The southern Jiangnan mountains wind like coiled serpents, and the Longwei Slope in Huainan is no exception. Three hundred miles from the heavily fortified Tie Lu fortress, many merchants travel this route, but a rare heavy snowfall has blocked the mountain paths. The treacherous journey through the snow has become nearly impassable, and most traders prefer to take a detour via the official roads. Yet on the Longwei Slope, a group of travelers struggles northward. A modest horse-drawn carriage crawls forward, its poor horse’s hooves sinking deep into the snow, making every step a burden. The horse, its dull black mane steaming in the cold, snorts heavily, while the thin, elderly driver hesitates to raise the whip. “Quick horse, quicken the pace,” they say, but even the cleverest woman cannot cook without rice. This worn-out steed, discarded from the military, stubbornly resists the whip. If struck too often, it will simply refuse to move. Fortunately, the passenger inside the carriage is understanding, occasionally offering comforting words to the driver, urging him not to rush. The old man inside, gaunt and wrapped in a tattered fur cloak older than the horse itself, sits calmly, reading in silence. Outside, the snowy landscape sparkles like spring has come overnight, with pear blossoms blooming on a thousand trees. The old man lifts the curtain and gazes out, his previously troubled heart slightly eased.
Meanwhile, less than half a mile behind the carriage on the same Longwei Slope, five riders follow closely. Mostly clad in black, the group consists of three men and two women. Leading them is a stout, prosperous-looking middle-aged man with the round, fleshy earlobes of a Buddha statue, suggesting a life of fortune. He wears a striking white fox-lined cloak, giving him a noble and approachable air. Behind him rides a young man of refined appearance, his face as smooth as jade, wielding a golden-tipped spear. Even in this bitterly cold weather, his breath remains calm and steady, truly deserving the title of “graceful as a deity.” Of the two women, the elder one exudes a natural charm, her every movement dripping with allure, yet without the cheapness of a fox’s seduction. She carries herself with the dignity of a noble lady. The younger girl, riding beside her, is less striking—just an average beauty, like a blossoming girl from a modest home. The last rider is a rough-looking youth, poorly dressed and awkward in the saddle. He frequently winces in pain, rubbing his sore bottom, only to be caught red-handed by the sharp-eyed girl beside him, who responds with a glare. The boy flushes with embarrassment, wishing he could dig a hole and bury himself in the snow. When the girl who constantly bickers with him turns away, she smiles warmly at the spear-wielding youth, her poverty-stricken companion watching from afar, stealing glances at the older woman’s graceful figure.
His name is Li Huai’er, a native of Tie Lu City. His parents died young, and his uncle, a scholar, raised him and gave him his name. Li Huai’er has always fancied himself lucky to have such a refined name. From childhood, he has been enamored with martial arts. In the alleys of Tie Lu, tales of martial heroes abound—like the so-called “Ten Greatest Martial Experts” of Tie Lu. The weakest among them, Peng He, could lift and throw a horse with one hand. The sixth, General Ding Ce, could shoot an arrow through a millstone. Li Huai’er, dreaming of one day becoming a legendary hero, believes every tale, no matter how absurd. Even when he ends up bruised and battered in every street brawl, his passion for the martial world never wanes. His current journey on horseback with the four riders ahead began two days ago, when he accidentally stumbled upon a bloody secret within the city. A certain old man named Huang, supposedly a high-ranking official bound for the capital, was ambushed by a group of black-cloaked assassins armed with swords and crossbows. The old man fled into the shadowy alleys, colliding with Li Huai’er. Arrows whistled past, embedding themselves in walls. Caught in the chaos, Li Huai’er, young and fearless, grabbed the old man and fled. Then, like a sudden storm, the four riders appeared. A fierce battle erupted. Li Huai’er watched as the spear-wielding youth struck a wall so hard it left a deep gash. He also saw the older woman’s sword dance like a dragon in flight, her blade flashing in the snowlight. At that moment, Li Huai’er knew: if he ever became a hero, she would be the only one for him.
Yet Li Huai’er, though simple-minded, is not foolish. He has heard tales of martial experts who can grasp sword techniques just by watching ocean waves. Tie Lu has a river too. Whenever he has time, Li Huai’er goes to the riverbank, staring at the rushing waters—calm days, stormy days, and even snowy days. But he sees nothing. He once heard that true martial sages live in seclusion in the mountains, so he wandered the hills around Tie Lu, but found nothing except a place to relieve himself. He heard of a martial legend, Bao the Leopard, who supposedly gained his skills from a few pages of a secret manual. But Li Huai’er, though raised by a scholar uncle, takes after his farmer father, who never cared for books. Li Huai’er himself never learned to read well. He knows that even if he found a martial arts manual, he probably couldn’t understand it.
Li Huai’er looks at the riders ahead and feels a little discouraged. The “fairy sister” said that once they deliver Minister Huang to the capital, she would give him some travel money to return home. Then, Tie Lu would no longer be dangerous for him, and he could live in peace.
Li Huai’er hesitated, not daring to speak his thoughts aloud: *I just want to wander the martial world with you.*
At the top of the Longwei Slope stands a nameless inn, its existence stretching back many years. It survives, but barely. The kind of refined scholars who spend lavishly avoid it.
The snow begins to clear at the mountain peak, bringing a slight warmth. The five riders reach the inn, where the old man stands beside the carriage, smiling warmly. Two other carriages are parked nearby, their passengers fellow travelers. The prosperous man in the fox-lined cloak rubs his mink-trimmed hat and sighs, dismounting quickly. He whispers, “Minister Huang, we have enough provisions. Can we not stop?”
