Zhou Qinhua had no intention of spending more time than necessary with Xu Qi, whose aura was as mysterious as a fog-enshrouded mountain. Glancing at the streaks of gray-white hair peeking from beneath his red fox fur cap, she considered making an excuse to leave. A natural tenderness stirred within her heart, for any martial cultivator knew that excessive thinking drained one’s vitality and blood, impairing the nourishment of the marrow and causing premature graying. Zhou Qinhua, however, was well aware of her own limits—her martial arts cultivation was unlikely to impress someone like Xu Qi. As she hesitated, she noticed a young wandering swordsman with a wine gourd at his waist striding toward them. With a slap on Xu Qi’s shoulder and a hearty laugh, the swordsman called out Xu Qi’s name, then turned to Zhou Qinhua with a respectful compliment: “Miss Zhou, your Huangmei Sword is legendary. I am Huang Quan, an unregistered disciple of the Chengxin Tower, and I’ve long heard of your name with great admiration.”
Seeing Zhou Qinhua’s puzzled expression, Xu Fengnian smiled and explained, “Old Brother Huang is a friend I met along the way to Kuaisue Hill. He’s an old hand at the jianghu, taught me many tricks of the trade. He’s a man of integrity—someone worth befriending.”
In truth, Huang Quan had been silently observing from the sidelines. When he saw Xu Qi being toyed with by those so-called heroes, he had no desire to get involved, fearing trouble. But when he saw Zhou Qinhua, who had recently risen to fame alongside Xu Fengnian, walking toward the lakeside and approaching Xu Qi, his heart quickened. Upon hearing Xu Fengnian praise his character, Huang Quan accepted the compliment with no trace of guilt. Zhou Qinhua, upon hearing this, gave Huang Quan a polite nod of acknowledgment. Xu Fengnian tugged at his horse’s reins, preparing to ride along the lake in search of Lin Hongyuan, the woman from the Dragon Palace who had once brandished an ivory tablet and pretended to be a spiritual medium. Besides the trivial matter of the Tuo Tablet and Xuan Finger techniques, Xu Fengnian had recently learned of a curious secret he wished to test Lin Hongyuan with in person.
However, before Xu Fengnian could make his escape, Xu Zhan and Deng Maolin arrived with their companions. The Commoner son of the Feng family from Liaodong had clearly done Xu Zhan a favor, and now urged his young son forward to apologize to Xu Fengnian. Then he proposed that they all board a colorful pleasure boat to watch the latest round of lake duels hosted by the Ziyi of Huishan. The platforms were built several miles out on the lake, requiring boats for viewing. The number of boats was limited, and boarding was not a matter of money, but of martial status and family reputation. Each boat had courtesans from Xiangfan’s pleasure houses performing, and the owner of Kuaisue Villa, Yuchi Liangfu, had spared no expense in creating a grand spectacle. Most martial spectators could not afford a seat on the grand boats and had to rent small vessels, squeezing between the larger ships. But riding a small boat was vastly inferior to sitting in a luxury pavilion—those on the smaller crafts were looked down upon, and the taste of inferiority was bitter indeed.
On the way to the dock, through Xu Zhan’s concise yet clever introduction, Xu Fengnian learned that Feng Maolin came from a powerful family in Liaodong. The other two pairs of martial couples were also of high birth—one from the Huai River region, the other from the Southern Tang aristocracy. Though there was an unbridgeable gap between scholar-official families and common martial clans, for most rough-and-tumble martial artists, even being in the same circle as these elites was a rare privilege. It was like comparing courtesans—officially sanctioned palace prostitutes were always more valuable than streetwalkers.
Huang Quan had been a walking encyclopedia of geography and history when he traveled with Xu Fengnian, but now he was unusually reserved and timid, barely daring to raise his voice. When he tried to introduce himself, he was cut off by Deng Maolin, who changed the subject. Huang Quan didn’t mind in the least, obediently trailing behind the group. When the main guests weren’t looking, he strutted with an air of self-importance, casting sidelong glances at others with an air of smug superiority.
As they boarded the boat, Xu Fengnian hesitated. He had intended to bring his horse aboard, but the young steward in charge of the pleasure boat, employed by Kuaisue Villa, dismissed the Feng family of Liaodong with a glance. How could he allow a nameless martial artist to bring a lowly steed onto the boat and annoy the guests? Besides, did Xu Fengnian even know how much a seat on this boat was worth? This C-class vessel alone cost four hundred taels—and even that was in short supply! Xu Fengnian made no scene. After everyone had boarded, he handed the reins to a servant of the villa, slipped him a silver coin, and said, “I am Zuo Jing of the Dragon Palace. Please inform a woman named Lin Hongyuan from the Dragon Palace that I am aboard this C-class boat. If she has time, tell her to wait for me at this dock.”
