There is a small town, perhaps because it is remote, it escaped the smoke of the Spring and Autumn Wars in earlier years, and surprisingly escaped this Central Plains war as well. From start to finish, there was never the sound of iron cavalry described in romance novels, nor the clatter of armor spoken of by storytellers.
With the dust settling in Tai’an City, the atmosphere of chaos vanished abruptly, and a more magnificent scene of prosperity arrived suddenly.
For this small town, the most intuitive and obvious sign was the increasing number of guests coming to the Brothers’ Tower to drink and listen to stories, until it was packed to the brim. Some guests who happened to be short on money took the opportunity to tell the innkeeper and waiters that they didn’t care about their seats and would drink at the threshold—after all, it wouldn’t stop them from listening to the storyteller.
Everyone within a hundred miles knew the reputation of this inn. It wasn’t for any rare fine wine or charming women selling drinks to flirt with customers, but for the elderly storyteller in the inn. He sat alone in the center of the main hall, surrounded by wine tables on all sides.
The old man sat on a small stool, with a small table beside him. On the table were a wooden gavel, two or three pots of wine, a large white bowl, and a plate of peanuts—nothing more.
That day, after noon, once the guests had cleared their dishes from the tables and replaced them with various sizes of wine jugs, jars, and bowls, the storyteller walked slowly out of the back hall. He was still more than twenty steps away from the table, hadn’t even opened his mouth, yet the entire inn, both upstairs and down, erupted into thunderous cheers.
The old man raised his clasped fists high to greet the crowd, and the cheers inside the inn became even more a lively, bustling commotion.
The storyteller, having milked the moment, swirled his large sleeves, sat on the small stool with the air of a wise man, put on a show of straightening his robes and sitting solemnly, then picked up the wooden gavel, slammed it heavily on the table, and declared in a loud voice: “At the end of last time, I spoke of the imminent second Liang-Mang War, and the arrival of eighteen great masters from the Central Plains, joining forces!”
The old man picked up the gavel and slammed it down again, his voice deep and full of energy: “The rise and fall of dynasties, the great affairs of army and state—these demand the most careful thought! The most careful thought!”
At that moment, a listener shouted loudly with a laugh: “At the end last time, old man, you left us hanging! You said that Zhang Feilong, known in the martial world as the Bianjing Layman, that great hero, asked our Northern Liang Prince for advice on how to deal with fairy-like heroines. What did the Northern Liang Prince actually say?! We’ve all been waiting! Everyone, isn’t that right?!”
The dozens of tables upstairs and down roared in agreement. Many martial heroes who had laid their swords and sabers on the tables began to boo, and many young knights even whistled loudly.
The storyteller was clearly accustomed to such scenes. He poured himself a bowl of wine with an air of calm, took a sip, and smacked his lips in enjoyment. In fact, leaving a cliffhanger at the end of each story was a trump card the innkeeper had personally taught the old man—dangling the audience’s appetite ensured repeat customers.
After leisurely setting down his wine bowl, the old man laughed and said: “If you hadn’t mentioned it, I truly would have forgotten this part. Don’t rush, don’t rush, let me tell it slowly! Dealing with people is a knowledge point, and for a fledgling young hero to meet those lofty, beautiful fairies—why, that’s an even greater knowledge. There are two types of fairy-like heroines in the world. One type includes figures like the Purple Robe of Huishan’s Daxueping and Tong Shanquan, the owner of the Golden Inlaid Saber Manor. They are evenly rare, few and far between. You could travel all over the land, roam the entire martial world, and still never encounter one. I won’t bother talking about how to deal with them. The other type… well, this is what the Northern Liang Prince taught Hero Zhang Feilong. The Prince, that venerable elder, said this—everyone, prick up your ears and listen carefully! Words of such gold—you won’t get another chance once you leave this village…”
Ah, there was that old trick of his, turning sideways to reach for the wine bowl—a gesture they knew all too well. They’d have to pay up again.
Sure enough, two pretty waitresses had already begun moving between the tables. Instead of asking for money, they carried a wooden tray with over a dozen expensive jugs of wine. They didn’t push anyone to buy; whoever wanted a drink could take one.
When the inn first played this trick, no one was willing to take the bait. But they couldn’t stand the old storyteller’s stubbornness—if no one took the wine, he’d drag his feet and refuse to continue!
Now, the inn’s guests were taken it for granted. They didn’t bother haggling over a few copper coins—they’d pay, what else? After all, the gentlemen who came here weren’t short of such small change. Besides, today you took the wine, tomorrow he splurged, the day after someone else put on a show of generosity. Both the sellers and buyers were more or less satisfied.
Still, the inn’s owner was really shameless to come up with such a sneaky way of fleecing people!
Thankfully, the inn was clever enough to read people’s minds. They knew to stop at three—usually only once at the start and once at the end—so it didn’t annoy anyone. Over time, it became an unwritten rule of the inn, even one of its characteristics.
The more than twenty small jugs of wine the two waitresses carried were quickly taken by the guests.
The storyteller then continued: “The Prince of the Northwest told our Hero Zhang that dealing with those pretentious fake heroines and false fairies is actually quite amusing. According to the Prince, first and foremost—remember this well—you must never surrender before the battle, thinking yourself inferior, assuming those fairy-like heroines are naturally superior! You must tell yourself: no matter how stunningly beautiful or aloof and cold those women are, they still need to eat, drink, shit, and piss! They still have to squat in the outhouse! After eating green onions, garlic, fish, or meat—they still fart stinky ones!”
