The wind howled and snowflakes danced as a lone traveler returned home at night. Xu Fengnian stood at the threshold. The small street paved with bluish stones was empty, not a soul in sight. He cupped his hands and exhaled warm breath, which carried the scent of wine. Seeing Xu Fengnian emerge unscathed from the Jianxue Teahouse, Yuan Zuozong, now the commander of the Northern Liang cavalry, felt a great weight lifted from his heart. The two exchanged knowing smiles. A carriage driven by the young warrior Wu arrived. Xu Fengnian and Yuan Zuozong climbed aboard. They still needed to leave the city before the night curfew. This time, they had rushed here to witness the battle without any lingering concerns. Gu Dazu, Huang Chang, and others had already been secretly dispatched to Northern Liang under the arrangements of Chu Lushan. It was said that the Cai Shi Mountain had nearly been torn from the earth, leaving behind only a few superficial scholars who were lucky to occupy the place like crows in a deserted nest. As for Xu Zhan, Zhou Qinhu, and others, Xu Fengnian had not given much thought to their fates. However, there was the young Li Huai’er, who insisted on following Huang Chang to the north to see the scenery of the Northern Liang borderlands. A young man can travel far when his parents are no longer around to worry about him. Since his parents were gone, this boy had no family concerns to burden him, so Xu Fengnian did not stop him.
Inside the carriage, Yuan Zuozong hesitated before speaking. Xu Fengnian, who no longer kept Yuan Erge at arm’s length, poured out the details like spilling beans from a bamboo tube, recounting the general situation. After listening, Yuan Zuozong expressed astonishment. He hadn’t expected Liu Songtao’s identity to be so shocking—not only was he the former leader of the Cult Sect, but also a high-ranking monk from Lantuo Mountain who was destined to achieve the status of a Buddha. The concept of a demon-Buddha, whose existence could shift between life and death in a single thought, was vividly embodied in Liu Songtao.
Yet what surprised Yuan Zuozong even more was the White-clad Luoyang, the most feared figure in the Northern Man sect, who had come to the Liyang martial world to become the tenth leader of the Zhu Lu Mountain, only to cause a fierce rivalry between the ninth and tenth generations. Truly, the world was full of unpredictable twists.
Xu Fengnian lifted the curtain slightly, gazing at the teahouse through the snowfall with a bitter smile. “How come you keep getting pierced through the heart by swords every day? If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t be able to sit down for a drink—they’d be hiding away in agony, nursing their wounds. Only you could bear it without shame, living up to the name Luoyang.”
Xu Fengnian repeated the name “Luoyang,” murmuring, “At its height, the great Qin Dynasty had an emperor hailed as the greatest ruler of all time. Despite widespread criticism, he insisted on renaming the capital Luoyang. Later generations claimed it defied the natural order, planting the seeds for the Qin’s downfall within three generations. Later still, for a woman whose name history never recorded, he lit 1,800 beacon fires, an act seen as the height of folly. Who could imagine a woman so captivating that she would drive the Qin Emperor to such extremes? One woman helped him build his empire, and another brought it to ruin. If I had lived eight hundred years ago, I’d have wanted to ask that Qin Emperor face-to-face: between old love and new affection, which did he truly cherish more?”
Yuan Zuozong simply smiled, offering no reply. Unlike Lu Shengxiang and other renowned generals of the Spring and Autumn Periods, Yuan Baixiong had never been known to have any romantic inclinations. He seemed never to have been ensnared by love’s entanglements.
A falcon swooped at the window, and Xu Fengnian smiled as he lifted the curtain, unfastening a narrow bamboo tube from the bird’s claw before letting the cool falcon soar away. After reading the secret message, his expression darkened. “Something strange has happened—Wang Xiaoping has crossed swords with Liu Songtao, exchanging a single strike. This master of talisman and sword, the greatest practitioner of the Daoist sect, seems to have suffered serious injuries. Fortunately, Liu Songtao did not strike to kill, instead abducting Wang Xiaoping and heading east together. I don’t believe this is a case of mutual admiration. Even if it is for now, Liu Songtao is erratic and mad. After all these years, the Wudang Sect finally produced a Wang Xiaoping after the ox-riding Daoist. Who knows if Liu Songtao might end his life? But how can I stop it?”
Yuan Zuozong shook his head. “No need to stop them. Wang Xiaoping’s fate—whether he lives or dies—is already decided by Heaven. One is mad, the other obsessed; perhaps this is simply a destined encounter. Even the old swordsman Li Chungan had Deng Ta’ao to inherit his sword, and Liu Songtao, who quietly entered the realm of a land-bound sword immortal a hundred years ago, might also wish for a new swordsman to inherit his legacy. To be honest, I myself might have become a mediocre swordsman if battlefield tactics hadn’t suited the saber better than the sword. The sword’s path has stood for a thousand years in the martial world, standing alone, able to rival the sages of the three great teachings. There’s a unique charm to it, my lord. It’s a shame you don’t practice swordsmanship.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled bitterly. “Swordsmanship demands absolute focus. I dare not even begin—if I ever gave up halfway, I’d be laughed at and cursed to death.”
