A long-awaited reunion ended in a quiet, unceremonious parting after both drained their flasks of wine. The usually talkative Shen Changgeng remained uncharacteristically silent throughout, not uttering a single word until the woman donned her veiled hat once more and strode into the small town. Only then did he snap out of his daze, nudging Xu Fengnian cautiously with his elbow. “An acquaintance?” he asked curiously.
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “You could say that. She was never the most likable woman.”
Shen Changgeng straightened up, adopting a serious tone. “With beauty that could topple kingdoms, a temper like hers is only natural. Speaking honestly, a woman like her is a rare gem—once she’s gone, she’s gone. Don’t let pride get in the way. All that nonsense about ‘brothers being limbs and women mere garments’? We can listen, but taking it seriously would be foolish. In my book, better to lose a limb than shed your clothes!”
Xu Fengnian couldn’t help but laugh. “I can tell you’ll find yourself a stunning wife someday, roaming the martial world as an immortal couple.”
Shen Changgeng rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Your blessing means everything!”
Just then, Xu Fengnian spotted a familiar figure in the distance—a lone youth carrying a sword case. After a moment’s hesitation, he rose and bid Shen Changgeng farewell, leading his horse away. As Xu Fengnian repeatedly murmured apologies while pushing through the crowd, the solitary figure turned, sensing his approach. The moment the youth laid eyes on Xu Fengnian, his aristocratic composure shattered into sheer astonishment, as if witnessing his own ancestor rising from the grave. He hurried forward, barely restraining himself from dropping to his knees in reverence. Instead, he clasped his fists and whispered hoarsely, “Zhang Chunlin of Youyan Manor greets his benefactor!”
Xu Fengnian had once stayed at Youyan Manor before a life-or-death battle with Han Shengxuan. During a fishing trip, he encountered a group of ethereal white-robed cultivators and intervened impulsively, saving Zhang Chunlin’s parents. Later, he took away swords like *Longxu* and *Fengsui*. Now, Youyan Manor had flourished anew, with Zhang Chunlin’s parents forging renowned blades, elevating the manor to one of the top ten sects. Having deduced Xu Fengnian’s true identity, Zhang Chunlin revered him as both savior and immortal. This journey north was his quest to personally thank the young Prince of Liang—once mistaken for a white-haired centenarian swordsman—and to fulfill a secret ambition he dared not voice even to his parents.
Xu Fengnian teased, “Back then, I had that ridiculous white hair. Impressive you still recognized me.”
Zhang Chunlin blurted, “I’d know you even if you turned to ash!” Instantly mortified, he wished he could slap himself.
Xu Fengnian waved it off. “Why travel alone?”
Flustered, Zhang Chunlin admitted, “I met some martial peers from prominent sects, but most drifted away. Only two or three remained as true friends. But near this town, they had to follow their elders. I couldn’t stomach certain… conventions, so I excused myself.”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “In the martial world, one must adapt to local customs.”
Not wanting to sound preachy, Xu Fengnian changed the subject. “The four swords in your case—aside from *Rootless Skywater*, are the other three from Longyan Furnace?”
Zhang Chunlin patted his case proudly. “Two are from Longyan Furnace—*Chu Si* and *Monk’s Abode*. The *Water Dragon Chant* Furnace, dormant for 120 years, was reignited last year. The blade it forged is translucent as ice, with a daring natural curve. In your honor, I named it *Frostblade*—though it might sound odd.”
As they neared the town’s entrance, the crowd grew denser, and Xu Fengnian’s horse drew irritated glances. Though raised to be courteous, Zhang Chunlin bristled at seeing his benefactor apologize repeatedly. When the press became unbearable, Xu Fengnian said, “I won’t escort you further. I must return to Liangzhou.”
Zhang Chunlin gaped. “You’re not entering?”
Xu Fengnian smirked self-deprecatingly. “No time for festivities. The northern frontier is at war. You’ve heard how I was chased south by Tuoba Pusa. I must return immediately.”
Zhang Chunlin flushed, wrestling with unspoken words.
Xu Fengnian seemed to read his mind. “If you’re thinking of repaying me by joining the Liang army, don’t. Your manor’s gifts of swords more than suffice. Besides, warriors belong in the martial world, soldiers on the frontier. That’s how it’s always been.”
Just then, two groups converged—Shen Changgeng from behind and three of Zhang Chunlin’s friends from the town. The disparity in status and bearing between the groups was stark, yet the three young elites showed no disdain, though Shen Changgeng’s nervousness kept him rooted beside Xu Fengnian. Xu Fengnian felt no melancholy; such divides were common, as seen during the Jiangnan Dao poetry gatherings where scholars like Chen Xiliang sat unequally among nobles. Zhang Chunlin, though close to his three friends, had never revealed Xu Fengnian’s identity, only spinning tales of a white-haired swordsman who’d saved his manor.