First, the entire hall fell silent in shock.
Then, thunderous cheers erupted.
These words were truly eye-opening.
Upstairs, leaning on the railing was a smiling man. To his left, a little girl stood on tiptoe; to his right, a tiger-headed little boy squatted. Both children wore small wooden swords at their waists. This man was the inn’s owner. He’d once been a waiter here, and after only a few years as a servant, he’d quickly taken over the entire inn from the old owner. Business was booming, thriving. It was said that the former owner, who’d bought a mansion in the prefectural city for his retirement, had received nearly three hundred taels of silver in dividends last year just this spring! This new owner had been a big shot in this small county town these past two years—really impressive. He got along famously with many scholars who’d passed the imperial exams, otherwise, how could the county magistrate and assistant magistrate, such important officials, come here to drink every so often? Could other inns invite such esteemed guests? You couldn’t even beg them to come!
A gentle and graceful woman walked quietly to the man’s side, took her daughter’s small hand, and when the man turned to smile at her, she glared at him, then couldn’t help laughing, complaining softly: “The children are listening!”
The man scratched his head, “It’s not such a bad thing. Let them listen—Tuantuan and Yuanyuan won’t understand anyway.”
Unexpectedly, the little boy squatting at the man’s feet looked up and spoiled it: “Dad, what’s there to not understand about squatting in the outhouse?”
The little boy got a glare from his mother, made a face, quickly ducked his head, and went back to watching the commotion downstairs.
That natural cleverness must have come from his father.
The woman lowered her voice and asked with a laugh: “Did the Prince of the Northwest really say that? Or did you make it up and tell Old Man Liu to trick people?”
The man Laughed and said: “Whether the Prince of the Northwest said it or not, how would a small commoner like me know? But my brother, who wandered the martial world, really did say that back in the day.”
The woman sighed, “You’ve been going on about him for years, and he still hasn’t come to visit us.”
The man’s eyes were clear, “He will! No matter how well he does, he’ll remember me as his brother. If he does badly… then he should come here all the more. I’ve got plenty of room for him to eat, drink, and sleep!”
The man suddenly looked a little anxious, and whispered: “Wife, if that day ever comes, promise you won’t look down on my brother. This is the only thing I’ve….”
The woman looked a little annoyed, “What nonsense are you talking about! Do you think I’m that kind of person?!”
The man’s face lit up in a Brilliant smile, his eyes crinkling, “I knew it! Of all the women in the world, my wife is the best!”
She rolled her eyes, “The children are here. Act like a father.”
The little man at the man’s feet sighed, shaking his head, and imitated his father’s catchphrase: “Feeling very melancholy right now!”
The man laughed loudly. The woman reached over and gently twisted his arm, “See? He’s learned it all from you, his father.”
The little girl said shyly: “Dad, ever since Grandpa Liu said it once when he was drunk, Tuantuan has been asking everyone where ‘under the crotch’ is?”
This time, the woman twisted a lot harder.
The man grimaced, turned around, bent down, and flicked his son’s forehead, “You learned that bad stuff from your Uncle Xiaonian! Why not learn the good things from me!”
The little boy clutched his head, looked up, and said Grievancely: “Dad, when is Uncle Xiaonian coming? When is he bringing my fiancée? I’ve been thinking about her a lot!”
The woman couldn’t help laughing, wanting to be angry but unable to.
Her man had sworn that he and his good brother, who roamed the martial world, had arranged a child betrothal long ago. No matter who did better or worse in the future, the betrothal would stand. She hadn’t taken it too seriously, knowing that while her man was kind to everyone, he was actually proud—few people could make him go on and on like this for so long. Even when drinking with the county magistrate or assistant magistrate, no matter how friendly or smooth he seemed, afterward, her man didn’t really care about those officials. Instead, there were a few middle-aged men who worked in the county government’s military office with whom her man drank more sincerely. So she actually worried a little: her man’s beloved brother, the one she and the children only knew as “Xiaonian,” must be no ordinary person. After so many years apart, even if they met again one day, would that person still cherish the brotherhood as much as her man did, like they did when they were at their lowest? If that person had done really well, even made a great name for himself, would he still treat her man as a brother? If not, how heartbroken her man would be. So she both hoped that person would come to drink with her man, to toast as brothers until they were drunk, and feared that he would really come, only to bring them what Old Man Liu called “the world changes, people change” in his stories.
When the man heard his son’s innocent complaint, he patted the child’s head and grinned: “Son, Dad promises your future wife will be this good!”
The man thrust his thumb up vigorously.
The little boy looked skeptical, muttering: “Just don’t let her be like Little Xingzi from the next street, or I’ll take my wooden sword and run away from home to roam the martial world by myself.”
That Little Xingzi who loved pestering him was really big—her arm was almost as thick as his leg!
The man smiled, “You little rascal, run away from home? Would you leave your parents?”
The little boy looked surprised, “I roamed the martial world by the river outside town at noon, and came home for dinner at night!”
His sister poked her head out, put a finger to her cheek, and made a face at her brother.
The man and his wife smiled at each other.
She suddenly asked with a laugh: “Why doesn’t our inn sell that Green Ant Wine anymore? Someone as good at business as you, quarreling with silver?”
