Han Fang sat before her desk, caressing a golden dagger with cloisonné patterns on its handle. It was more ornamental than practical, and she contemplated pawning it for some silver to alleviate the Village’s desperate financial straits. Setting the dagger aside, she gazed at an ivory paperweight engraved with the Diamond Sutra in tiny, intricate characters. With a heavy sigh, she murmured, “A single coin can starve even a hero.”
Han Fang resided just above the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness. Opening her window, she could see the great yellow banner fluttering in the stone plaza below. Unlike many of the bandits in the Village who reveled in lawlessness, she had always maintained her integrity, never abducting women for carnal pleasure. In the past, when raiding wealthy estates or ambushing travelers, any young women encountered were distributed among her lieutenants. Brothers like Song Kui, Fang Dayi, and others, though not greedy for wealth, often quarreled jealously over women, sometimes even coming to blows. Each time, Han Fang and Zhang Xiucheng had to intervene to quell the disputes. Now, with Song Kui’s head severed at the execution grounds, his remaining concubines would inevitably become playthings for the other men that very night. This was precisely why Han Fang avoided taking wives or concubines. Life as an outlaw seldom allowed for peaceful retirement; surviving to fifty was already a gift from Heaven. In the Village’s prime, over two hundred able-bodied men, excluding those burdened with families, could ride and fight. They moved like storms, feared across the region. With no military garrisons nearby, and the imperial authorities too weak to suppress the bandits, the Village had long gone unchallenged, save for the occasional execution of corrupt officials.
Yet now, the Village’s glory had faded. Only a dozen or so warriors remained, each with sword and steed. Many of those who had once sworn brotherhood were now dead or scattered among other bandit camps. Those who remained were often injured or ill, burdens to the Village, and prone to complaints—whether about the lack of fresh women or insufficient meat and wine. Han Fang knew this was the price of reputation; many grievances could not be voiced, nor could she show the slightest sign of displeasure. The only one she could confide in was Zhang Xiucheng, whose family background was similar to her own. It was not the scattering of monkeys when the tree falls that frightened her—it was the sight of people trampling the fallen tree that chilled her heart. Nearby Village that once sought refuge under her banner now rallied under others, seduced by gold, silver, and beautiful women. They descended upon the mountains in revelry, slaughtering villages that had once secretly allied with the Liuyi Village. These new leaders, ruthless and unscrupulous, even fraternized with corrupt officials and soldiers, showering them with silver and employing them to do the bloody work that should have been handled by the authorities. Not long ago, a sympathetic official from the Silver Vase Stronghold had paid five hundred taels to hire bandits to massacre an entire family of a foreign scribe in a village, sparing not even the youngest children, who were impaled on spears. Other Village groveled before the stewards of the Shen Hall Hermitage, calling them uncle or adoptive father. One bandit chief, in his forties, even took as his adoptive mother a young woman from the Hermitage simply because she was the favored concubine of a notorious cultivator. Such shameless betrayals of loyalty, especially the collusion with corrupt officials, were anathema to Han Fang. It was no wonder that the once-mighty Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness had fallen into decline. Ironically, the Village had not yet been completely destroyed thanks to the Green Bamboo Maiden at the foot of the mountain. It was only because she had once been the lover of one of the Hermitage’s most feared cultivators that the other Village refrained from attacking, out of respect for the man rather than the Stronghold.
A knock sounded at the door—twice. Without waiting for permission, Zhang Xiucheng entered. As Han Fang’s closest confidant and military strategist, he did not bother with formalities. Seeing her old friend, Han Fang’s mood lightened. She called him by his courtesy name, “Fuling, couldn’t sleep?”
Zhang’s face was dark. “Fang Dayi and Hong Qian have started fighting again, and they’ve even sworn oaths of life and death. They asked me to write the challenge letters. I’ve decided to ignore them both—less trouble.”
