Xu Fengnian slowly exhaled a turbid breath, releasing the pent-up frustration he had long harbored.
He bore resentment toward that old scholar who had dedicated himself to restoring the Shu royal lineage. Had they not rushed to Shu Zhao to raise the banner of restoration, many of Northern Liang’s covert operatives hidden there would not have been exposed so quickly. Even if those pieces had remained unused, it would have been far better than the current awkward predicament. If Chen Zhibao had not initially refrained from completely severing ties with Northern Liang, the spies and death warriors that Northern Liang had painstakingly cultivated—at great cost in effort and resources—would have been reduced to a mere fraction. According to the late strategist Li Yishan’s original plan, if the Liyang court ever deliberately hindered Northern Liang during the impending war against the Northern Mang, Northern Liang would have directly turned its blades toward Shu Zhao, establishing it as a strategic rear base for supplies and reinforcements. Thus, Northern Liang had spared no effort in infiltrating Shu Zhao, treating it with far greater importance than the Central Plains.
A diligent steward in a certain commandery’s residence, a strict private tutor imparting knowledge, a peddler hustling through the streets, a glamorous courtesan charming patrons in brothels—even a powerful captain in Shu Zhao’s military—any of them could have been a death warrior of the Fushui Bureau.
At the very least, even if Northern Liang’s cavalry ultimately failed to hold the line and those Fushui operatives never had the chance to fulfill their purpose, they could have lived out their lives in Shu Zhao, carrying only an unknown regret, fading away quietly. Instead, they now wandered like lost souls, exposed under broad daylight, their identities known not only to Chen Zhibao but likely even recorded by Liyang’s secretive Zhao Gou, waiting for future retribution.
Xu Fengnian bore no real grudge against Su Su. The young man was little more than a puppet, barely even a figurehead, swept along by the tides of fate. His antics in Shu Zhao—posing as a wandering swordsman or a demonic rogue with his blind qin-playing companion—were perhaps just a way to drown his sorrows. As for the Qi swordsmith before him, who had once gifted him the new sword *Spring and Autumn*, Xu Fengnian held only respect.
In the end, Xu Fengnian was furious at Zhao Dingxiu’s betrayal, but he despised his own carelessness even more.
At times, a ruler’s word could build or ruin a nation. A historian’s word could immortalize or vilify a man. A general’s word could decide victory or defeat, life or death.
War was the great affair of the state.
No jest.
Perhaps the simple-minded Su Su only felt guilty for betraying the old scholar’s trust, never considering the Northern Liang death warriors embedded in Shu Zhao for years, nor the broader implications for the war against the Northern Mang. Born into nobility yet raised as an ordinary refugee in the Northern Mang, he had known nothing of royal robes, imperial duties, or the legendary last stand of the Shu royal uncle at the city gates. He had never worn the dragon-embroidered robes of a crown prince, nor understood the fervor of those who had died for their kingdom.
Su Su sniffled quietly, revealing his weak temperament—utterly lacking the ruthless ambition of a warlord.
He yearned for the jianghu, not the unfamiliar halls of power.
The tearful reverence of Shu’s old retainers did not fill him with joy—only the crushing weight of responsibility.
In private, he had once joked to the blind qin player he admired: *”Su Su is good for nothing.”*
At some point, Wei Miao and his Miao wife—who had not arrived with Su Su’s group—appeared behind the Qi swordsmith, subtly parting the crowd. When the flamboyantly dressed Miao woman cheerfully crushed the hand of a lecherous onlooker, the pilgrims scattered like startled birds. A few martial artists lingered at a cautious distance, watching coldly.
Wei Miao stepped forward and said bluntly, *”The King of Shu has a message for both sides: passage is permitted.”*
Xu Fengnian noticed the Qi swordsmith frown and asked, *”When did he give you this message—before or after the Spring Snow Tower incident?”*
Wei Miao replied indifferently, *”I won’t say. It doesn’t matter.”*
Xu Fengnian ignored the renowned grandmaster of Nanzhao and turned to the Qi swordsmith. *”Then relay a message to Scholar Lu: Northern Liang’s relationship with Shu Zhao is unlike that with the Central Plains. If we fail to hold Jubei City, Shu Zhao will soon face the Northern Mang cavalry. Twenty thousand troops are the bare minimum—and they must be elites. Otherwise, they’ll only hinder us and die for nothing.”*
The Qi swordsmith nodded.