The man shook his head, “We’re not selling it. I’m afraid I’ll can’t help but drink it myself if I have it around. I’ll wait—next time Xiaonian comes, he’ll bring me Green Ant Wine to drink!”
The woman laughed and said: “All right, all right. I’ll go to the kitchen to busy myself. Keep an eye on Tuantuan and Yuanyuan.”
The man nodded softly, “Thanks for all your efforts, wife. I’ll be lazy today.”
She smiled and left.
She felt a little sad. What did she have to be hard about? Her man worked the hardest in this inn, inside and out, all year round. He was tired when he was a waiter, and never had a moment’s rest now that he was the owner. Before, it was to marry her; now, it was for her and the two children. Many other women in the town wished their lazy men would work more, not wander around idle all day. But with her, she wished her man could really rest for a day, could stop thinking and doing things. But every time he nodded and agreed, he still got up early and worked late, smiled at everyone he met, and never took anything easy.
Marrying this man, she felt she couldn’t have married better in this life.
Downstairs, the storyteller still hadn’t gotten to the main topic—the stirring Liang-Mang War beyond the northwest pass. Instead, he was talking about the northwest prince’s brilliant remarks when he was still the crown prince: being a playboy was also a skill, with different grades. The lowest rank only knew how to lead thugs and vicious dogs to bully men and women. A notch higher were those in bright clothes on spirited horses, wearing swords and jade at their waists, holding fans, putting on a handsome act when they saw a pretty girl, pretending to be someone they’re not. Then there were the third-rate playboys, who began memorizing romantic poems and songs. At the very least, they could recite poems and pair couplets awkwardly in front of women, instead of blurting out “my father is an official” or “my grandfather commands troops”—how embarrassing. The second-rate rich kids were even rarer: not only could they speak eloquently, but they actually knew some martial arts, and were skilled at rescuing beauties. Even if the beauty wasn’t in trouble, they’d create trouble! Don’t be stingy with silver to hire people to act—remember, when you step in to drive away the villains, the way those thugs fly backward must never be the same. They must fly backward, sideways, horizontally—all kinds! As for the top-tier playboys in the world, Hehe, they’re like the elusive grandmasters of the martial world, equally rare and charming. When heroines and fairies meet such men, they’ve accumulated virtue for seven lifetimes and bad luck for eight—they’ll fall hopelessly in love, and even if you beat them to death, they won’t leave.
The storyteller, spittle flying as he spoke, actually got carried away by his own words. He looked so spirited, as if he were the founding father of playboys. He took a big sip of wine, held up one finger, and clicked his tongue: “For example, a playboy at this level shows women his money but never spends it on them! Let them see the gold and silver mountains, but never give them a single copper coin. Hey, and those women might even be willing to give him money in return.”
Countless people in the inn were fascinated.
Someone suddenly shouted: “Are there really such stupid heroines and fairies? Giving themselves away and even paying money? I don’t believe it, first of all!”
The storyteller raised an eyebrow, glanced sideways, “I won’t talk about others. Just the saying ‘ten years to cultivate a Song Yushu, a hundred years to cultivate an Xu Fengnian’—do you accept that?! Not to mention Song Yushu, who became a high official in the capital’s Ministry of Rites. Just the latter—when women meet him, can they still be arrogant?!”
The man was immediately speechless, wanting to argue but having no words. After all, he was a regular at the inn, had heard many legendary stories about the northwest prince, and felt both admiration and envy—more the latter. With so many stories told by the old man, it was easy to imagine himself in them, and naturally, he didn’t want to negate himself in a way.
Upstairs, the innkeeper squatted down, picked up one child, and whispered with a laugh: “Tuantuan, Yuanyuan, Dad’ll tell you the truth. Back when Dad wandered the martial world, there was a woman who sincerely called your dad ‘Young Master.’ She wasn’t a famous fairy-like heroine, but she was much more tough than all the heroines and fairies in the martial world. That’s why only your Uncle Xiaonian was worthy of her. A good girl like that… well, Dad thinks she’s only slightly worse than your mother. Tuantuan, if you still want to be a hero when you grow up, have the ability to bring a girl like that home to be our daughter-in-law.”
The little boy frowned seriously, “Dad, I already have a fiancée. I don’t like fooling around with other girls! Mom also said that a good man should be devoted to one girl!”
The man lowered his voice, “That’s true, your mother is certainly right. But good girls in the world generally admire heroes. Think about it—if she likes you, but you don’t like her, how sad would that girl be, right?”
A hush fell over the hall.
The storyteller wove his tale on.
He spoke of borderlands where the aura of war clouded the skies, where battlefield bones tangled with grass roots.
He spoke of sword rivers with howling winds and vast snowflakes, of sand-mouthed stones freezing so hard that horses lost their hooves.
He told of Ji Liu’an, guest of the Southern Border Dragon Palace, who died with the words: *A true man is not without tears—he simply does not shed them at partings*.
He told of Yu Xingrui, great Daoist master of Wudang, who died heroically, pierced by twelve Northern Mang arrows.
He spoke of Northern Mang’s ceaseless siege, their grassland armies swarming like locusts outside the walls, the horrifying sight of soldiers scaling the ramparts like ants, and how Jubei City blazed with fire day and night, the fight never ceasing.
He told of the siege of Jubei City, which began in early autumn of the third year of Xiangfu and lasted until the summer of the fourth.