Han Fang chuckled. “Over Song Kui’s concubine, the one he bought from the brothel for two hundred taels?”
Zhang snorted. “They talk about sacrificing everything for their brothers, yet in the end, they draw blades over women.”
Han Fang sighed. “I know the girl was already secretly involved with Hong Qian. She should have gone to him. Fang Dayi was just envious and had to interfere. It’s not right of him. And I know you’re caught in the middle. It’s all my fault. Hong Qian studied in a private school for a few years and has learned much from you—divination, medicine, astronomy. He has great ambition. At twenty-four or twenty-five, he dreams of earning glory with sword and spear, to bring honor to his family. If not for his gratitude toward you, he would have left for another Strongholdlong ago, one with ties to the authorities, where he could change his identity and perhaps rise in the world. But everyone in the Strongholdknows Fang Dayi is close to me—he even calls himself a child of the Han family—so you’re caught between loyalty and duty. This is my fault, Xiucheng.”
Zhang’s expression softened slightly. “You’re too hard on yourself, Leader. I just feel sorry for what we’ve built.”
Han Fang sighed again. “When Heaven wills rain, and mothers wish to remarry, what can be done?”
She stood and walked with her chief strategist to the window. A breeze brushed their faces as they gazed out at the moonlit mountain night, their minds momentarily eased. Suddenly, Han Fang laughed. “Country women, country ways. No matter how beautiful that fox-spirit is, she still carries the scent of the fields.”
Zhang smiled knowingly. “Hong Qian and Fang Dayi are just country boys. They’ve never tasted delicacies, so they fight tooth and nail over scraps. Look, they’ve already gathered in the plaza for a duel.”
Han Fang leaned on the windowsill. “No matter. Fang Dayi may seem rough, but he’s actually quite cunning. He’s just using this as an excuse to pick a fight with Hong Qian. With the Strongholdin decline and the third seat vacant, he wants to claim it for himself. Hong Qian’s talent is growing steadily, while Fang relies only on brute strength. If he doesn’t act now, in a year or two, he won’t stand a chance. This black ox is too clever by half. He doesn’t realize Hong Qian has no interest in the position. If anything, Hong Qian might be the one to carry the yellow banner in the future. Fuling, I’ll give Fang a scolding, and you should have a word with Hong Qian—half your apprentice, after all. We’re like parents now, Hard work indeed.”
Zhang laughed. “Better than those Strongholdleaders who grovel like grandchildren.”
They shared a smile.
Zhang’s face turned serious. “Leader, what shall we do about the scholar Xu Lang from Gusai Prefecture?”
Han Fang shook her head. “No need to dwell. These are not the days for us to provoke anyone. Whether he’s a traveling scholar or a spy sent by the authorities, we must avoid conflict. Treat the former with courtesy, and if he’s the latter, we can at least avoid confrontation.”
Zhang narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharp. “No matter. If the authorities dare to send troops, I’ll take ten elite men and strike their rear, leaving not even a chicken or a dog alive.”
Han Fang smiled. “You sound more like a Thunder Sect Heaven King than a cultivator.”
Zhang’s eyes dimmed. “What cultivator? We’re just bandits in robes, chasing ghosts in books.”
Han Fang sighed. “It’s the Strongholdthat’s too small for you, Fuling. If only we had been stronger, with three hundred men, we might have bargained for official titles. The Imperial Courtwould have granted us six or seven posts within the bureaucracy, thirty or forty minor ranks. Not to mention your talent and your status as an outer disciple of the Daoist Sect. Why should you be reduced to managing rice and firewood in a Stronghold?”
Zhang stroked his beard, smiling wryly. “Life and death are fated. Wealth and honor are in Heaven’s hands. We common folk cannot force our way.”
Suddenly, Han Fang’s eyes widened. At the same time, Zhang blurted, “Something’s wrong! Why has this demon appeared?”
Han Fang glanced at the Taoist beside her.
