When he was a child, he thought the village of a hundred households was vast, with its mountains and waters, right? Later, as a youth, he visited the town and saw the bustling market, only then realizing how small the village truly was. Then, with a wooden sword slung over his shoulder, he ventured to the county seat and understood that even a town with bridges and taverns wasn’t so grand after all. Eventually, after witnessing famous mountains and great rivers, meeting countless people and experiencing many things, he grasped the vastness of the world. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, in the end, all he yearned for was to return home. And so, he quietly left the martial world behind, departing from the grandest city under heaven, journeying southward until he reached home.
Fearing he might burden his elder brother and sister-in-law—though in a small village, adding an extra pair of chopsticks to the table might seem trivial, it was anything but easy—it meant his brother would have to plant more rice seedlings each year, burn more charcoal, and his sister-in-law would have to take on more needlework, gather more mulberry leaves, and raise more silkworms. Moreover, his nephew had started attending the village school, and he, as the uncle, wanted at least to earn enough to buy the child paper and brushes. So the young man, missing an arm and limping slightly, decided while he still had strength to settle in that small town again. Perhaps fortune favors the simple-minded, for he found work as a towel-draped waiter in a modest tavern. Later, he even married a woman who was considered quite a catch within a hundred-mile radius. In that town, there was a flower called “Cow Dung Blossom,” which thrived most luxuriantly in roadside dung. Back in his wandering days, when he first heard the saying “a flower stuck in cow dung,” he had laughed uproariously. Now, looking back, it brought him even greater joy—he was that lump of dung, and it was just fine.
This autumn, he finally managed to “trick” his wife into marrying him. Her parents hadn’t been without reservations, but they couldn’t withstand their daughter’s stubbornness—or his shameless persistence. He endured their scolding without retort, clinging like a burr until, reluctantly, they gave their consent. Her two elder brothers, however, despised him. Several times, they cornered him in alleyways when he was out fetching vegetables or meat for the tavern. Though they never laid hands on him, their words were harsh. Unfazed, he stood his ground, smiling through it all. After repeated encounters, even the brothers grew weary of their own hostility. Though they wore sour expressions at the wedding, they didn’t interfere. After all, a married daughter was like spilled water—what could they do? Beat him black and blue? Their sister, though gentle and accommodating, had a stubborn streak fiercer than any hot-blooded young man. Once her mind was set, there was no changing it.
This Mid-Autumn Festival, she suggested returning to the village to celebrate with his brother and sister-in-law, as tradition dictated. But he insisted they first spend the holiday with her parents, promising his brother they’d reunite next year. Both sides agreed, feeling she had married beneath her station and shouldn’t quibble over such matters. When she hesitated, he waved his good arm grandly and declared, “This is the master of the house speaking!” She smiled, tilting her lips, and nodded. Yet when the young couple arrived at her parents’ doorstep with a box of mooncakes, her eldest brother barred his entry, growling that his sister could enter, but the “Wen” fellow could forget it. In a fit of rage, the burly man snatched the box—purchased for two taels of silver—and hurled it against the alley wall, roaring for Wen to scram. His wife, furious, gripped his arm and turned to leave, but he stood firm, insisting she see her parents that day. Seeing his resolve, she bit back tears. Softly, he told her, “Family is family, a lifetime bond. There’s no hurdle we can’t overcome.” With a quiet “Mm,” she pushed past her brother and strode into the courtyard. When she returned moments later, she found her brother and husband squatting side by side at the gate, the retrieved mooncakes at their feet. The dark-skinned brother, flushing, rose and gruffly warned, “If I ever hear you’ve mistreated my sister, I’ll break your third leg!”
Under the moonlight, walking home along the cobbled path, she occasionally skipped playfully, hands behind her back, then turned to flash him a radiant smile. At that moment, he had but one simple thought: earn more money, give her a better life, spare this wonderful woman the scorn of others. He began tallying his meager savings, dreaming of renting a larger place, then a small courtyard, and finally a grand house.
Yet, as he pondered, he couldn’t help sighing. Not because he found the toil unbearable, but because every copper coin had to be earned through sweat. Fortunately, though his legs weren’t swift, he was diligent, willing to labor, to smile, to rise early and work late. After enduring years as the town’s laughingstock, even the self-styled “young heroes” with swords at their hips had grown bored of mocking him. As they put it, “Stepping in dog dung is pointless—just dirties your shoes. Bullying a mute waiter? How low can you get?”
Moreover, since he often invited storytellers to the tavern—even if they recycled old tales—the smallness of the town proved an advantage. After all, wasn’t a story with tea or wine better than none? And whenever rival taverns hosted storytellers, his always managed to conjure fresh tricks, steadily drawing more patrons.
The tavern keeper, though prone to grumbling, wasn’t a bad sort. Otherwise, he’d never have hired a man like him. As business improved, he raised his wages by a few coins monthly. Occasionally, after closing, the tipsy keeper would share hearty dishes with him. At his wedding, the man even gifted three taels—a princely sum in their town. From then on, he worked even harder, easily doing the work of two, if not three.
After this year’s Mid-Autumn Festival, the keeper, overwhelmed by booming trade, hired a comely village lass to sell wine. Though thin and sun-darkened from poverty, she soon blossomed with better meals, adding a fresh charm to the tavern. Delighted, the keeper noticed—with amusement—her budding affection for Wen. Shaking his head, he thought, “Girl, you’re bewitched! He’s married! Why throw yourself at him like a moth to flame?” Yet Wen, usually sharp, remained oblivious, more upright than the town’s handful of scholars. The keeper, watching with wry exasperation, almost wanted to shake him.
As winter approached, the wealthy counted snowdays, their homes stocked with furs and charcoal. For the poor, snow meant hardship—cold, costly clothes, and burning money for warmth.
Their town, prosperous and peaceful, heard grim rumors from the north, especially beyond the Guangling River, where war raged. Tens of thousands had died, some said, their corpses clogging the river. The southern armies of a mighty prince had clashed with northern forces, staining the waters red. Elders lamented, while youths boasted of joining the fray, dreaming of returning as generals astride warhorses.
For days, the tavern’s storyteller was absent. Patrons grumbled; the keeper berated Wen, who explained the man had gone to the county for fresh material. “Other taverns have storytellers and pipa girls now! We need to up our game!” The keeper rolled his eyes but relented, even offering to fund future trips. “Just get him back before we lose all our customers!” he groaned, clutching his chest in mock agony.
Finally, the old storyteller returned, and word spread like wildfire. The tavern overflowed that night, especially when he recounted how the world’s new top martial artist—no longer Wang Xianzhi of Donghai—was a young prince commanding 300,000 elite cavalry. This prince, the Northland King, had clashed with the northern warlord Tuoba Pusa, a near-legendary figure, in a battle that shook the heavens. Most astonishingly, the prince had once sent his foe flying hundreds of paces with a single sword stroke—a technique he credited to a swordsman named Wen Hua.
The tavern erupted. “Hey, Wen! When did you cozy up to a prince?” “Take us to see those famed cavalry!” “Show us flying swords! Here, use this stool leg!” Amid the uproar, the limping waiter stood frozen, jug in hand, laughing silently—until tears streamed down his face.
“Wen! Where’s my wine?” bellowed a patron. “Think you’re that swordsman now?”
Lowering his head, the waiter wiped his tears on his sleeve and called back cheerfully, “Coming right up, sir!”
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