The old man’s tone remained unflinching, never overstating the tragedy or heroism. He spoke as an elderly neighbor might, recounting trivial household matters with quiet gravity.
The storyteller paused, took a sip of wine, set down his bowl, and asked as if addressing the crowd—or perhaps himself: “We common folk know nothing of royal courts, nothing of the dangers of the martial world, nothing of life and death on the battlefield… but we know the warmth and coldness of human hearts, don’t we?”
The old man suddenly raised his voice: “No need to dwell—yet never to be forgotten!”
The listeners jolted, startled by the intensity.
Then the old man spoke of the Northern Liang iron cavalry, unmatched under heaven; of how their swords, wherever they pointed, carried the force of thunder, invincible, unrivaled.
He told of the second siege of Jubei City, when Northern Mang, driven to desperation, nearly handed over half their Southern Dynasty’s Western Capital to the Liuzhou cavalry, yet still sought to breach that greatest fortress of the northwest frontier.
He spoke of the white-robed monk from Two Zen Monastery: at that time, Li Dangxin, in his snow-white cassock, stood alone outside Jubei City. *This humble monk travels from south to north. Whether I attain Buddhahood or not, I set it aside. Tathagata Buddha, Buddha Tathagata—there is a future, there is a coming. How did this life come to be? This humble monk Li Dangxin has come, and now sees the Tathagata*.
He told of how, before the battle ended, five great generals—Bei Liang’s Kou Jianghuai, Xie Xichui, Cao Wei, Yu Luandao, and former Northern Mang winter administrator Wang Jingchong—joined forces to breach Xijing, the heart of Northern Mang’s Southern Dynasty.
He spoke of Ji Prefecture General Yang Huchen, He Prefecture General Cai Bai, and Ji Prefecture Vice-General Han Fang, whose three cavalry units resolutely joined forces with Youzhou’s remaining cavalry, marching north from He Prefecture into the grasslands. Together with the Liuzhou cavalry, they launched a pincer attack, trapping the retreating Northern Mang army in a brilliant encirclement.
He told of how, after that battle, the three military towns of Zhongzhong, Liuya, and Fuling all fell, their defenders dead. He spoke of Zhou Kang, the “Brocade Partridge,” who charged into battle three times, finally dying on the field; of his deputy Li Yanchao, who took up the tiger tally, his Right Cavalry left with fewer than eight thousand men. Of the tens of thousands of Bei Liang border troops in Huaiyang Pass, who fought until fewer than two thousand remained, bodies littering the ground inside and out. After winter came, the blood froze, turning Huaiyang Pass a crimson hue from afar. The Bei Liang Prince led ten thousand Snow Dragon Riders, bypassing the routed Northern Mang main force, racing to reinforce Huaiyang Pass—only to find Bei Liang’s Protector Chu Lushan sitting on the wall’s battlements, surrounded by bones, a Liang sword propped against the ground.
The storyteller fell silent, bowed his head, and slowly sipped strong wine, closing his eyes as if slightly drunk. “The mountains stand tall, the moon hangs small; the waters recede, the stones emerge.”
Outside the inn, the sun blazed. A yellow dog lay on the street, head drooping, tongue lolling.
A dog of peace.
Inside, the old man lifted his gavel high. The crowd tensed, bracing for the crash—but he set it down gently, laughing: “Who has not seen the old histories? Yet today’s achievements outshine the ancients. In this world, heroes chase the deer, smoke chokes the skies, great battles rage everywhere. We common folk live in troubled times—how unfortunate! Yet we can hear news of border victories, brought time and again to our Central Plains—how fortunate! How many times in life can one laugh so freely? When we meet over wine, we must drink until we fall!”
The old man filled his bowl to the brim, raised it, and called out: “Ladies and gentlemen, will you drink a bowl with this old man? A bowl to peace!”
From the first floor, countless voices boomed with laughter and lofty sentiments: “Let us drink!” “Drink we will—afraid of an old man?”
The old man laughed, wiped his mouth roughly, slammed down his bowl. “Enough of battlefields. Let me return to an old theme—martial women of the battlefield!”
“There was an assassin girl, the best in the world, whose name no one knew—she slit the throat of Northern Mang’s Bao Ping Prefecture Commander!”
“Our Martial Alliance Leader, the Purple Robe of Huishan’s Daxueping—came *this close* to taking the Northern Mang crown prince’s head amid a million troops!”
“There was a blind female lutenist, third among the world’s Zhixuan realm masters!”
“The Sect Leader of Zhulu Mountain, Luoyang in white—during the second defense of Jubei City, she held the entire eastern wall alone in the final moments!”
“A woman in red robes, who darted through Northern Mang’s armies as if they were no more than air!”
“A female sword servant from the Wu Family Sword Tomb, bearing the famous sword Su Wang, charging into battle time and again—dubbed by the Bei Liang Prince ‘my Liangzhou White Horse Female Commander’!”
The old man laughed heartily, shouting: “Who says Central Plains women only hide in boudoirs painting their faces? Who says a woman’s life is cheaper than grass?”
There were no few women in the inn—two or three dozen, scattered about. At these words, they grew more spirited than the men, nearly all raising cups or bowls to drink. A few even picked up wine jugs and drank directly!
The hall erupted in cheers.
The innkeeper, leaning on the second-floor railing, couldn’t help clapping and shouting: “Today, all heroines drink free!”