Upon hearing the name “Dragon Palace,” the servant’s attitude changed instantly. With the Dongyue Sword Pond, the Chun Tie Cao Hall, and the Yan Fortress having all departed, the Dragon Palace was now among the most prestigious sects at the villa. Even the lowliest members were not to be trifled with. The servant quickly masked his earlier arrogance, weighed the silver in his hand, and feigned reluctance: “Master Zuo, I’m just a humble servant. If I’m busy with something else, I might delay your important matter.”
Xu Fengnian smiled and handed over a second coin. “I appreciate your help, young sir.”
To his surprise, the young servant, though young, was quite shrewd. He pushed the second coin back with a casual grin. “I’ve already accepted ten taels from Master Zuo. I don’t mind the money, but I also want to earn a bit of good fortune from your presence. If I take more, I’ll be seen as greedy. The rules of Kuaisue Villa are strict—if the steward finds out, he might break my hands and feet. I can’t risk it. Master Zuo, rest assured, I’ll deliver your message immediately. I’ll also have the stable feed your horse while I’m at it.”
This was the depth of a great family’s foundation. Even a servant, through years of observation and experience, had developed a manner of speaking and acting that was smooth and unassailable. Before the Spring and Autumn Periods, no matter how many emperors rose and fell, the Ten Great Clans remained steadfast, riding the tides of fortune. It was through generations of careful cultivation—main branches, side branches, and countless behind-the-scenes efforts—that they maintained their power.
As Xu Fengnian watched the young servant lead his horse away, a thought struck him: a man like this, born into poverty but skilled in scheming, might one day find himself entangled in a romantic affair with a noble lady like Yu Chi Duquan. Xu Fengnian shook his head and turned back to the boat. The double-decked pleasure boat raised its gangplank and cut through the emerald lake, slowly heading toward the platforms. In the distance, among seven or eight other boats, two had three decks—likely the B-class vessels.
Xu Fengnian stood at the stern, hands in his sleeves, fending off the cold wind blowing from the lake. Huang Quan, shameless as ever, tried to play with the children after failing to ingratiate himself with the hard-to-please couples. The child who had kicked Xu Fengnian earlier wanted to ride a horse, so Huang Quan got down on all fours and let the child ride him like a donkey, grinning like a fool. Like a dog. Xu Fengnian used to mock Huang Quan’s clumsy attempts at flattery, but this time, he couldn’t bring himself to laugh.
Unable to bear the insincere laughter and conversation of Xu Zhan’s group, Zhou Qinhua stepped out for some fresh air and leaned against the railing near Xu Fengnian. Xu Fengnian smiled and asked, “Miss Zhou, you’ve already earned a reputation with your Huangmei Sword?”
Zhou Qinhua initially thought he was mocking her, but seeing his calm, gentle smile, she didn’t know how to respond and remained silent. Though she understood social graces, she refused to act or speak against her will, which made her seem cold and distant. In truth, she was a kind-hearted woman who had even escorted Huang Chan to the capital. Xu Fengnian, hands hidden in his sleeves, leaned on the railing and squinted with a smile. “When I was little, I dreamed of becoming a famous hero, the kind who’d have women falling for him wherever he went. I used to discuss with my two older sisters what nickname I should take when I went out into the jianghu. I wrote down dozens of names, but none satisfied me—either too fearsome or too obscure. I even imagined marrying a pretty female swordsman. But later I realized how hard it is to be a female warrior. Constant training makes it hard to keep soft skin. Just riding a horse leaves calluses on your butt. And then there’s the trouble of all those admirers trailing behind, not to mention the occasional flower-picking rogue or noble brat who has a taste for female martial artists. I remember my first time on the jianghu, I met a so-called famous female swordsman. She was so heavily made up, you could smell her perfume from miles away. Every item she wore—from her hairpin to her rouge, from her bracelets to her boots—had a story behind it. Later I found out that each shop that supplied her paid her at least one or two hundred taels a year. After that, I stopped believing in female warriors. To call a woman a ‘female swordsman’ felt like an insult.”
Zhou Qinhua smiled faintly.
Xu Fengnian sighed. “The jianghu is like the old state of Shu. When the world is in chaos, Shu is the first to fall. When peace returns, Shu is the last to settle. Like the ducks sensing the warming spring water, the martial world is the first to feel the tremors of political unrest. The smaller martial sects rush to find patrons, hoping for early benefits. Those who wait too long often find themselves unable to survive, left to suffer. From the small Fish and Dragon Gang to the great Youyan Sword Manor, none are spared. I heard that the young Prince Jing’an of Xiangfan is seeking a concubine. I wonder how long Kuaisue Villa can hold out.”
Zhou Qinhua suddenly asked, “Master Xu, may I ask—did the Dongyue Sword Pond, the Chun Tie Cao Hall, and the Yan Fortress leave the villa because of you?”
Xu Fengnian countered with a smile, “Miss Zhou, you think so highly of me? Why not ask if I summoned the True Martial Emperor himself?”
