As he pricked up his ears to listen, Old Fu suddenly coughed loudly, his voice just drowning out Han Hengqu’s muttering. The old drunkard took the wine gourd from his waist and forced a smile, asking, “Young man, you look unfamiliar. Are you a friend from the martial world of our Young Master Han?”
The man chuckled in response, “Old man, are you a master from Daxia Terrace?”
Old Fu took a sip of wine, wiped the corner of his mouth, and grinned, “This old man, Fu, is just a poor fellow sweeping the floors at Daxia Terrace. A mere outer sect menial, nothing more. Not even an inner sect disciple, let alone a master.”
The man asked again, “Old man, are there many people named Fu on the mountain?”
The old drunkard pointed at his ruddy nose and laughed heartily, “At my age, I’m the only one left—no branches, no duplicates!”
The old drunkard let out a wine-laden burp and asked curiously, “What, young man, are you here to find someone?”
The man shook his head. “To be honest, I once heard an elder briefly mention the sword path of Daxia Terrace, divided into three peaks: Will, Qi, and Spirit. In the martial world before the Jiazi era, the Qi Sword lineage of Daxia Terrace was at its peak, producing a grandmaster who reached the Zhixuan realm. Under his leadership, Daxia Terrace could almost rival the Dongyue Sword Pool for a decade. Sadly, after that, the Qi Sword lineage declined generation after generation, until it was passed to a swordsman surnamed Fu—and then it was lost forever.”
Old Fu froze for a moment before sighing, “The elder you mentioned must be someone of great seniority and deep experience in the martial world. Otherwise, they wouldn’t know these details. To put it bluntly, even many inner sect disciples of Daxia Terrace today don’t know this history. They follow their masters, valuing Spirit and Will while neglecting Sword Qi. That’s why, whether it was Wang Xianzhi dominating the martial world or the Peach Blossom Sword God Deng Tai’a emerging, Daxia Terrace has always revered the old Sword God Li Chungang the most. Of course, there’s some selfishness in this—after all, when the still-young Sword God Li once stormed the Dongyue Sword Pool alone, trampling the entire Song family’s pride underfoot, we disciples of Daxia Terrace couldn’t help but secretly rejoice. As for the Sword Qi lineage, it’s likely been forgotten until its demise.”
The old man took a small sip of wine, his voice as faint as a mosquito’s hum, his gaze distant. His face showed no particular sorrow, only a heart turned to ashes. “Just like that, it’s gone.”
The man asked in confusion, “After Deng Tai’a restored the reputation of swordsmanship, shouldn’t the Qi Sword lineage of Daxia Terrace have flourished? How did it come to this?”
The old man mocked himself, “Heaven knows. Maybe the sword is dead, but people are alive.”
The old man said no more, for family ugliness should not be aired in public. Behind closed doors, brothers could fight and scold—it was their own affair. But once the door opened, even with bruises, one should greet guests with a smile.
The older generation of martial artists had their own old rules. Things like the sect’s reputation being greater than heaven, a teacher for a day being a father for life, a master’s word deciding a disciple’s fate, and so on.
The younger generation of the new martial world, however, preferred to break those rigid, outdated rules. They were more clear-cut in their likes and dislikes, and in their conduct, they prioritized their own happiness. In the heartland of the Central Plains, the martial world of Qingzhou had recently produced a young swordsman who betrayed his master and ancestors, uttering a shocking, outrageous statement: “If the sect makes me unhappy, I’ll make the sect even unhappier!” Ten years ago, such a rebellious newcomer would have been universally despised. But now, not only did many young people admire his actions, but some even held him in high regard. No wonder many old-timers lamented the decline of morals and the corruption of the times.
Old Fu drank his sorrows away sip by sip. Clearly, the osmanthus wine in his gourd wouldn’t last until dusk.
The man and his maid seemed to be waiting for Han Hengqu’s drunkenness to fade. Otherwise, carrying him into the mountain gate would be improper—letting others see the dignified Young Master Han of Daxia Terrace in such a state.
This made the drunkard Old Fu think well of the man.
