiantang—not the Butcher’s doing. Since my grandfather’s time, our family’s held no grudge against him. I’ve heard Tai’an City curses him most fiercely, followed by Guangling with its ‘seeds of scholars,’ then the cultured Jiangnan. Now they curse the new Liang King too—louder the higher their rank. One even a Northerner, a vice-minister of Rites… So I wonder: since these men now serve Liyang, many never having met the Butcher or his son, and their families’ rise owed to his conquests—why curse him? Brother Yu, you’re well-traveled, a learned man. Can you enlighten me?”
Yu Xinlang hesitated, then smiled. “Biting the hand that feeds?”
The man sighed. “Exactly! A nation without heroes is like a house without pillars—a people without spines.”
After a third bowl, the man truly drunk, mumbled that if the new Liang King failed to hold the northwest, he’d curse him too—and his father. His wife rolled her eyes, teasing that he fancied himself an official, yet couldn’t even farm properly. But as she looked at his weathered face, darker than in his youth, she smiled fondly. *Handsome as ever—I fought off other girls to win you. So what if you’re a lousy farmer?*
Hearing the man’s words, Yu Xinlang downed his wine in one gulp. “A nation without heroes is tragic. A nation that has heroes but scorns them—even more so.”
Later, sitting outside on stools with the girl, Yu Xinlang turned to her. “Should we go elsewhere to find your Old Gao’s disciple?”
She rolled her eyes. “Just say you want to go to Northern Liang. I don’t mind.”
Yu Xinlang coughed awkwardly.
“Go on,” she said solemnly. “I miss Uncle Lou anyway. Back in the Martial Emperor’s City, he never took care of himself. Out there alone, I worry!”
Yu Xinlang ruffled her hair. “Yes, yes. Uncle Lou, Uncle Gong, and your… *Auntie* Lin—they all need you.”
She frantically shushed him. “*Sister* Lin! Call her ‘auntie,’ and she’ll be furious!”
Yu Xinlang laughed. “No wonder Master said you fear nothing—except Lin Ya.”
Suddenly sighing, she said gravely, “Yu Xinlang, promise me—no fighting in Northern Liang. Just talk, okay?”
Yu Xinlang feigned surprise. “Who was it that said, ‘If you can fight, don’t argue’?”
She jutted her chin. “I hadn’t finished! When words will do, talk it out. Only cowards throw punches.”
Yu Xinlang smiled softly. “If you ever roam the martial world, you’ll be a legendary heroine.”
She nodded vigorously, then rested her head on his knee, murmuring, “Yu Xinlang… I’ve wanted to go to Northern Liang for a long time. To see where Old Gao died.”
Yu Xinlang nodded silently.
She looked up, tear-streaked but smiling. “Yu Xinlang, Northern Liang’s in the northwest. Does that mean we’ll be drinking nothing but *northwest wind*?”
Yu Xinlang chuckled. “Yes. And probably eating a lot of sand too.”
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