Across the desolate desert beyond the frontiers, a lone rider journeyed westward, his waist adorned with a pair of swords. Dressed in coarse hemp robes, the man rode steadily into the unknown.
West of Liangzhou, anciently stood three military outposts—Fengxiang, Lin Yao, and Qingcang—guardians of the upper reaches of the Central Plains, strategically positioned alongside the Iron Gate Pass, forming an interlocking defense that commanded the vast western territories. Yet now, these outposts had long been abandoned, transformed into hideouts for over a hundred thousand fugitives—desperate souls condemned by law, hardened by survival. These men, women, and even children of seven or eight years, armed with nothing more than wooden spears, would dare to challenge the armored soldiers of Beiliang. The border troops of Beiliang had long used these outlaws for martial training, forging their ferocity through relentless pressure. When the iron cavalry of Beiliang pursued, there was no choice but to fight tooth and nail.
The selection of Beiliang’s elite scouts was brutal. The first trial was to be cast into this lawless land, armed only with a horse, a crossbow, and a Liangzhou saber—left to fate. Survive a month, and you passed the first threshold. Die, and even burial was a luxury; the corpses were often torn apart by the vengeful hands of those who hated Beiliang to the bone. Among the common folk of distant Lingshou, it was said that children there played with the skulls of fallen soldiers, making them into grotesque toys. Thus, those who survived were neither fully human nor entirely beast, terrifying to behold.
Two hundred miles westward, the lone rider encountered a band of newly arrived scouts. Without a word exchanged, battle erupted. The man in coarse hemp robes effortlessly deflected a barrage of crossbow bolts and two waves of charges, not drawing blood. The elite soldiers, realizing their efforts were futile, withdrew. Though their rewards in Liangzhou depended on the number of heads they brought back, survival remained their priority. With their arrows retrieved, they silently detoured away.
This land of fugitives was no ordinary place. It harbored hidden masters and rogue cultivators who had fled from the law in Liyang. Those who survived here either possessed formidable martial prowess or mastered forbidden arts. Thus, the soldiers were not surprised to meet a white-robed swordsman. What unsettled them was that the youth had not even drawn a blade, yet had repelled their entire assault.
The hundred thousand fugitives were not scattered. They clustered mainly in the three forsaken cities of Qingcang, Lin Yao, and Fengxiang, long erased from Liyang’s maps. Scattered, they would be easy prey for Beiliang’s soldiers. With little weaponry, isolated fugitives stood no chance against the disciplined squads of Beiliang. As for why Beiliang did not simply seize the three cities, the fugitives cared little. They were content to be ignored, like a fart dismissed by the Beiliang King. Yet when word spread that the Butcher King had died, their relief was mixed with doubt. But when rumors of a new king seeking to purge them spread, fear gripped the land anew.
The fugitives hated most the strategist Li Yishan. When the Xu family took Beiliang, local clans who resisted were exterminated, their children driven here. The hunting of fugitives for military merit, and the ban on salt and iron from Liangzhou, were all Li Yishan’s doing. Some once tried to trade secrets for safety, only to be slaughtered and cast outside Qingcang. Li Yishan had sealed their fate—doomed to be ghosts forever.
As for the old Beiliang King Xu Xiao, the fugitives feared him more than they hated him. But now, with the Butcher King dead, they turned to hatred. Whispers told of his dying wish—to have twenty thousand fugitives buried with him, so he could raise a million ghosts in the underworld to challenge the King of Hell. A tale absurd on its face, yet in this land of uncertainty, none doubted it.
As the lone rider neared Qingcang, the evening smoke of scattered villages rose faintly. Few Beiliang riders dared to roam here openly. The last time was when the son of a high official and a boy with twin pupils had circled the city from afar.
The swordsman led his horse to a mud hut at the village edge, asking for a ladle of water. A family of four—two sun-darkened adults and two barefoot children—eyed him warily. The sight of his twin blades kept their murderous thoughts in check. The man, with visible reluctance, scooped a ladle of murky water from the bottom of the barrel. The traveler did not drink it himself, but used it to wash his horse’s nose—an act of wastefulness that drew the children’s burning gazes. Here, a steel blade meant survival. A good horse was a luxury, a sign of either power or a death wish.
The young-faced rider, his hair gray despite his youth, handed back the ladle. He glanced at the children. In another land, a boy might dream of a noble martial world. Here, a child dreamed only of killing before being killed. Both dreams were different, neither right nor wrong.
Before leaving, he tossed a hefty silver ingot from his bulging purse. The man caught it, bit into it, and grinned, his eyes betraying no gratitude.
Soon after, the man rallied twenty villagers, armed with wooden spears—every household’s necessity, more precious than blankets or wives. Even women and older children followed, eager to intercept the traveler who had revealed his silver. Yet the rider had barely left the village when he stopped, as if waiting for them.