As the matter settled, Su Su turned to leave—only for the young prince to call out teasingly, *”After investing so much, this must be the most expensive fortune stick in the world. Why not test your luck?”*
Su Su stubbornly kept walking, but his sleeve was tugged. He turned to see the blind qin player’s hopeful expression.
His heart softened. With a stern face, he returned to the table, grabbed the bamboo cylinder, and shook it violently until a stick fell out.
Xu Fengnian picked it up, glanced at it, and feigned pity.
Su Su’s heart sank.
After the earlier emotional turmoil, the young man—now doubly wounded—had lost all his usual irreverence. His eyes reddened again.
Xu Fengnian sighed.
Su Su forced a smile at the blind qin player. *”Let’s go. This fortune is nonsense.”*
Xue Songguan smiled and nodded.
Xu Fengnian raised an eyebrow. *”Nonsense?!”*
Su Su lacked even the energy to argue. He took her hand and turned to leave.
Then came the words from behind: *”The thirty-ninth stick: ‘The one in your heart, the heart in yours.’ Upper stick. Oh, so it’s nonsense after all.”*
Su Su froze as if struck by lightning. He whirled around and lunged for the stick.
Xu Fengnian held it high out of reach. *”Pay first. One hundred coins!”*
Su Su glared. *”You charge for this?!”*
Xu Fengnian rubbed his fingers together. *”Money’s optional. The fortune’s optional too.”*
Xue Songguan smiled silently and reached for an embroidered purse.
Su Su grabbed her wrist and glared at Xu Fengnian. *”Is it really a good one?”*
Xu Fengnian lazily replied, *”Believe it or not.”*
Even the stoic Qi swordsmith felt a pang of sympathy. Their crown prince was truly suffering at the hands of this young lord.
Xue Songguan paid the hundred coins—but held out her hand.
The stick, good or bad, she would keep.
At the same time, the blind qin player—second only to the Peach Blossom Sword God Deng Tai’a in the Xuan realm—unleashed her aura.
She would give Xu Fengnian no chance to switch the stick.
Whatever the fortune, she wanted the real one.
Xu Fengnian handed it over with a smile. Su Su snatched it—then stared in shock.
Xu Fengnian sighed.
A flicker of disappointment crossed Xue Songguan’s face.
Noticing her reaction, Su Su exploded. *”Xu Fengnian! You damn bastard!”*
Xu Fengnian burst out laughing. *”Wrong stick! It’s the eighty-first—better than upper, the greatest fortune!”*
Xue Songguan jerked her head up, disbelief written across her face.
Su Su hugged her tightly, voice trembling. *”It’s real. It’s really good!”*
Xu Fengnian swayed smugly. *”Eighty-first stick: ‘Worthy of marriage!'”*
Xue Songguan gently pulled free, her cheeks flushing—a rare sight—and gave Xu Fengnian a solemn bow.
Perhaps thanking him for setting up this fortune stall, letting Su Su draw this dreamlike fortune.
Perhaps grateful he had survived that rainy alley assassination in the Northern Mang, leading her to meet Su Su.
Perhaps relieved he had stopped them from leaving, unraveling the knot in Su Su’s heart.
Xu Fengnian waved it off, teasing, *”Lady Xue, truthfully, this Su Bun isn’t worthy of you. His fortune is lucky, but yours would’ve been ill-fated.”*
Su Su, drained of energy, could only mutter weakly, *”Bullshit.”*
Xu Fengnian pressed on. *”Since it’s a good fortune, pay another hundred coins! Such a joyous occasion—don’t skimp.”*
Su Su wordlessly took Xue Songguan’s hand and left.
The Qi swordsmith, though second only to Zhao Dingxiu in supporting the Shu restoration, never involved himself in politics. He clasped his fists in farewell. Xu Fengnian stood and returned the gesture.
They had met in the jianghu. They would part in the jianghu.
No court. Only the rivers and lakes.
—
Since the Spring and Autumn era, two duels had most captivated the Liyang jianghu.
One: Li Chunang and Wang Xianzhi’s battle over the Eastern Sea.
Two: The new Prince of Liang Xu Fengnian, the Peach Blossom Sword God Deng Tai’a, and the Grand Secretary Cao Zhangqing’s chaotic clash in Tai’an City.
As for the fights between Tuoba Pusa and Deng Tai’a, or Xu Fengnian and Tuoba Pusa’s thousand-mile chase across the Western Regions—with few witnesses, they paled in comparison.
Today’s duel before the thatched cottage was even lonelier. Only three spectators, none inclined to gossip. Likely, the jianghu would never hear of this clash between spear and shield.