This set off even louder cheers.
A burly man tilted his head to look upstairs, pinching his voice to a falsetto: “Boss, can I be a woman for today? Eh?”
The innkeeper paused, then laughed heartily: “For that shamelessness—you’re like my brother! Drink your fill, no charge—I’ll treat!”
He quickly added, “No one else gets this, though! I’ve got a family to feed—it’s not easy!”
The little boy squatting beside him suddenly stood, one hand on his wooden sword hilt, and piped up anxiously: “Right! Dad always says my future martial world travel funds are in these wine earnings! Can’t have everyone drinking for free!”
Laughter filled the air.
The storyteller seized the chance to bail the innkeeper out, shifting topics with a rap of his gavel. “Has anyone heard this saying? *If heaven had not born you, Li Chungang, the path of swordsmanship would have been eternal night*!”
The inn’s attention refocused. The phrase was indeed whispered in martial circles, but not widely known. The new martial world was led by Xuan Yuanqingfeng, who’d claimed three of the Xiangfu Fourteen Champions. With ten great sects, four sages, ten wandering masters, and a steady stream of fairies and lords each year—not to mention years of war—this saying about the old Spring and Autumn Sword God felt distant, especially to drinkers in this small town. Were it not for the storyteller mentioning it now and then, few would know its origins. After all, Li Chungang and Wang Xiu, among the four great masters of the Spring and Autumn period, belonged to a generation long past—truly ancient history.
The storyteller smiled. “This old sword immortal once lent his sword across ten thousand miles to the new Sword God, Deng Tai’e. So this old man can’t help but ask: if heaven had not born you, Deng Tai’e—what would become of our world?”
The question was lofty, distant, leaving listeners puzzled.
In truth, word of what the Peach Blossom Sword God had done on the battlefield outside Jubei City had barely reached the Central Plains martial world. It was as if, in that unprecedented battle of grandmasters beyond the pass, Deng Tai’e—one of the four great masters in martial rankings—had remained strangely obscure.
Just as everyone’s curiosity peaked, the old man smiled and slowly lifted his gavel. But before he could strike, someone laughed and cursed: “Damned Old Master Liu, you’re trying to swindle us again? Wait! Don’t you dare hit us with that ‘to be continued’ crap! I want answers today! Say it now, and I, Guo Chunying, will buy your inn’s priciest wine—ten jars!”
“Heroic!”
“A true hero!”
“May you have a house full of sons and grandsons!”
“If I were a woman, I’d warm your bed, Hero Guo!”
The tall Guo Chunying stood with arms crossed, seeming bold—but secretly grinning, wondering if ten jars had been too few.
He was a local wandering swordsman, had indeed traveled the martial world, and glimpsed a few great heroes and fairies—from afar, of course. He’d recognize them instantly; they’d never recognize him.
Guo Chunying’s proudest claim: four or five years prior, he’d visited Huishan’s Daxueping in Jianzhou. Since returning, he’d told everyone how the Queyue Tower pierced the clouds, how the Purple Robe of Huishan had grasped immortality in a single night of snow-watching—as if he’d squatted right behind her. The truth? He’d reached Huishan, but like most martial folk, never passed Gunu Ridge. He *had* caught a distant glimpse of the world-famous Queyue Tower, though.
Just then, the innkeeper shouted: “Fifteen jars, Hero Guo—got the guts?!”
Guo Chunying barely suppressed a smirk, sneering: “Fifteen jars? Twenty! Pick any twenty tables here—one jar each!”
A waiter, who’d been squatting on the stairs, immediately called out: “Got it! Twenty jars of fine Jiangnan huadiao!”
Old Master Liu suddenly looked troubled, his mood soured. How would he know what the world would be like without Deng Tai’e? In his view, things would go on as they always had! He’d merely wanted to toss out a juicy cliffhanger, then ask the innkeeper for answers once the crowd left. After all, his daily stories followed a detailed outline provided by the innkeeper—he only added flourishes. As the elderly storyteller secretly glanced upstairs, hoping the innkeeper would rescue him, the sound of hooves echoed outside—rapid as a summer downpour, crisp and urgent.
It sounded like horses stopping outside the inn?
Horses were rare in this scenic but isolated place. Within a hundred miles, only a half-abandoned post station had any—and those three or four were old, skinny, and worn. Not even the town’s yamen had any. Only during the height of the war a few years back, rumor said a cavalry unit had passed near the neighboring county town—barely a dozen riders. Later, they’d learned these were scouts from the former Prince Yanchi’s army. Those who’d seen them supposedly spoke louder afterward, their spines straighter than mountain bamboo. Soon, a waiter scurried out of the inn, eyes widening in disbelief. Could it be? Guests who rode horses, here to drink?
The waiter counted: exactly five riders.
The five dismounted, made no move to tie their horses, and strode straight for the inn door.
The waiter swallowed hard, speechless.
Too afraid to speak.
Because these guests—each looked like immortals.
In the center stood a man in blue robes, a beautiful girl perched on his shoulders.
He smiled broadly, looking up at the golden sign “Brothers’ Tower,” murmuring: “This calligraphy… is terrible. Little Sweet Potato, way worse than your dad’s, huh?”
The little girl rested her pointed chin on his head, drawling: “Broth… ers… Tower! Tsk, what a lousy name for an inn.”