He tossed the purse onto the ground and, in a thick Beiliang accent, said, “If you dare to die, and have the skill, take it.”
No one moved. The silver was tempting, but the young swordsman did not look like easy prey.
Seeing their hesitation, he nudged his horse forward, approaching the purse. Suddenly, a spear flew—a boy’s throw, honed by years of hunting desert rats. The spear flew true, aimed at the rider’s chest.
But the swordsman moved with uncanny grace, catching the spear mid-air, turning its point. The boy, fierce and determined, stood his ground, while the others recoiled.
The rider took the spear, pierced the purse, and rode slowly toward the boy. The purse, tightly stitched, slid down the spear shaft but did not fall. The horse’s hooves struck the ground, each step echoing in the hearts of the fugitives.
The boy, undeterred, charged—not in a straight line, but in a serpentine dash. He darted past the horse’s head, twisted, and lunged at its flank. The rider reached out, grabbed the boy’s head, and hurled him into the air. The spear, reversed, pointed downward, aimed at the boy’s belly.
Then came a cry. A frail girl stumbled from the crowd. The rider frowned. The spear arced in midair, and the boy fell—not pierced, but bruised. He rose, staggering, and shielded the girl with his body.
The rider hurled the spear, planting it in the sand before them. He turned his gaze to the villagers, then rode away.
The girl, thin as a skeleton, clung to the boy, sobbing. He trembled as he pulled the spear from the ground, dragging the heavy purse. He opened it, took a small piece of silver, and tried to hand the purse to the village elders. Not out of generosity—keeping too much would earn him a beating.
But no one approached. The boy, wise beyond his years, remembered the rider’s final glance. The martial expert had warned them away. With no schooling but a sharp mind, he traded the silver for a meager portion of dried meat and coarse grain.
He did not return immediately. He gave the silver to his sister, knelt, and let her climb onto his shoulders. He stood, spear in hand, and smiled.
“I got silver, Xiaocaogen,” he said.
The girl, gripping the silver tightly, nodded against his head.
The rider entered Qingcang before the gates closed. No documents were needed here—survival was the only passport. Here, you could be Zhang Julu, the Prime Minister, or the Emperor’s son, and it would mean nothing. Only the Xu family of Beiliang held sway.
Inside, the city was unlike any in Beiliang. Not in wealth or poverty, but in spirit. Even the poor in Damaguan lived with ease. Here, the rich walked with wary eyes, clad in silk yet fearing the next moment. Gangs of idle youths lounged, not idle at all, but calculating, their eyes gleaming with greed. A poet here would be torn apart before he could finish a line.
The rider gazed upward. The tallest watchtower loomed—a beacon of smoke and steel. In nearly twenty years, only four had carved their way to power. Three ruled the three cities, while the fourth founded a sect between Fengxiang and Lin Yao, commanding nearly ten thousand. The ruler of Qingcang, once a minor swordsman in Liyang, had taken the name Cai Junchen. He styled himself the “Thousand Frosts and Ten Thousand Snows, the Pear Blossom Sword,” a title as pretentious as it was absurd. Any famed swordsman who entered his domain was “invited” to duel—and never left. Their swords became his trophies. When he grew angry, he would pierce women with them, calling it “a tree of pear blossoms.” To the fugitives, he was the “Dragon King of Xixia,” a title as grand as it was hollow.
The rider’s gaze followed the watchtower westward. Cai Junchen’s “Dragon Palace” lay at the city’s farthest edge. The closer to Beiliang, the quicker he could flee. He boasted of marching on Qingliang Mountain one day. No one believed him—not even himself.
The Dragon Palace encompassed the entire western quarter, mimicking the capital’s layout with an inner palace and outer imperial city. The walls, no more than two zhang high, were painted red, while the halls were adorned with golden glazed tiles—an imitation of imperial grandeur, marred by watchtowers bristling with arrows. Every rebellion, no matter how fierce, was crushed easily. Most were no more than two or three hundred men, barely more than bandit skirmishes.
A hundred zhang from the palace gates, the rider was halted by a squad of armored infantry, their spears gleaming. Their leader, a burly man in old Tang-style armor, eyed the rider’s twin blades hungrily.
“A thief dares enter the imperial city! Kill him on the spot!” he roared.
Twenty spear-wielding soldiers charged, wild and formless, yet fierce and swift.
But the leader suddenly bellowed, “Wait!”
The soldiers halted. The man drew his blade, grinning.
“Boy, your swords are fine ones. Tell me their names before you die. Stealing blades is different from stealing women. I don’t care for names when I take a woman, but a good sword deserves respect.”
The rider, his robes as white as snow, smiled.
“One is Xiu Dong. The other is Guo He Zu.”
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