But the combatants—one a white-robed monk who had once entered Tai’an in glory, the other a pillar of the state commanding half the empire’s armies—cared little for jianghu fame.
Gu Jian suddenly chuckled, withdrawing his hand and shaking his head, as if reconsidering.
Bai Yu squinted, barely seeing, and whispered, *”Why aren’t they fighting?”*
Qi Xianxia said calmly, *”It’s over.”*
Bai Yu blinked. *”Since when do fights end faster than arguments?”*
Standing straight under the eaves, Qi Xianxia could only see the white-robed monk’s back. Yet, from the faint tremors of the snow-white kasaya, he sensed the lightning-fast exchange—suppressed by Li Dangxin.
A kasaya was a small universe.
A world Bai Yu and Han Gui could not perceive. To step into it was to face cataclysm.
In short, Gu Jian’s seemingly effortless strike—had it landed on another—would have shattered mountains or reversed rivers.
The beads around the monk’s chest slowly stilled.
Then, the peak of a northern mountain shattered with a thunderous roar.
Gu Jian sighed. *”Li Dangxin, this isn’t fair.”*
The monk grinned. *”My apologies. After watching the Taoists’ morning drills, I picked up their ‘four ounces moves a thousand pounds.'”*
He didn’t look apologetic at all.
Gu Jian snorted.
The monk grew serious. *”Your strike shares Wang Xianzhi’s principle—overwhelming force. Even he would’ve been wounded. Though defeating him would still be impossible.”*
Gu Jian asked flatly, *”That’s all?”*
The monk smiled. *”Of course, the key is how it severs destiny. Seven or eight strikes would cripple even Wang Xianzhi. Hence why I redirected yours to that mountain.”*
Gu Jian said proudly, *”I could land twelve!”*
The monk rolled his eyes. *”Do you have Xu’s heavenly physique from Gao Shulu? Or the endless energy of Wudang’s Great Yellow Court? Wang Xianzhi would kill you in three punches!”*
Gu Jian sneered.
The monk rubbed his bald head. *”Few truly grasp Wang Xianzhi’s power—Li Chunang, Xu Fengnian, maybe Hong Qixiang. Even Deng Tai’a and Cao Zhangqing never fought him to the death. And even without Wudang’s techniques, I could take twelve strikes unmoved. But I’ve got work to do—can’t waste energy here.”*
Gu Jian fell silent.
The monk sighed. *”Gu Jian, if you focused solely on the blade, you might contend for the world’s strongest.”*
Gu Jian smiled. *”To me, the blade is a weapon for war—not jianghu vanity.”*
Swords belonged to the jianghu. Blades drank blood on the battlefield.
That was Gu Jian’s truth.
Finally, he asked, *”Who can break your indestructible body?”*
The monk held up three fingers. *”Deng Tai’a’s Ta’a Sword.”*
Gu Jian nodded—he’d guessed that.
The monk continued, *”My wife’s snoring.”*
Gu Jian took a deep breath and left without another word.
The third, he didn’t want to hear.
The monk rambled on, *”And my daughter’s little wooden hammer. She treats my head like a drum—no mercy.”*
Bai Yu and Han Gui exchanged smiles.
To the white-robed monk, even the impossible seemed simple.
Han Gui suddenly grimaced. *”Master, the ruined mountain…?”*
The monk turned, beaming. *”Bill Xu Fengnian for repairs!”*
Han Gui considered it. *”Not a bad idea.”*
As Liangzhou’s governor, Bai Yu waved frantically. *”No, no! We’re short on silver!”*
Soon after Gu Jian left, the group buying rouge returned earlier than expected.
Two young Taoists snickered behind them.
Up front, Li Dongxi tugged Wu Nanbei’s ear, while the monk’s wife tugged her daughter’s.
The woman fumed. *”Li Zi, are you even my daughter? If you hadn’t dragged Wu Nanbei off to chatter about the jianghu, he’d have gotten to Yuqing Temple in time for the rouge!”*
Li Dongxi, still pulling Wu Nanbei’s ear, huffed. *”Your fault! Why didn’t you mention the rouge sooner?!”*
Wu Nanbei whimpered. *”Shifu, Li Zi, I didn’t know Shifu had hidden money!”*
All three turned to the monk.
Hands clasped, he gazed skyward and murmured, *”Buddha, grant me supper tonight.”*
Unbeknownst to all, the thread holding his 108 peachwood beads had frayed—not just from years of wear, but from Gu Jian’s strike.
Yet the beads remained strung, held by the monk’s unwavering will.
The world was ever-changing.
His heart remained constant.
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