The man laughed: “It’s great! So I’ll forgive this chicken-scratch writing!”
To his left stood a white-robed figure with two swords at the waist—a woman? Or a man? Impossible to tell, but breathtakingly handsome.
To his right was a woman with a purple long case slung over her back. The waiter, unworldly as he was, thought: even if he’d never seen martial heroines or fairies, these two must outshine them all.
Behind them followed a cool-faced woman in green, not quite so stunning—but that was relative.
The waiter summoned his courage, stammering: “G-guests… here to drink at Brothers’ Tower?”
The man smiled. “Don’t you sell wine? Only food and tea?”
The waiter said awkwardly: “N-no, of course we sell wine.”
The man waved a hand. “No need to fuss. Carry on, lad.”
The waiter fled back inside, relieved yet disappointed, too flustered to think further.
When the group crossed the inn threshold, the lobby fell silent.
The leading man in blue glanced around, then looked up at the stunned innkeeper,mouth curving. “Wen! You lowly waiter!”
Their presence was strange enough that no one minded the odd address.
Not only the thirty tables on the first floor, but also the dozen-odd on the second, stood to lean over the railing, staring at these guests—obviously distinguished, even to the blind.
The innkeeper, who’d been lounging on the railing, had straightened unconsciously, eyes reddening. At the shout from the doorway, his voice cracked: “Here.”
The man’s children looked up, confused by their father’s uncharacteristic “unhospitality.”
The man laughed again. “Got good wine?”
The innkeeper took a deep breath. “Yes!”
“Got good meat?”
On the second floor, the limping man—long retired from the martial world—roared: “Yes!”
The man paused. “Got wooden swords?”
The man once known as Wen Busheng, who’d stumbled through the martial world and later won fame in the capital, grinned. “No more!”
The man downstairs made a sound of acknowledgment, calling up: “Then… got brothers?!”
Wen Hua—no longer a wooden-sword wanderer, but an innkeeper with a wife and children in his hometown—raised his unbroken arm to shield his face, as if hiding from the guests. Through stifled sobs, he said with a smile: “Yes. Always have.”
The little girl called out worriedly: “Dad?”
He wiped his face roughly, lowered his arm, and smiled brightly. “Nothing, nothing—I’m just happy… your Uncle Xiaonian’s here… come on, let’s go downstairs!”
He took his daughter’s hand; his son tugged his other sleeve. Together, they hurried down.
At the inn door, the man’s nickname for the little girl was “Little Sweet Potato.” She reached up to wipe “wine” from his face, sighing: “Dad, really. You say a real man’s tears aren’t tears—they’re ‘wine’—but this is so embarrassing in front of everyone!”
The man said nothing, only staring at the approaching figure—limping, with two children.
He’d known, but seeing it still made him bow his head, exhaling softly.
When the other man drew near, he looked up, grinning: “Wen—got a limp? What happened? Harassed a good woman on the street, got beaten up?”
“Small stuff. Nothing.”
“Tsk. You say you’ve got brothers? They didn’t even fix this. Lousy brothers, if you ask me.”
“But my brother was once the best in the world. He used my sword moves. Beat Tuo Ba Pu Sa to a pulp! Got a brother like that, Xu? Find me one in the whole world—half as good, and I’ll concede!”
“Can’t argue with that… guess my luck’s worse than yours. My brothers aren’t as good as yours.”
“Hey, Xu—still got that thick skin.”
“But you’ve changed.”
After Xu spoke, Wen Hua hesitated, then just rolled his eyes. He gently pulled his two children from behind him, patting their heads. “This is my son, Wen Liang; my daughter, Wen Xiu. Nicknames Tuantuan and Yuanyuan—cheerful, right? Tuantuan, Yuanyuan—call him Uncle Xu. Or not. Either’s fine.”
The children, clearly curious yet frightened, chose… not to.
An awkward silence hung.
Wen Hua scratched his head, flustered by the awkwardness.
Xu Fengnian pointed to the girl sitting on his shoulders. “My daughter, Xu Nianliang. Her nickname’s Little Sweet Potato. She loves running wild, so she’s a bit tanned. Oh, Little Sweet Potato, call him Hero Wen.”
Little Sweet Potato, much fairer now than the “little black charcoal” she’d once been, whispered quickly in her father’s ear, confused: “Dad, shouldn’t I call him Uncle Wen? Why Hero Wen?”
Xu Fengnian murmured back: “That guy’s got a big ego. Calling him Hero Wen works better than Uncle Wen. Whether we get free food and drink depends on you, kid.”
Wen Hua, who’d heard every word, muttered a curse under his breath but ignored the bastard Xu. Looking up, he smiled: “Little Sweet Potato? What a pretty thing. Takes after your mother, thank goodness. If she took after your dad even a little, her future’d be dicey.”
Little Sweet Potato ignored her father’s instruction, grinning: “Uncle Wen!”
Wen Hua beamed, nodding vigorously: “What a good girl! So polite!”
Xu Fengnian sighed. “As for these two beside me… just call them sister-in-law. Remember, no ranking—if you mix up, you’ll have to fix it yourself! I swear by heaven and earth, my wife comes first. I’ll only help her beat you up.”
