Beyond the Northern Pass, a mighty city rose from the plains, freshly christened as Jubei. To its south, a modest yet bustling marketplace had sprung up like a sudden tower from the flatlands. Though small, it lacked nothing—taverns, teahouses, inns, pawnshops, and gambling dens thrived side by side. Merchants sought fortune here, scholars wandered to the frontier, martial artists gathered with friends, storytellers spun tales, and women plied their shadowy trades.
The name of this new city stirred debate. Outsiders found “Jubei” lacking in vigor, preferring the once-popular “Slaughter the Barbarians.” Scholars yet to serve in Northern Liang’s bureaucracy favored “Skeleton Hill,” a name heavy with ominous weight. After over a year in the northwest, these scholars had been steeped in local customs, their once-clear waters now murky as unrefined wine.
Construction of Jubei began in the second year of the Xiangfu era, a project of paramount strategic and symbolic importance to Northern Liang. Whispers spread—the Protectorate would relocate from Huaiyang Pass by year’s end, and a new Liangzhou official would establish his office here, wielding both civil and military authority as the “Governor Beyond the Pass.” Yet despite its significance, the military presence remained lax to the south, evident in the absence of patrols in the marketplace. Initially puzzled, visiting scholars soon learned from locals that beyond the pass lay war, while within, peace had reigned for over twenty years.
At noon, under a scorching sun, Xu Fengnian walked alone through the marketplace nicknamed “Little Sparrow Town,” unaccompanied by his White Horse Retinue or even Xu Xiao. Most residents were outsiders, unfamiliar with the new King of Liang’s face. Few Northern Liang commoners truly knew him—only the fallen warriors of Hutou City and the decimated Youzhou cavalry, now lost to the second battle of Hulu Pass.
Pale from the aftermath of the Qintianjian battle, Xu Fengnian bore the lingering effects of Qi Jiajie’s sword qi. Though once suppressed by Xuanyuan Qingfeng, it now raged within him like a flood, his body echoing with the drumbeats of war. Had a Daoist sage peered inside, they might have despaired for his longevity.
He chose a lively tavern, seating himself by the window. Having lived through three journeys in the martial world—twice counting every coin—he knew the value of money. Weighing his purse, he ordered wine, rice, and dishes, appearing no different from any wandering scholar. As the tavern filled, patrons sought to share his table. The waiter hesitated, but Xu Fengnian agreed, bargaining for a discount on wine.
Five strangers joined him—four men and a woman. The men were a mix of gallant warriors and refined scholars, their origins marked by accents from Ji, Liaodong, Qingzhou, and Jianzhou. The woman, soft-spoken and from the south, sat opposite him.
Their conversation ranged from court politics to martial gossip. They criticized the Liyang court’s instability yet acknowledged its rising power, crediting Northern Liang’s victory over the Northern Desert and Gu Jianzhang’s triumphs in the northeast. One scholar, claiming ties to Minister Xu Gong, subtly flaunted his connections, earning the woman’s sudden admiration.
Xu Fengnian ate slowly, savoring his meal before turning to his wine. Around him, patrons debated grand affairs over modest meals, their voices rising like the midday sun.
Eventually, the Jianzhou scholar, emboldened by drink or the desire to impress, turned to the topic of the new King of Liang. Mocking Xu Fengnian’s past as a wastrel heir, he dismissed tales of the young king’s triumphs as orchestrated by his father, Xu Xiao. “A staged show to secure his succession,” he sneered. “Would Xu Fengnian dare challenge a veteran like Zhong Hongwu without his father’s backing?”
The woman asked, “What do you mean, Master Song?”
The scholar scoffed, “A puppet move. Xu Xiao used Zhong Hongwu—a toothless old tiger—to intimidate others. Why target Zhong? Because in Lingzhou, civil officials could counterbalance the military. Xu Fengnian never dared touch Yan Wenluan in Youzhou, where generals ruled supreme.”
The other scholar nodded, adding, “Xu Fengnian’s ‘heroics’ at Hulu Pass? Reckless. Had he died, Northern Liang would have fallen. Xu Xiao spent twenty years defending the northwest—only for his son to gamble it all for glory?”
Laughing, the first scholar added, “Xu Xiao claimed he didn’t fear infamy. But his son? He craves praise. Refusing the imperial decree won him hearts—but was it his idea, or Xu Beizhi and Chen Xiliang’s? Without them, could thirty thousand cavalry hold back a million barbarians?”
Xu Fengnian listened, unoffended. At least they acknowledged the Xu family’s defense of the northwest.
The gold-sworded warrior whispered, “Careful. Northern Liang’s spies have sharp ears.”
Master Song laughed. “Let them hear! If Xu Fengnian arrests me, it proves he lacks the magnanimity to rule!”
Xu Fengnian almost admired the man’s cunning—such words were a shield. A king seeking reputation would let such talk slide, perhaps even reward it to win scholars’ favor.
He sighed, recalling He Zhu, who died delivering a message despite his grudge against the Xu family.
*A promise worth a thousand gold, life and death light as dust.*
Xu Fengnian revered such people, placing them above even the legendary Deng Tai’a. It wasn’t who they were, but what they did—especially what he himself couldn’t.
Once, a swordsman named Lü Qiantang cursed him before death: “Damn you, Young Master. If not for your name, your father, your manuals—why would I die for you?”
Xu Fengnian had scattered his ashes in the Guangling River, guilt heavy in his heart.
And the bashful swordswoman who showed kindness when he and Wen Hua were destitute—she, to him, was a true hero.
Li Chungang’s world was vast, his final acts for love and pride. Old Huang died atop Emperor Wu’s city for his master and the young man he called “Young Master,” who walked six thousand miles with him, not as a prince, but as family.
When Wen Hua broke his sword and left the martial world, he saw Xu Fengnian only as a brother, a partner in their reckless youth.
Because of such people, Xu Fengnian once lent his blade to a child dreaming of the martial world, killed for Qingzhuniang in the Northern Desert, and bore no hatred for the demonic couple of Duck-Head Green.
Now, as these figures faded, Xu Fengnian stood among the world’s top four grandmasters—yet the martial world meant little to him.
He still held kindness for this world, like the sun outside. In summer, men curse its heat. But come winter, it warms them all the same.
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