Shen Changgeng tugged Xu Fengnian’s sleeve. “Heading north? Mind if I tag along? I’m useless here—can’t even cheer properly. I’ve heard so much about Liang Province’s armories, lakes, and the thirty new stelae. People used to curse Liang, but this spring, rumors say Liang’s forces crumbled against the Northern Barbarians. Yet traveling through western Shu near Liang’s borders, I heard conflicting tales. I want to see for myself. If I’m trampled by barbarian horses, so be it. If not, I’ll return to Yanglu County and speak truths others haven’t.”
Xu Fengnian shook his head. “Don’t go. The border is a slaughterhouse. Besides, Liang’s defenses are tight—you’d never reach Tiger Head City or Crimson Pass.”
Shen Changgeng scratched his head. “I may have told those guys you’re a local. Now they insist on seeing Liang’s famed cavalry. If you could just guide us to the southern border…”
Xu Fengnian refused firmly. “In better times, I’d take you beyond the frontier. Not now.”
Unfazed, Shen Changgeng laughed. “No worries! Just owe me a drink, alright?” As he turned to leave, he called back, “How do I find you in Liang for that drink?”
Before Xu Fengnian could answer, Zhang Chunlin interjected, “I’ll soon head to Liangzhou too. Fancy company?”
Shen Changgeng hesitated. “Won’t I be a burden?”
Zhang Chunlin grinned. “We’ll feast and drink our way there!” Then he challenged his friends, “Chen Zhengyong, Qi Tui, Cai Yongjia—still game for Liang’s frontier after this?”
The most poised, Chen Zhengyong, smiled. “Why not?”
The proudest, Qi Tui, crossed his arms. “If that Prince of Liang truly led troops at Crimson Pass, and if his name’s among the 30,000 stelae, I’d groom his horse myself!”
The scholarly Cai Yongjia smirked. “I’ve a fondness for Rouge County’s ladies. War? Not my taste, but I won’t shy away.”
Xu Fengnian bid them farewell and rode north.
Chen Zhengyong eyed Zhang Chunlin’s distant gaze. “Who was that? Even meeting the ethereal Lady Liu didn’t leave you this spellbound.”
Zhang Chunlin smiled. “You’ll learn in time.”
As Xu Fengnian galloped away, a woman in purple stood atop a high building, her words soon echoing across the land in the second year of Xiangfu. Below her lay six bloody heads.
“Someone just slipped past you, heading north—likely to Tiger Head City, besieged by a million barbarians.”
“He’s fresh from a month-long duel across the western regions, a thousand-mile chase where he couldn’t defeat his foe: Tuoba Pusa!”
“I care little for Liang’s war or its people. And as that man said, I’m just a woman—battle is men’s work. What’s it to me, Xuanyuan Qingfeng?”
“Of the 4,000 here, 3,700 are men. Yet aside from 62 from the Fish-Dragon Gang, none are from Liang.”
“This Qingming, 36,872 names were carved on stelae behind Cool Breeze Mountain. And the barbarians? Nearly 100,000 dead across three provinces!”
She kicked the heads off the roof. “Six fiends—slain by me. So I ask: Liang, with just two million households, has lost over 30,000. What of our Central Plains? How many dare to die?”
“Our dynasty spans 12 provinces, 63 prefectures, 270 counties. A million barbarians loom at our borders. Where are our men?”
Silence gripped the town.
Then a clear voice rang out: “Jing’an Dao, Qingzhou Hanlin County, Kuai Xue Manor’s Wei Chi Duquan—ready for the frontier!”
The woman laughed. “How curious—a woman speaks first!”
More voices followed:
“East Yue Dao, Wuzhou’s Zhang Chunlin—willing to die beyond Liang’s gates!”
“Jiangnan Dao’s Peach Blossom County—Chen Zhengyong stands here!”
“Huainan Dao’s Songzhou—Qi Tui seeks only death!”
“Qingzhou’s Xiangfan City—Cai Yongjia dares to fight!”
Even the hesitant voice of Shen Changgeng joined: “Jiangnan Dao’s Yanglu County—Shen Changgeng answers!”
“Nanjiang Dao’s Bazhou Wenxian County—Xue Tao is here!”
On and on they came, a chorus of defiance without end.
Far north of the town, a lone rider paused but did not turn back. This young man, who’d dared slay dragons and duel Tuoba Pusa across a thousand miles, now lacked the courage to look behind him.
At the northwest gates stood Liang, its spears pointed north for twenty years. But the true Central Plains—the one those bureaucrats scorned—had never lacked heroes.
With a final glance unseen, the rider spurred his horse onward, racing into the storm.
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