Wen Hua cursed “piss off” first, then turned to them, solemn: “Greetings, sisters-in-law! I’m Wen Hua. Once had too many nicknames to count, but let’s skip that. Unfortunately, I’m this Xu fellow’s sworn brother—yes, a misfortune for the family, ha! From now on, this useless little brother will trouble you both. Even if you look down on him… well, that’s okay. Just muddle through. Since you accidentally married him, you might as well follow the saying: marry a chicken, follow the chicken; marry a dog, follow the dog.”
Xu Fengnian had just set Little Sweet Potato down. Hearing this nonsense, he couldn’t hold back, lifting a foot as if to kick.
Wen Hua, as if reading his mind, lifted his own foot—only to forget his limp, stumbling forward unsteadily.
Xu Fengnian took two quick steps, steadying his shoulder, and whispered: “Wen… I’m sorry.”
Wen Hua brushed it off, scoffing: “Piss off. I don’t want to hear that. You still want to drink or not?!”
Before Xu Fengnian could reply, Wen Hua turned and shouted: “Today, all drinks in my inn are on me!”
But Xu Fengnian quickly grabbed his arm, covering his mouth, laughing: “Heroes, heroines—don’t take it seriously! Old Wen here’s talking drunk! When has an inn ever given free drinks? No such logic!”
After Xu Fengnian let go, Wen Hua chimed in shamelessly: “Had too much, ha ha! Too much!”
To smooth things over after stirring up the crowd, Wen Hua added: “But all drinks are 20% off today!”
That was more like it.
Wen Hua then winked at the storyteller, signaling him to continue—anything would do.
Finally, he led Xu Fengnian’s group upstairs, bargaining with a table of guests for a spot. The price: ten jars of huadiao wine on the house.
One table, four benches. Wen Hua and Xu Fengnian sat across from each other. Wen Hua’s two children took one bench; Jiang Ni and Baihuerlian, surprisingly, shared another, with Little Sweet Potato squeezed between them.
The boy, Wen Liang, stole glances at Little Sweet Potato now and then. Each time, she glared back, lifting a fist.
Then he deliberately set his wooden sword gently on the table. She responded by slamming her long, narrow wooden knife down hard.
A standoff.
Downstairs, the old man in the center resumed his storytelling. Setting aside Deng Tai’e for now, he slipped back into familiar territory, gaining momentum, words flowing freely.
After two more bowls, he was truly tipsy—slurring, even saying things he shouldn’t. But in this small town far from troubles, no one paid it much mind, let alone overthought.
The old man recited: “*I barter peach blossoms for spring breezes—dare I ask the immortals, will they trade? I offer green ants for the Central Plains—dare I ask the emperor, will he sell?*”
Someone then asked where the northwest prince had gone. Rumors said he’d died Northern Expeditioning the grasslands, or on the way to the capital, or retired. The old man shook one finger, sighing: “Dead. Of course he’s dead. Think—battles upon battles. Three alone with Tuo Ba Pu Sa: in the Western Regions, Longyan Plain, Jubei City. Not to mention endless celestial beings. Then leading his cavalry north to attack the grasslands… that young prince, with all those wounds piling up—too much to bear. What a pity! Heaven envies talent—truer words were never spoken!”
Upstairs, Xu Fengnian nearly spat out his wine, glaring: “Did you teach him that too?!”
Wen Hua snorted: “Old Man Zhang made it up. I like it.”
Soon, the storyteller went on: “*Fame is won only on horseback; dismount, briefly, enter the tavern.* What a line—‘dismount, briefly, enter the tavern’! If that Bei Liang Prince still lived, if he walked into this inn—even a lowly scholar like me would bow, and not rise!”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “I like that too.”
Wen Hua grimaced. “I’ll dock his pay later!”
At that moment, Wen Hua’s wife hurried upstairs. Seeing the table, she blushed, biting her lip, unsure what to say.
Xu Fengnian stood quickly, voice earnest: “Xu Fengnian greets sister-in-law!”
Not just him—Jiang Ni and Baihuerlian stood too. Little Sweet Potato called out clearly: “Hello, auntie! I’m Little Sweet Potato… no, Xu Nianliang. Nian as in ‘cherish,’ Liang as in Bei Liang!”
She curtsied to Xu Fengnian, then smiled at the two women—who made all others feel inferior—and finally said softly to Little Sweet Potato: “Hello, Little Sweet Potato.”
Little Sweet Potato beamed back.
Xu Fengnian said gently: “Please sit, sister-in-law.”
She apologized: “I won’t stay. I’ll go to the kitchen to fry some snacks. My skills aren’t great—forgive me.”
Her hands twisted her the corner of clothes. Even though her husband’s brother was kind, easier than she’d imagined, she was clearly nervous. Hesitating, she glanced at her husband—who smiled at her—then plucked up courage: “Ever since I met Wen Hua, he’s talked of no one but you. Truly… in this life, besides his own brother, you’re the only one he calls brother… sorry, I’ll go downstairs.”
Before Wen Hua or Xu Fengnian could stop her, she’d turned and left.
Xu Fengnian said: “Wen, finding a wife like her—she’s this good.”
He gave a thumbs-up.
Wen Hua puffed out his chest, of cause: “Who do you think I am?”
Xu Fengnian chuckled, holding up two fingers: “But I’m still a bit better. I’ve got…”
Before he could proudly say “two,” Jiang Ni Cold snorted, and Baihuerlian shot him a cold sidelong glance.
Only a half-empty jug remained from the previous guests, quickly finished. Xu Fengnian coughed, raising an eyebrow: “Wen! Where’s the wine?!”
