The Great Tantai is surrounded by towering cliffs on its north, south, and west sides, with only an eastern mountain path leading upward. Historically, there was once a nunnery atop the mountain, rumored to have sheltered a fallen princess during wartime, earning it the name “Princess Nunnery.” However, it has long been abandoned.
The Great Tantai is divided into inner and outer sects. The outer sect’s buildings are located halfway up the mountain, bustling with activity. Many merchants deliberately haul their goods here to sell to the disciples—fresh fish and meat, seasonal vegetables and fruits, firewood, rice, oil, and salt, among other necessities. The inner sect occupies the mountaintop, a place of auspicious feng shui, though the terrain is not particularly cramped. While fewer in number, they rightfully claim this treasured land.
From the foot of the mountain to the halfway point is a stretch of muddy yellow road, wide enough for a single carriage but riddled with potholes, ensuring a bumpy ride.
From the halfway point to the summit, a stone staircase of over six hundred steps awaits. Old Fu would traverse this path twice daily, starting and ending at the mountain gate archway at the halfway point.
This morning, Old Fu rose early in his thatched hut near the ruined Princess Nunnery, tied a wine flask to his waist, and picked up his broom to begin sweeping the steps from the archway. Autumn was the most exhausting season, as the fallen leaves were plentiful. The maple forests of the Great Tantai were renowned as one of the Ten Scenic Wonders of Yunquan Prefecture, and during golden autumn, the mountain was poetically likened to a “Flame Mountain” by the refined scholars of the Dongyue region. One could imagine the weight of Old Fu’s task.
Today, however, Old Fu moved with unusual swiftness, reaching the summit early before descending. Instead of retreating to his hut to drink and play the recluse as usual, he hid behind a vendor’s stall, broom in hand, peering toward the mountain gate. After about half an hour, a group descended—three or four women leading a gaggle of chattering children. They passed through the small market at the halfway point and continued down the mountain. It was the first day of the month, and they were heading to the temples in Yunquan City to burn incense—a rare outing for the children, who had long awaited this day.
Old Fu cautiously followed them for about a mile before stopping, pretending to rest at a halfway pavilion as he watched the women and children disappear into the distance.
Among the group, an older boy tugged at his companion’s sleeve and glanced at a little girl who kept looking back. He teased in a low voice, “Fu Xi, your drunkard grandpa is here to see you and Fu Lu again.”
The boy named Fu Xi flushed red with anger. “He’s *your* drunkard grandpa!”
The instigator grinned. “But I’m not surnamed Fu. On this mountain, only your family shares that name with the old drunk.”
Fu Xi burned with humiliation and resentment, unable to resist glaring back at the pavilion. That wretched old man—why did he have to be surnamed Fu? Worse, he kept sneaking around to find Fu Xi and his younger sister, Fu Lu. Years ago, he had even secretly given them candy figurines. Fu Xi had wolfed his down quickly, but Fu Lu had cherished hers, only for their parents to discover it. The punishment had been severe, especially for Fu Xi, who had been beaten bloody while his father insisted they had no living elders—their grandfather had died long ago in the wars.
Since then, Fu Xi had endured endless mockery from his peers. Fu Lu, still young and carefree, didn’t mind being called the drunkard’s granddaughter, but Fu Xi, old enough to understand the shame, could hardly bear it. His father’s lingering resentment only deepened his own, until he nearly regarded the old man as an enemy. So when he saw Fu Lu wave goodbye to the drunkard, he nearly lost his mind, roughly yanking her arm down. His sister’s eyes welled with tears, and she was on the verge of wailing when their mother intervened, scooping her up with soothing words.
The other women, friendly with Fu Xi’s mother, tactfully avoided the subject. But there were others on the mountain—those who held grudges against their family—who delighted in rubbing salt in the wound with far crueler words.
As she cradled her daughter, the mother’s expression darkened with hidden loathing.
Back in the pavilion, the red-nosed old man set his broom aside, leaned against a pillar, and dozed, occasionally sipping osmanthus wine from his flask, blissful as an immortal.
Everyone on the mountain, high or low, knew Old Fu the drunkard. But only the lowly vendors at the market would sit and chat with him. After all, common folk could boast without fear of the law. And Old Fu, having once mingled with the inner sect, had tales to tell—of wandering the martial world in his youth, even seeing battle. Like a fallen noble turned beggar, his words carried a weight beyond his station, making his conversations oddly fascinating.
What could be more absurd than a penniless old sweeper who carried himself like a king scornful of lords?
By noon, Old Fu had begged some snacks from a vendor heading uphill and, after appeasing his hunger, resumed his patient watch. People came and went in waves, but Old Fu’s gaze remained vacant, his eyes clouded—whether by sorrow or pity, none could say.
The elderly, having lived long, inevitably carry more memories and ghosts than the young.
Then Old Fu noticed three figures entering the pavilion. Unconsciously, he straightened his posture and even nudged his broom closer with his foot, like a shabby host scrambling to welcome guests.
Among the trio—two men and a woman—the older of the two men deposited a younger, sword-bearing youth onto a bench. Old Fu’s heart nearly stopped: it was the Great Tantai’s “Little Patriarch,” Han Hengqu!
First, Han Hengqu’s master was the current sect leader, a swordsman of near-mythical skill and sterling reputation, a chivalrous hero akin to the legendary Central Plains pugilist Feng Zongxi. Second, Han Hengqu himself was a prodigy, already solidly within the third-tier realm and poised to reach minor grandmaster status before thirty-five. The martial world held a rule: whether a pure martial artist could ever reach the first tier hinged on achieving minor grandmaster status before thirty. Even if Han Hengqu never ascended to the pinnacle, becoming a grandmaster capable of commanding storms within a province was all but assured. Such brilliance destined him to be a dragon among men, while Old Fu was but a minnow in a pond—their paths should never cross.
Yet as Old Fu watched Han Hengqu slump drunkenly against the railing, he sighed softly. Such a promising youth, poised to bring glory to his family and sect—let him not ruin it all for the sake of love.
Han Hengqu was a lightweight, and his drunken ramblings laid bare his heart.
“The Dongyue Sword Pool has been revered for centuries as the origin of all sword arts, its status transcendent—like the ancestral temples of Wudang and Longhu to the Taoist faith. Whether friend or foe, one must respect its legacy. From the day I first trained under my master, I vowed to defeat the Song Clan of the Sword Pool fairly, to bring honor to the Great Tantai’s swordsmen!”
“When I went to the Sword Pool this time to challenge them, I was brimming with confidence. I truly believed my sword was invincible—at least within the three prefectures of Dongyue. Yet all it took was one careless stroke from another to shatter my resolve…”
“In the end, I couldn’t even draw my sword, fearing utter defeat… Little Martial Aunt, I’m sorry…”
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