Yuan Zuozong said nothing more. Matters of the heart were not his concern. In Northern Liang, talent and warriors flourished, but Yuan Baixiong was likely the only general who did not engage in factionalism or scheming. This set him apart even from veteran generals like Zhong Hongwu and Yan Wenluan, who had spent years cultivating their own loyalists, and the Four Tigers of Northern Liang, who also couldn’t rival Yuan Zuozong in terms of solitude and independence. Yet precisely because of this, when Yuan Zuozong took command of Zhong Hongwu’s cavalry, not a single soldier dared to rebel. The trap set by Xu Beizhi and Chen Xiliang for Zhong Hongwu had failed. Zhong Hongwu, now retired to the countryside, had remained surprisingly obedient, leaving Xu Fengnian both amused and exasperated, muttering only that Yuan Erge’s straightforwardness and dominance were simply too overwhelming. Meanwhile, Chu Lushan had assumed the role of Northern Liang’s protector, second only to the Circuit Commander and the Governor. With great power in his hands, whispers of unrest had begun to stir beneath the surface, an unintended consequence that had turned into a boon. Chen Xiliang, who had become the chief strategist on Mount Qingliang after Li Yishan, had recently exchanged a few veiled words with Chu Lushan. In contrast, Xu Beizhi, a fallen aristocrat from a proud lineage, had taken a different path, befriending many scholars of humble origins. One was a river carp, the other a wild one—were they secretly competing to be the first to leap over the Dragon Gate?
Xu Fengnian rubbed his forehead. “Even an upright official can’t judge family matters. Headache.”
As he raised his hand, Yuan Zuozong caught sight of a few red threads, like living crimson snakes, slowly winding around the prince’s arm. Yuan smiled knowingly.
Outside, the snow fell in chaotic swirls. The young driver Wu hummed a tune—the now-famous “Useless Song” that had spread across the land—but he was hopelessly off-key.
※※※
The Shangyin Academy stood tall and proud, yet few knew that despite its thousand-year history, it had always remained a private institution. Rulers throughout the ages, whether wise monarchs or indolent emperors, had never attempted to interfere with the academy’s affairs, though some might have made subtle moves. In the end, none succeeded. The Shangyin Academy had always stood apart from the imperial court, revered as the guardian of the Central Plains’ cultural lineage—so long as a single building, a single book, and a single scholar remained, the spirit of Chinese learning would never perish. Even the Liyang Dynasty, the only power to unify the Central Plains after the Qin, treated the academy with respect, though often merely as a formality. Behind the scenes, they promoted the Guozijian and the Yao family’s private academy to rival the Shangyin Academy, hoping to create a tripartite balance of scholarly influence. Yet on the surface, the court still granted the academy many special privileges. The unfortunate Prince Zhao Kai had once studied here under a master, and the current Grand Academician of the academy was even regarded as half an imperial tutor. Even now, with the imperial examination system drawing many scholars away to the Guozijian, the Shangyin Academy remained the undisputed leader of the literary world.
In recent years, a new female Academician had joined the academy, teaching music and poetry. The students affectionately called her “Master Yu,” flocking to her lectures. Though the academy had hundreds of academicians, half of them were cloistered scholars, engrossed in their own family traditions. Only about 160 Jixia Masters truly deserved the title of “Master,” lecturing publicly on specialized subjects. Yet even among them, many suffered from sparse audiences, mocked by students as attracting no more than a couple of cats and dogs, mere exercises in playing music to deaf ears. But Master Yu was different. Her expertise in music was profound, her teachings clear and accessible. She was no fame-seeking bookworm. It was said her father was a distinguished scholar from the Shangyin Academy, and her mother was a renowned swordswoman once revered by the Western Chu emperor. After the fall of Western Chu, the young woman had found refuge in the academy—a natural course of events. With her graceful talent and refined beauty, she had earned the admiration of scholars, the affection of students, and the pity of those who knew her tragic lineage. In recent years, countless scholars had fallen madly in love with her, their hearts consumed by longing.