The old man wears a stone-blue silk robe, its rich sheen catching the sunlight. As a government official of the eighth rank, he carries an air of quiet authority, his scholarly bearing intimidating to common folk. The man in the fox cloak, though wealthy, does not accompany Huang out of respect for his rank. Rather, it is because Huang holds a position of great influence. Though his official rank is low, his words carry weight all the way to the imperial court. The western provinces of Guangling respect Huang for his integrity and fearless counsel. His journey to the capital is to take up a post as a Censor in the Imperial Censor, alongside the northern scholar Zhu Guiyou. But Huang carries with him a memorial that could cost dozens of officials their posts in several large prefectures. This has made him a target. Without the efforts of many righteous individuals—those who gave money, strength, and even their lives—he would not have made it out of Guangling, let alone reached the capital. In the eyes of the fox-cloaked man, Huang is noble and incorruptible, but also stubborn and naive, often putting his protectors in danger. Yet he cannot bring himself to say so outright, only smiling wryly and reminding himself that it is precisely this stubbornness that makes Huang worthy of his post.
Minister Huang bows deeply to the martial heroes, his gratitude unspoken.
Li Huai’er and the others dismount respectfully. Ning Zong, the man in the fox cloak, says with a smile, “Then let’s have lunch with Minister Huang and pick up the pace afterward. At the border of Guangling, an escort will meet us—Master Liang, a revered martial elder from the Two Huai regions. Once he joins us, those Tie Lu ruffians won’t dare act so boldly.”
The young girl wrinkles her delicate nose and mutters, “If Master Liang is so respected and still so strong at eighty, why won’t he come just a few more hundred miles?”
The swordswoman frowns, scolding softly, “Chunya, show respect!”
Minister Huang, ever the diplomat, smiles kindly as he explains, “The great martial families, even their servants and guards, are registered with the authorities. They must tread carefully. The free-spirited martial world I knew as a boy is gone forever.”
Ning Zong, who understands this well, chuckles, “Minister Huang, as learned as you are, you know the world even from home.”
The old man waves a hand, self-deprecatingly, “Reading alone is not enough. One must travel far and wide. Books hold dead truths, but life is alive. I cannot sleep without books, but I admit I am too rigid, too unwilling to bend. I’ve read much, traveled some, but I still struggle with the art of living. This journey to the capital has put many brave souls at risk—especially the two brave young ladies, Miss Zhou and Miss Hu.”
Ning Zong beams, “What an honor it will be to be remembered in history.”
The lively girl, Hu Chunya, chirps excitedly, “Minister Huang, don’t forget me! My name is Hu Chunya!”
Minister Huang smiles and nods.
The ethereal swordswoman Miss Zhou and the spear-wielding youth exchange a quiet, knowing smile.
Li Huai’er, feeling like a useless burden, follows silently behind. He keeps his head down as he steps across the threshold.
The inn is small, its tables stained with years of grease, their surfaces gleaming with a greasy sheen that no cloth can wipe away. Ning Zong scans the room warily. Five tables are occupied by a group of five. Two sit by the window, one exuding a faint scent of blood. Not alarming, but at the main table sits a young man with prematurely white hair, dressed all in white, with a pair of striking, flirtatious eyes. Ning Zong knows immediately that this is a difficult type—a nobleman with little real skill but plenty of arrogance. To the young man’s left sits a dark-skinned youth, and to his right, a tall man drinking from a cup. Ning Zong’s experience tells him this man is nearly nine feet tall—taller even than their own spear-wielding expert, Xu Zhan. Ning Zong’s family lives near a military garrison, and he has seen the grim aura of soldiers who have risen from the dead.
If this group seeks to stop Minister Huang’s journey, Ning Zong fears they may all die on Longwei Slope.
One table holds Xu Fengnian, Shao Nian Wu, and Yuan Zuozong.
Another holds Lu Song and Wang Lin, veterans of the Shenwu battle.
Qing Niao, gravely injured, cannot endure the journey south to the Shangyin Academy. She travels with the main group to Beiliang, escorted by Chu Luxian, who ensures safe passage with both kindness and authority. Even the greatest obstacles are easily overcome.
Xu Fengnian’s journey begins with retrieving someone from the academy, then secret meetings in Qingzhou, and finally, Beiliang. There, he must solve the puzzle left by Li Yishan—how to integrate the ten thousand able-bodied settlers who can fight on horseback and farm on foot. Only by solving this will he truly reshape Beiliang. He brings with him Lu Song, a general with a scholar’s mind, and the wounded Wang Lin, to nurture them as trusted allies before placing them in the Beiliang army. He cannot simply abandon them after their troops suffered heavy losses.
As for Yuan Zuozong, the “White Bear,” second only to Gu Jiantang and Chen Zhibao in martial might, he insisted on joining the journey south.
While Ning Zong watches warily and Hu Chunya stares at Xu Fengnian, the others—Minister Huang, Miss Zhou, and Xu Zhan—remain silent.
The inn’s last two jars of aged wine are claimed by Xu Fengnian’s group. Ning Zong, wary of drunkenness, had no intention of drinking. But Minister Huang, who loves books, wine, and crab, feels a pang at the scent of the wine. His salary, meager as it is, is spent on these three pleasures. The crab season has passed, and in his haste to flee Tie Lu, he had no time to pack his carefully brewed drunken crabs. Still, he maintains his composure.
Xu Fengnian, seated by the window, smiles and calls out, “Old sir, I’ve half a jar left. I hate to waste it. Would you like to buy it cheap?”
Minister Huang is tempted but shakes his head with a smile. The world of martial heroes is treacherous, and the world of politics is no different—both are ruled by the same hidden motives.
Hu Chunya, whose heart beats for the dashing Xu Zhan, sees Xu Fengnian and feels a storm within. Her words come out sharp, “He looks handsome, but his white hair is eerie. I’d think he was a ghost if I saw him at night.”
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