Before Zhou Qinhua could speak, Xu Fengnian added, “By the way, I’m currently a lowly member of the old Southern Tang’s Dragon Palace, known as Zuo Jing. If anyone asks, that’s who you should say I am.”
Zhou Qinhua nodded. Xu Fengnian turned around and saw Huang Quan crawling along the outer corridor of the boat, but his expression remained calm. Zhou Qinhua noticed that not a flicker of emotion passed through his beautiful peach-blossom eyes—not even a trace of disdain or pity. She bid him farewell and stepped into the warm cabin. Xu Fengnian leaned back on the railing, bored, and softly hummed a little tune from Beiliang:
Have you not heard of the fish in the northern sea, soaring ten thousand miles?
Have you not seen the immortal crossing the gates of heaven atop Kunlun?
Have you not seen the young man ride out from Liang, only to return in a coffin?
Have you not seen the woman wait by the door in red, until her hair turns white?
With the secret guardian Yin silently watching over him, Xu Fengnian allowed himself to drift into drowsiness, resting his chin on his sleeves, warmed by his hands.
A small black-painted boat cut swiftly through the calm lake. A woman in green robes, holding a white tablet, leapt onto the pleasure boat and stood at the opposite end of the stern, her eyes filled with complex emotions as she softly called out, “Master Zuo.”
Xu Fengnian opened his eyes but did not turn around. “Princess Lin, your presence graces me. Forgive me for not coming to greet you.”
The young woman, who had never revealed herself as Lin Hongyuan at Kuaisue Villa, now looked at him with more than just hatred—there was genuine reverence in her eyes. In Lin Hongyuan’s heart, Zhao Ningshen, the reincarnation of the first ancestor of Longhu Mountain, was destined to become the greatest Taoist master under heaven, a feathered official of the celestial court. That was far more valuable than the title of a prince from the cold north. Lin Hongyuan was a woman who learned nothing from kindness, only from pain. Every time she schemed against Xu Fengnian, he saw through her tricks, showing no mercy. Now, she wasn’t sure whether she hated him more or feared him more.
As Lin Hongyuan, now wearing a new Dragon Palace official’s mask, tried to step forward, Xu Fengnian cut her off. “I’ve received secret intelligence that the eldest son of Prince Yan of Shu is hiding among the Dragon Palace’s entourage. It’s not the bearded man, so you truly have a grand arrangement, making a prince carry your palanquin.”
Lin Hongyuan’s face paled.
Xu Fengnian looked at the small boat trailing behind and waved at the boatman, a strong, ordinary-looking man. After a moment’s hesitation, the man leapt onto the stern, and as soon as he dropped his disguise, his presence became commanding and noble.
He waved at Lin Hongyuan, silencing her before she could speak.
In the vast southern frontier, Na Lan Youci treated Prince Yan Zhao Bing like a servant, yet regarded this young prince as an equal and friend.
Among the princes of the empire and the heirs of the great feudal lords, this prince, Zhao Zhu, was even more highly regarded than the eldest prince Zhao Wu. A few years ago, comparing Zhao Zhu to Xu Fengnian of Beiliang would have been an insult to Prince Yan’s heir.
Zhao Zhu grinned. “Xiao Nian, do you remember the little beggar at Dantong Pass who kept begging your mother to teach him swordplay?”
Xu Fengnian replied flatly, “No.”
Zhao Zhu pouted like a jilted lover, squatting on the ground and sighing. Lin Hongyuan watched in stunned disbelief.
In the southern frontier, there was a whispered saying that Na Lan had stayed in Prince Yan’s court because he saw in Zhao Zhu the ambition to march north.
Zhao Zhu had joined the army at twelve. Ever since his father built him a small mound of enemy heads to mark his first victory, Zhao Zhu’s path had been paved with corpses. Over the years, he had built twenty-one towering mounds of earth from the bodies of his enemies.
The southern tribes all submitted to him.
Zhao Zhu’s favorite pastime was never to attend banquets or write poetry. Instead, he would take dozens of attendants and secretly head south, disappearing for a month at a time, wiping out enemy villages hidden in the deep jungles, leaving no survivors.
Whenever the prince failed to appear at a grand event, everyone knew—His Highness had gone out to kill again.
Yet now, facing Xu Fengnian, Zhao Zhu was as gentle and respectful as a scholar. He looked up with sorrow in his eyes. “Xiao Nian, you’re not the same good brother who used to pull down his pants and compare sizes with me.”
Xu Fengnian scowled. “What about the brother who hasn’t paid me back in over ten years?”
Zhao Zhu grinned and tossed him a bag of copper coins. “Here’s your money. Back then, when we parted ways, you told me you wanted to be a great hero, and you told me not to grow old as a beggar. I’ve remembered it all these years. Not a single coin was spent.”
Xu Fengnian caught the patched cloth bag, speechless.
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