A gentle snowfall arrived unannounced. The flakes were small, delicate and shy, far gentler than the fierce blizzards of early winter. Today, Master Yu had announced she would be admiring the snow instead of holding class, much to the disappointment of many eager students. The academy was built along a mountain, with three lakes, each separate and unconnected. The Lotus Lake, adjacent to the small residence of the esteemed Master Xu Wei Xiong, had long been treated like a forbidden zone. Since her departure, it had become even more deserted. The Zhangdan Lake was lined with small boats, densely packed, offering students the pleasure of boating, brewing tea, and admiring the snow. But with so many boats, like a Go board nearing its end, the beauty of the scene was diminished. The third lake, the Fo Zhang Lake, was small and secluded, rarely visited because it was privately owned. Even wealthy aristocrats with deep pockets could not gain access, left only to admire it from afar. Within a hundred zhang of the lake’s shore, no one was allowed to enter without permission. At this moment, a plump, alluring woman sat in a pavilion by the lake, cradling a white cat. Her beauty was fox-like and seductive, yet her demeanor was cold and distant, only heightening the desire to conquer her. She wore a luxurious white fox fur coat, and the lazy white cat nestled in her arms, yawning contentedly.
Inside and outside the pavilion, seven or eight children played joyfully. They were the children of long-time Jixia Masters who had settled here to teach. The mysterious owner of Fo Zhang Lake had made an exception for these innocent children, never forbidding their play by the lake. Many rumors surrounded the identity of this elusive lake owner—some said it had been purchased by the old aristocrats of the Southern Tang, others claimed it was the ancestral property of Sun Xiji, the former Grand Tutor of Western Chu, and still others whispered it was the private estate of descendants of the Qin dynasty. As for the strange name “Fo Zhang Lake,” there were countless theories, each more intriguing than the last, almost forming a school of study in itself.
The woman in the fox fur coat, her expression cool and indifferent, suddenly smiled. She had spotted a little girl with twin pigtails. It seemed the girl had been hit in the face by a snowball thrown too hard by a boy. Enraged, she charged forward and swept her leg, sending the smug boy sprawling. The girl, still fuming, saw him struggle to rise and slapped him again, knocking him back down. The boy blinked in shock, then burst into tears. The girl stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes scanning the crowd with the haughty air of a young martial heroine declaring herself unmatched in the world.
The woman in the pavilion smiled faintly, murmuring, “Truly lonely.”
A voice, naturally warm and comforting, replied from outside the pavilion. “Does Master Yu also feel lonely?”
She stroked the white cat’s head, her brows furrowing slightly. As she turned, her smile had already faded. She saw a familiar, refined face—Qi Shence, a young man whose name carried great weight, a native of the fallen Western Chu. His grandfather, Qi Du Hai, had been a favored disciple of Sun Xiji, the Western Chu Grand Tutor. Qi Shence’s father had nearly wiped out Yuan Zuozong’s entire cavalry in the Battle of the Princess’s Tomb, though the victory was tainted by dishonorable tactics that ultimately weakened the Western Chu’s position. Later, in the Battle of Xilei Wall, the general died bravely in combat, fighting on foot after his horse was slain, enduring over a dozen wounds from Northern Liang sabers. Though he died, his honor remained intact. In the Shangyin Academy, the descendants of Western Chu held a privileged status, and Qi Shence’s illustrious and tragic lineage, combined with his scholarly brilliance, had earned him the praise of Sun Xiji himself as a child prodigy. Everyone in the academy knew of his ardent pursuit of the Western Chu-born Master Yu, and most secretly hoped for their union.
The woman in the fox fur coat offered a polite smile but said nothing. Qi Shence chuckled as he stepped into the pavilion, not presumptuously sitting but leaning casually against a pillar. His lips curved in a smile, his gaze never lingering on the woman but instead sweeping toward the lake. To the eyes of noble ladies, he was the very picture of unrestrained charm.
A stone tablet stood by Fo Zhang Lake, inscribed in Qin dynasty small seal script. A white-haired young man, quietly entering the academy, squatted before it, brushing away the snow to reveal the weathered characters: “The Buddha’s palm, five fingers are five mountains.”
The children, naturally lively and curious, quickly noticed the stranger. The little girl with twin pigtails, who had just defeated a boy in a snowball fight, rushed forward first, followed by her cheering friends. The white-haired young man had just stood up and stretched when their eyes met. They stared at each other in surprise. The little girl’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as she demanded fiercely, “Who are you? Why are you here at Fo Zhang Lake?”
Back at the pavilion, Qi Shence shook his head helplessly, watching the scene unfold. He thought the tall stranger was being utterly impudent. Whatever the man had said, it had angered the girl so much that she had started punching and kicking. The stranger had bent down, placing a hand on her twin-pigtailed head.
What could such a childish young man accomplish, even with white hair?
But then the bastard shouted something that nearly made the refined Qi Shence seethe with rage.
“Yu Youwei, our child has already grown so big! The little one asked who I was, so I told her I was her father—and she hit me! How did you raise this child?!”
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