Just as Han Hengqu’s drunkenness had faded by seventy or eighty percent, a group of people arrived on the mountain—women and children who had gone to the county town to burn incense in the morning. The small town at the foot of the mountain had carriages for hire, and the round trip took about this long to return to Daxia Terrace. Moreover, the women and children of the sect, even those from the lower-ranking outer sect, were mostly skilled in martial arts and had better stamina than ordinary folk.
Old Fu sat up straight, silently watching the group ascend to the mountainside. Listening to the children’s laughter, the old drunkard craned his neck slightly, spotting two small figures. His expression softened with peace.
When the group disappeared from view, the old man in the pavilion snapped out of his reverie. He lifted his gourd and drained it in one go, shaking it vigorously—completely empty. Only then did he lower his head, fasten the gourd to his waist, and, seized by poetic inspiration, slapped his thigh and laughed, “Rising to comb white hair, opening the door to see green hills. In old age, sitting is unbearable; overthinking wounds the spirit.”
The plain-faced maid curled her lip and muttered under her breath, “Pretentious and utterly vulgar.”
The man chimed in, “Leaning on a cane atop the peak, closing eyes to recall the past.”
Old Fu’s eyes lit up. “Young man, you’ve read this poem too?”
The maid finally couldn’t hold back and snapped, “One of the famous works of the Great Feng Dynasty’s Poet Sage Cao. Even children in elementary school can recite it. What’s so special about that?”
The man flicked her forehead with his finger, making her yelp and cover her head, too pained to speak sarcastically again.
Han Hengqu rubbed his temples and exhaled deeply. Catching sight of the drunkard Old Fu from the corner of his eye, he hesitated, wanting to speak but holding back. The latter shrank back, as if wanting to flatter and ingratiate himself but lacking the courage. In the end, he offered the young sect master a strained, sycophantic smile, quickly grabbed his broom, and slunk away in disappointment.
After sobering up, Han Hengqu asked nervously, “Brother Xu, did I say anything foolish while drunk?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Just some things like, ‘We swordsmen of Daxia Terrace, our sleeves filled with sword aura, our cases holding mountains and rivers!’ and ‘The world knows only of Dongyue Sword Pool, not Daxia Terrace—this should not be!’ Nothing too bad.”
Han Hengqu sighed in relief. “Good, good.”
The girl who was none other than Xu Baozao sneered, “Young but full of hot air. Just a martial artist, yet daring to lecture our young master—surnamed Xu—on reason, humanity, balance, and peace of mind. As if he were some literary grandmaster!”
Fortunately, Han Hengqu’s face was already flushed from drinking, masking any change in expression. He warmly invited Xu Fengnian, “Since we’re already here, Brother Xu, why not join me to the mountaintop? The scenery from the Ascension Pavilion up there is incomparable to this place!”
Just as Xu Baozao thought the man would surely seize the opportunity, Xu Fengnian shook his head and declined. “I won’t be joining you on the climb, Brother Han.”
Han Hengqu invited him once more, but to no avail. With deep regret, he rose, clasped his fists, and bid farewell.
Xu Baozao asked, “Shall we head down?”
Xu Fengnian remained motionless, watching Han Hengqu’s tall figure recede into the distance. “We’ll keep climbing,” he said matter-of-factly.
Xu Baozao was puzzled.
Soon, the two arrived at the bustling market on the mountainside. Xu Fengnian chose a narrow path leading into the shaded depths of the woods. Before long, they passed the ruins of an ancient temple, its broken plaque hanging precariously, bearing only the character “An” ( Hermitage).
A little further on, a thatched cottage came into view. The tall maple trees around it had been cut down to clear a patch of oddly open ground, surrounded by a bamboo fence. No chickens or ducks wandered about, and no dogs barked.
The old man sitting on a tree stump, basking in the sun, was taken aback at the sight of the master and servant. He rose slowly, neither welcoming them nor shutting the door in their faces.
Xu Fengnian pushed open the crude, low gate and stood in the yard, looking around. “Old Fu, life hasn’t been kind to you, has it?”
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