The sun was setting, casting a warm, gentle glow across the land. A young nobleman surnamed Luo, holding a wine pot in his hand, spoke with eloquence and charm. He recited lines like, “When faced with righteousness, do not consider personal gain or loss,” and “Do not judge a man by success or failure.” He spoke of how common folk feel at ease when nothing seems amiss, unaware that true effort lies in preparing for the unexpected. Even Xu Fengnian, an outsider to this gathering, listened with rapt attention, feeling as though the vulgarities of the world had been washed away.
As for the two young ladies who had long admired the young Master Luo from afar, they could hardly contain their longing to draw closer, or perhaps even sit beside him on a bedchamber to hear his wisdom. Even the elder scholars nodded in agreement, clearly fond of this young man of the Luo family not merely because of his surname. Earlier, when they had encountered bandits on the road, this man had rushed forward before his guards to draw his sword in defense. What a dashing and refined swordsman! Surely, he would not remain confined to a small pond for long.
With Master Luo as the social glue, the atmosphere grew lively. A young scholar improvised a poem, a young lady surnamed Su played a bamboo flute with elegance, and the rest of the young men and women clapped in rhythm or tapped on dry branches like drums, enjoying themselves immensely.
An elderly scholar named Luo, wearing a scholar’s headscarf and a green robe with a jade pendant at his waist, gazed into the distance and sighed, “A frog in a well sees only the sky above the well—how broad can its vision be? When you raise your eyes and see the vastness of heaven and earth, your heart and mind expand accordingly. That’s why you young folks should travel while you’re still strong. I fled north with my family, enduring war and chaos, becoming a displaced commoner. Only then did I understand the suffering of the common people. So when we arrived in the Northern Wei, I believe we elder scholars, compared to those who remained in the Central Plains, have fewer frivolous sentiments and more genuine human warmth. Our children, too, are less burdened by the aloofness of the scholarly class.”
Xu Fengnian twisted two fingers together, snapping a dry branch and tossing it into the bonfire. He smiled and nodded. “Master Luo, your words ring true.”
The elder scholar, whose family was among the most respected in the Southern Court of the Northern Wei, turned his gaze back to the young man with a soft chuckle. “Young Master Xu, men like Luo Changhe and the other young scholars may not have shown you much courtesy or kindness, but it’s not that they dislike you. With beautiful ladies present, they felt overshadowed when an outsider like you stole the glory during the bandit encounter. They couldn’t adjust quickly enough to save face. I, an old man who has been through such things, understand. In my youth, when jealousy and rivalry flared, I paid little heed to the virtues of gentleness and humility, and lost my decorum. So, young man, please bear with them. We meet by fate. If you ever find yourself in trouble in Gusei Prefecture, I guarantee that if they see you in need, they’ll quietly speak up for you, though they may not show their faces or admit it was their doing.”
Xu Fengnian nodded. The fact that this elderly scholar, a man of noble status, was willing to sit and chat with him—a mere Commoner son from an insignificant family—spoke volumes. This man, in his sixties, was wise in the ways of the world, and his words were grounded in truth. With a hearty laugh, the old scholar rummaged through his belongings and finally produced a clean porcelain bowl, which he offered to Xu Fengnian with a question: “Strangers meeting by chance—will you share a cup with me?”
Xu Fengnian grinned. “One cup is too little. As long as there’s enough wine, I’ll drink as many bowls as you like.”
The old man playfully shielded his nearly empty leather wine pouch and feigned anger. “I can’t afford to drink that much!”
Xu Fengnian smiled helplessly. “Then tomorrow, when we reach the city, I’ll buy you a new pouch of fine wine.”
Two other old men, about five or six years younger than Master Luo, seized the opportunity to tease. “Young man, don’t favor one over the others!” “That’s a fair point.”
Xu Fengnian promised to oblige them all. Somehow, a new rule had emerged—each person who drank a bowl of wine had to recite a poem. The rule went around the circle, and even Xu Fengnian couldn’t escape. Even the guards by the other bonfires awkwardly muttered a few rough lines, not proper five- or seven-character verses, but they carried the rugged charm of frontier poetry. It wasn’t meant to embarrass Xu Fengnian, but all eyes were on him now. Master Luo poured him a bowl and chuckled, “Don’t recite any palace laments or famous poets’ works. Just make something up—anything from your heart.”
For some reason, Xu Fengnian thought of his past visits to the waterfalls of Wudang, Huishan, and Jiuhua, and the tides of the Guangling River. He thought of old friends and stories. He downed the bowl in one go, grabbed a chopstick, and tapped the rim of the bowl. With a soft clink, he gazed into the fire and began:
“Lotus Falls shrouded in misty blue,
Buffalo Falls roars like thunder true.
But Jiuhua Falls—its marvel lies not in the cascade,
But in the spine of the mountain, like a celestial arm outstretched.
It stretches nine thousand four thousand zhang,
Like a celestial maiden’s fluttering sleeve in Dunhuang.
Nine silver rivers pour from the heavens,
Like frost upon an old general’s temples.”