Baihuerlian stood, sneering: “I’ll get it. Remember to drink slowly, enjoy it.”
Xu Fengnian sat up straight, as if facing execution, nodding hard.
Jiang Ni stood too. “I’ll help in the kitchen.”
Little Sweet Potato chimed in obediently: “Me too!”
Wen Hua ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Yuanyuan, show them the way.”
The little girl, shy, had mustered courage to call him Uncle Xu or Uncle Xiaonian—only for him to make a face, scaring the words away. She fled.
The boy, Wen Liang, left last. After a few steps, he turned: “Uncle Xiaonian!”
Xu Fengnian nodded, smiling: “Came in a hurry, forgot a gift. I’ll make it up next time!”
Wen Liang nodded vigorously. After a few more steps, he turned again: “Uncle Xiaonian, Dad says calling you father-in-law works too!”
This time, Xu Fengnian really did spit out his wine—nearly coughing up blood.
What a flood of emotions.
Wen Hua doubled over, laughing.
They finished the last of their wine in silence.
Downstairs, the storyteller neared his end.
“*A thousand passions, ten thousand heroic spirits—with whom to share? Who will listen?*”
“*In this world, even if we cling, there is parting. In this world, even with regrets, we carry them in our hearts.*”
Xu Fengnian nodded, turning: “Wen, where’d you find this storyteller? He’s good.”
Wen Hua smiled: “He passed by once, back when I was just a waiter. But he talked with the same pretension as you did—so I begged the old owner to keep him. Wanted him to tell your martial world stories…”
Wen Hua lifted his bowl, finding it empty, but didn’t put it down. “Listening… I kept thinking, one day, I’d have Old Zhang sit down when we’re both here. Then I’d ask you to buy him a drink.”
Xu Fengnian raised his empty bowl, clinking it against Wen Hua’s. “Should’ve done it sooner.”
Baihuerlian returned with three jugs—not fine, not expensive, but strong enough.
After she set two on the table, Wen Hua slapped his forehead. “The inn doesn’t sell your Bei Liang green ant wine, but I’ve got several jars stashed!”
Xu Fengnian smiled: “No rush. Drink this first.”
Wen Hua nodded: “Right. Finally, we can drink and eat our fill, no worries about the next meal. Should drink more.”
Baihuerlian didn’t sit, taking her jug to the railing, turning her back.
Wen Hua asked softly: “Doing okay?”
Xu Fengnian thought. “Alright.”
Wen Hua grinned: “I’m doing better. So today’s drinks are on me.”
Xu Fengnian rolled his eyes: “How do you figure?”
Wen Hua thumbed behind him. “Two kids. You’ve only got one!”
Xu Fengnian started to mention comparing the number of wives—then remembered Baihuerlian, with her Xiudong and Chunlei swords, standing there. He ground his teeth: “You win!”
When the storyteller fell silent, and guests stopped refilling their cups, the inn emptied.
After two jugs of harsh, cheap liquor, Wen Hua fetched his hidden green ant wine—dragging the old man upstairs too. Xu Fengnian stood, toasting the elder with a full bowl. The old man hurried to his feet, drinking half despite Xu’s insistence he relax.
The old man only knew the not-so-young man was the innkeeper’s brother, probably named Xiaonian—sharing that “nian” with Bei Liang Prince Xu Fengnian.
After that bowl of truly gut-scorching green ant wine, he stumbled downstairs, satisfied. Getting a toast from that stranger… it felt proud, somehow. Why? He was seven parts drunk—no need to think, couldn’t think.
That day, Xu Fengnian finally got drunk again.
After his first trip through Liyang’s martial world, when he returned to Liangzhou, to Qingliang Mountain—strangely, he’d never really gotten drunk since.
The two groups of women and children sat at a distant table upstairs, never disturbing the two drinking, chatting men.
Drunk, Xu Fengnian talked of finding a valley ringed by mountains, retiring there with them.
Of Li Dongxi, whom they both knew, and a little monk named Wu Nanbei, who’d gone to Jiangnan. The monk wanted to build a temple—so there’d be worshippers, then donations. Even if he never became a Buddha or burned relics, he’d have money to buy Dongxi rouge.
Of his brother Xu Longxiang finding a wife: a woman named Murong Longshui, who’d gone from two hundred jin to a hundred, just for Huang Man’er.
Of needing to find Chen Zhibao—refusing to believe the “white-robed military sage” was dead, needing to ask “why.”
Of wanting to introduce Wen Hua to Zhao Zhu—only the bastard was too stingy to buy a drink, so forget it.
Of a man once named Zhao Zhuan, living happily in Bei Liang’s Lingzhou with his wife, teaching at a private school. Nice.
Of former Wudang abbot Li Yufu dying too soon, not worth it—even if the young Taoist did it for the world.
Of Wen missing the spectacle of immortals falling like rain. What a shame.
Of wondering if his disciple Yu Dilong would truly become a “land dragon,” the last terrestrial immortal.
Of the Xu family’s mansion now being Bei Liang’s governor’s office—no more showing off there with Wen.
…
By nightfall, Xu Fengnian lay drunk on the table, Wen Hua beside him.
Unconscious.
Xu Fengnian mumbled, drunk or dreaming: “Waiter! More wine!”
Wen Hua echoed, faint: “Aye! Your wine, sir~”
(End of Book)
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