On the stone training ground below, a group of figures had appeared, dressed in rare finery. Unlike the Stronghold’s rough bandits, who looked absurd in silk, these men and women bore themselves like celestial beings. At their head was a middle-aged man in a flowing white robe, barefoot, his face as handsome as carved jade. He carried no weapon, but was flanked by several handsome youths bearing swords. There was no doubt—this was a noble visitor from the Shen Hall Hermitage on Changle Peak of the Liuyi Mountains. Han Fang’s heart sank as she saw Hong Qian withdraw from his duel with Fang Dayi and approach the dignified man with a respectful bow. It was clear—Hong Qian had betrayed them and joined the Hermitage. Han Fang’s lips curled in disdain, while Zhang Xiucheng, furious, shouted, “Traitor!” and leapt from the window, landing in the plaza. Fang Dayi and the others stood in shock.
Zhang drew his pine-pattern peachwood sword and pointed it at Hong Qian. “Hong Qian, the Strongholdhas treated you well. When you killed soldiers and had nowhere to go, the Leader took you in out of pity. Why do you betray us now?”
Hong Qian replied coldly, “Men seek higher ground.”
He continued, expressionless. “Indeed, I reported to Master Zhongli that a strange man was approaching the Bamboo Lady. Since she once entered the Hermitage, she is forever of the Hermitage—alive or dead. I merely informed the Master of her misconduct. What is wrong with that? Master, the Master has promised me that if you leave the Stronghold, he will grant you a place in the Hermitage. Is this not the glory you have longed for? I have built you a ladder to the heavens. What is wrong with that? Master Zhongli has come only to deal with that pair of dogs. He has no quarrel with the Stronghold.”
The barefoot noble finally spoke, smirking. “I hear the two leaders of the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness are skilled. Why not join Hong Qian as my adopted sons? Change your surnames to Zhongli. But first, I must see if you are worthy. Let me see if Han Fang’s staff techniques truly bested thirteen border garrisons. Let me see if Zhang Xiucheng’s swordplay can summon thunder. If I am disappointed, this Strongholdwill be razed tonight, its name erased. That yellow banner has long annoyed the Hermitage. Claiming to uphold justice, yet practicing heresy—how laughable.”
The noble lifted his head, surprised.
At the top of the banner pole stood a young man, sword at his back.
He laughed bitterly. “A child dares to show off his petty tricks before me? Hong Qian, cut down the pole.”
To cut the banner was to declare war. Hong Qian knew the consequences but obeyed, swinging his blade.
Zhang Xiucheng, unable to stop him in front of the Hermitage’s demon, turned pale.
The Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness was finished.
The pole crashed down, but the scholar who had only dared to court a widow at the mountain’s foot did not fall. He stood as straight as a spear, and as the pole struck the ground, he kicked it upward.
The pole became a sword, hurtling toward the demon.
Hong Qian roared, slashing downward. His blade struck the pole—not cutting it, but rebounding with such force that he nearly lost his grip. Staggering back, he looked up in horror—there was no trace of the weak scholar.
The Hermitage demon sneered, stepping forward. With one hand, he shattered the pole inch by inch.
His mastery was undeniable. The crowd saw only the unstoppable force, unaware that his feet had subtly slid backward. He tried to steady himself, but his retreat continued. His eyes mirrored Hong Qian’s fear.
When he saw the young swordsman vanish, he finally shouted, “Bring me a sword!”
A swordboy hurriedly tossed him an ancient sword, its surface cracked like ice.
The next moment, the young man stood before the famed middle-aged demon of the Liuyi Mountains. With one hand, he took the sword from the demon’s grasp. With the other, he seized the demon’s throat and lifted him.
The banner shattered. The young man crushed the ancient sword in his hand, bending it until it broke.
Xu Fengnian stared into the demon’s twisted, crimson face and asked coldly, “Are you worthy to wield a sword? Are you worthy to say ‘sword, come’?”
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