The young men and women, expecting him to make a fool of himself, exchanged surprised glances. Most of them were well-read and recognized that this was only the beginning. Especially Luo Changhe and the young lady surnamed Su, who furrowed their brows and began to ponder the deeper meaning. The elder scholars beside Xu Fengnian didn’t overthink it, but Master Luo clapped his thigh in rhythm, sipped his wine with a grin, and joined in the recitation.
“I came just as the ink-black rain poured down,
The cliffs squeezed tight, the wind howled loud.
Clouds surged like waves ten thousand deep,
Flooding the paths where travelers once stood…
I’ve seen tides and waterfalls before,
But beneath this falls stood a white deer still.
In that moment, man and beast met eyes—
Was it in Nantang, Dongyue, or Xishu?
Later, an old monk led the deer away,
Then turned back and laughed…
When the moon set and the waters stretched vast,
I felt only the misty smoke beneath the stone bridge,
The thunder rolling with the bitter winds of spring and autumn,
Mighty as rivers surging without end.”
This spontaneous poem, perhaps too free from traditional structure, left everyone unable to judge its merit. It felt like a storm of emotion, like waterfalls crashing into a deep pool, echoing endlessly.
Finally, one young scholar murmured, “Is this a poem or a song? It doesn’t follow any rules at all.”
Another scholar cautiously asked, “It lacks form, but there’s still meaning to it, right?”
Master Luo, perhaps holding the bowl too loosely, spilled some wine and instinctively wiped his beard, getting his gray-white whiskers wet without noticing. He exchanged a knowing glance with the other two elder scholars, their eyes filled with genuine admiration.
Three years of wandering had brought him back to a tavern at the city gates, where he had once drunk a bowl of wine and fallen asleep muttering, “Bring me wine.” Later, at Wudi City, he had walked with a bowl in hand, and now, under the grassland’s night sky, he tapped a bowl and sang again. Xu Fengnian was lost in thought, as if in a dream, unaware of the murmurs of the noble youths and maidens around him. The short blade Chunlei resting on his lap trembled faintly. He wondered if the old man in the sheepskin cloak had meant this—the sword in its sheath must not cry out in vain, but when it does, it shakes the heavens.
The old scholar, as if delivering a final verdict, smiled gravely. “He writes with his own hand, speaks with his own voice. How can he be bound by the forms of ancient poets? Young man, do you have a title for this poem?”
Xu Fengnian snapped back to reality, embarrassed. “I made it up on the spot. I haven’t thought of a title.”
Another old scholar took a sip, savoring it, and sighed. “We could call it *Song of the Falls and Anger*. It might inspire even the most trivial of scribblers to feel a touch of noble spirit.”
Xu Fengnian shook his head. “The title is too grand. I’m not worthy of it.”
The other bonfires began to disperse awkwardly, some moving off for moonlit strolls, others returning to their tents. Only Luo Changhe and the young lady surnamed Su rose to join him. Luo smiled faintly. “Master Xu, your heart holds mountains and rivers. I must admit my inferiority.”
The elder scholars also rose and departed. Whether Rivers and mountainsor Rivers and Lakes, or even the literary world, it was always the young who would rise and surpass the old. Still, Master Luo kindly left behind the wine pouch. Xu Fengnian shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. “If it’s truly a good poem, it’s only because I used up every last bit of talent I had left in this life.”
Luo laughed heartily. “You flatter yourself, making me feel even more ashamed. Take my title, ‘Scholar-Swordsman.’ It sounds impressive, but the truth is quite shameful. I paid for praise from literary hangers-on, and during drunken nights with courtesans, I spouted a few lines and claimed it as true elegance. I bullied a few helpless targets, and when I came of age, I had famous scholars give me a grand, meaningful courtesy name. My reputation grew like a snowball. Such a ‘Scholar-Swordsman’—how much weight does he truly carry? Your poem, however, feels far more genuine.”
Xu Fengnian’s lips curled into a smile. “Master Luo, you truly are a straightforward man.”
Luo asked, “May we share a bowl of wine, in this honesty?”
The smiling young lady surnamed Su poured the wine, and Xu Fengnian and Luo raised their bowls and drank deeply.
Xu Fengnian chuckled softly. “Actually, when it comes to poetry, my second sister is the real talent. Once, I was no better than you—I bought poems to appear refined. Only later did I realize how foolish that was.”
The young lady sipped her wine with a more sincere smile.
Luo raised his bowl. “To honesty, then. And to thanking you for your bravery a few days ago. Bottoms up.”
Another bowl of wine was emptied. Luo’s face was flushed from drinking. He stood and apologized. “I can’t drink anymore.”
Xu Fengnian and the young lady rose as well. She said gently, “Master Luo, shall we take a walk together?”
Seeing Xu Fengnian wink at him subtly, Luo’s face flushed even more. He took her hand and walked away, his heart finally at ease. His efforts had finally paid off. All along, his charm had failed to impress this lovely young lady, but tonight, when Xu tapped his bowl and sang, Luo finally understood—this woman did not admire the usual flamboyant displays. He was decisive by nature, and now he lowered himself completely. Using his honest conversation with Xu as a subtle approach, he had won her heart. As he turned back, he saw Xu giving him a thumbs-up. No words were needed.
Xu Fengnian chose a quiet path and walked alone to the riverbank, where he lay down.
The Northern Wei had eight provinces. Gusei and Longyao bordered the Northern Liang’s You and Feng provinces. The narrow Orange Province bordered the northern regions of the Liyang Dynasty. To the north of Orange Province lay Jinxī. Among them, the upcoming Orange Province had a Jieyu named Murong Baoding, who ranked among the martial experts of the world. Xu Fengnian had no intention of provoking such a powerful figure. His journey through the Northern Wei followed a clear path: he was to kill Tao Qianzhi, a rising general in Liucheng, to aid Northern Liang. In Feihu City, he sought a masked man who had trained Chen Zhibao. But his luck had been poor. Next, he was to assassinate a royal descendant of the Yelü clan in Jinxī, then temporarily flee south to Orange Province to find a blacksmith-cum-swordmaker. Whether he found him or not, he would then head north to the icy plains. However, the interference of the old abbot of the Lichan Temple had nearly cost him his life on the grasslands. He didn’t hate the monk, and he still held him in deep respect. Besides, he had accepted the monk’s gift of a golden elixir. But gratitude? That was another matter. Being pursued by Tuoba Chunsun wasn’t so bad, but drawing the attention of the Tuoba clan would bring endless trouble.
Xu Fengnian pulled out a small wooden box, held it before his eyes, and spun it between his fingers. Cao Changqing had warned him that his trail had been discovered, and two people were hunting him. One of them was a blind female lute-player ranked fifth among the Ten Evildoers, skilled in using the Finger-Sky technique to kill a King Kong-level opponent. If she had surpassed King Kong, why was it said she was “skilled” in killing King Kong? Did it mean she was most adept at killing King Kong-level opponents?
Xu Fengnian tapped the wooden box, shook his head, and decided not to dwell on these unsolvable riddles. He looked forward to meeting the swordmaker, a remnant of the Spring and Autumn Period, hiding in the bustling streets of Orange Province. The saying went: the greatest recluses hide in the imperial court, like the old Grand Chancellor Sun Xiji of Western Chu. The lesser recluses hide in the wilderness, teaching in academies or meditating in mountain forests. Those who hide in the marketplace were the least refined. But thinking of the identity of the person this blacksmith protected, Xu Fengnian understood. Simply surviving was itself a feat. A sword emperor from the Western Shu royal family had died in battle against the Northern Liang cavalry, defending his nation’s gates to the end.
Yet two loyal ministers had managed to escape with the young prince. One was a scholar, Zhao Dingsiu, a great Confucian of the Spring and Autumn Period. The other was a general, whose name was unknown, but he had served as the swordmaker and sword-bearer to the Western Shu sword emperor for twenty years. It was said they had fled to a cliff by the South Sea and leapt to their deaths. But Xu Fengnian had learned before leaving Northern Liang that this was not the truth. His previous trip to Feihu City had been to deliver a message from Xu Xiao. This time, it was from his teacher, Li Yishan. The gist was that the Western Shu dynasty, which had lasted four hundred years, could continue—if the now-twenty-something prince would go to Northern Liang. Xu Fengnian was unsure. After all, Northern Liang’s cavalry had crushed the Western Shu palace, ending its dynasty. Could such a negotiation succeed? Would the swordmaker not try to kill him on sight? But surely, his teacher had a plan from the Tingchao Pavilion. Xu Fengnian had never been deeply involved in the undercurrents of court politics—after all, in the past, whatever happened, Xu Xiao had always borne the burden. But having grown up in such an environment, it would be foolish to consider him a novice in court affairs, despite his notorious reputation as a prince.
Xu Fengnian sat up, put away the elixir, and began counting.
Among the Northern Liang army, aside from the few remaining old generals, the strongest faction was formed by Xu Xiao’s six adopted sons. Chen Zhibao aside, Yuan Zuozong’s loyalty was unquestionable. Ye Xizhen, known as the “Little Zhao Changling,” was skilled in open strategies and had an upright character, though his relationship with the young prince was distant. Yao Jian, skilled in geomancy, was the one closest to Xu Fengnian besides Chu Luxian. They had often traveled together to survey the land of Northern Liang when they were young. As for Luxiu’er, Xu Fengnian sighed. Perhaps only Xu Xiao truly understood the fat man’s mind. He himself still lacked the depth to grasp it fully. Then there were the generals and strategists like Ning Emei, Dian Xiongxu, and Wei Fucheng—each with their own charisma, either leading their own factions or aligning with one of the six adopted sons. These factions were deeply intertwined, though still cleaner than the court of the Liyang Dynasty. The group of civil officials led by Li Hanlin’s greedy father, Li Degong, was still far from matching the military’s power, merely watching and waiting while maintaining politics.
Xu Fengnian counted and recounted. The only true loyalist he had was Huangfu Chuan, the resolute commander who had staked his entire clan’s life on his allegiance.
Looking at his lonely, outstretched finger—symbolizing his only true confidant—Xu Fengnian muttered to himself, “How desolate.”
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