With the protection of that robust female warrior whose waist was as slender as a wasp, Xufeng Nian paid the deposit and finally reached the second floor without incident. The innkeeper, a woman who exuded an air of composure, personally carried a basin of well water and placed it on the rack before smiling and leaving. Xufeng Nian splashed some water onto his face. Since his face was said to be “rooted” and impervious to normal washing, he had no trouble with his appearance. The basin was already murky, but he felt refreshed nonetheless. He pushed open the window, turned his head, and noticed the expensive Jiangnan-style teacups and wine bowls on the table. The tri-colored porcelain—yellow, purple, and green—was exquisitely crafted, which explained why the inn dared to ask for a deposit of fifty taels of silver. The Duckhead Green Inn was bustling with business; it certainly wasn’t a black-hearted establishment that used human flesh in its dumplings. Watching the innkeeper interact casually with martial heroes as she climbed the stairs, it was clear she had many regular customers. This relieved Xufeng Nian—he didn’t mind fighting and killing, but he found it dull to battle complete strangers merely for money. After all, who would want to drown in the martial world when they were only trying to wander through it?
In the courtyard below, six tables were set, with over twenty people seated. Most of them had bare chests, thick chest hair, and muscles that jiggled impressively as they drank and ate meat—more impressive than the bosoms of women. Despite their rough appearances, they maintained astonishing appetites. Crude swords, knives, and axes lay carelessly on the tables, few of them of high quality. In Beiman, metal was scarce, and in Beiliang, even carrying a hoe across the border required strict registration. Wandering martial artists from Liyang often brought fine weapons with them, though their horses were generally inferior to those in Beiman, where the pastures were superior and produced mature warhorses. While the local governments kept a tight watch on horse breeding and military use, wealthy individuals could still afford to buy one or two fine steeds to flaunt their status.
Xufeng Nian paid little attention to the rowdy men in the courtyard who swore and spoke crudely. Instead, he noticed several quiet diners in the first-floor hall who were clearly no ordinary folk. In one corner, two adjacent tables were occupied by strong, battle-hardened men—men whose aura of military ferocity was all too familiar to Xufeng Nian. At the center of their circle sat an elderly man with white hair and a striking red mole between his eyebrows, his demeanor calm and steady.
A A carefree and unrestrained swordsman in white robes (unrestrained white-robed swordsman) sat alone at a table, leisurely sipping wine. His sword sheath was white and wrapped in silver thread, with a golden tassel—striking and eye-catching. While senior martial artists often warned against flaunting wealth, this swordsman did the opposite, clearly confident in his own strength.
Another table was occupied by a noblewoman and her young daughter, both dressed in fine silk. In the chaotic Duckhead Green Inn, they seemed like lotus blossoms untouched by the mud. The child had rosy lips and bright teeth, her features bearing a strong resemblance to her mother. As Xufeng Nian ascended the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the girl standing on a bench, playfully asking her mother for this and that. The young woman, though clearly troubled and forcing a smile, tried her best to indulge her daughter’s innocent requests.
Xufeng Nian had no intention of going out to eat. He exhaled a breath of stale air, covered his ears with his hands, placed his fingers behind his head, stacked his index finger over his middle finger, and slid them down to gently tap the back of his head twenty-four times—stimulating the Fengfu, Fengchi, and Yammen acupoints. This was the “Double Heaven Drum, Sinking Heaven Water” technique from the Huangting Manual. Internally, his sword qi surged like a dragon in a river, creating a fiery, watery turmoil—a “thrilling” sensation indeed.
After a stick of incense had burned, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing next door. Judging by the footsteps, it was likely the mother and daughter. Xufeng Nian ceased his meditation, removed his outer robe, and sat cross-legged on the bed to study the sword manual. The sixth page contained the “Sword Qi Opens Shu Style,” a technique of overwhelming Dominance, while the seventh page described the “Swimming Fish Style,” a flowing, enduring technique. According to the sparse annotations, it was inspired by Wang Xianzhi’s youth, when he caught fish in a stream, and combined the essence of a swordsman who had broken his sword in Wudi City and returned. Like a fish in water, or the endless mountains, it was relentless and unyielding. Unfortunately, this technique was insidious and subtly vicious, and Xufeng Nian couldn’t quite grasp its rhythm. He sighed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The Huangting Manual was a supreme Daoist technique, and for the past two years, he had been forced into celibacy under the pretense of “Sealing the Golden Coffer,” a practice that drove one mad. He could already imagine Li Hanlin laughing at him if he ever found out.
Xufeng Nian gently flicked the sheath of the Chunlei sword. He heard a delicate tapping sound from the neighboring room, along with a child’s innocent voice singing a Beiman folk tune, soft and enchanting:
“Green grass grows anew next year,
Wild geese leave and return.
Spring wind blows this year,
Will the young master come back?”
The melody pleased Xufeng Nian, and he smiled, listening intently. But the peace didn’t last. A thunderous sound of hooves approached, shaking the inn itself. The tapping stopped, and the song ended. Xufeng Nian sat up, walked to the window, and saw a cloud of dust as nearly a hundred armored cavalrymen surged forward. At their head rode a young nobleman in white robes atop a black steed—a tamed wild horse king. He crashed through the courtyard gate, followed by only five or six riders. The rest of the cavalry, armed with Beiman sabers and quivers of arrows, remained outside the inn, raising a cloud of dust. The horses and riders moved as one, their silent discipline more chilling than any shout or taunt. Xufeng Nian glanced at the nobleman astride the black steed, who held an iron spear with a jade belt and a Xianbei Head (Xianbei-style) scabbard—though not as refined as the woman with the Marten Fur Forehead Cover (sable-fringed headdress).
Xufeng Nian simply closed the window, choosing not to watch. Since there was no more song to listen to, and he didn’t feel like struggling with the sword manual, he flicked his sleeve and a small sword—Taohua—shot out. It hovered in the air as he focused his breath and swayed his hand like a lotus, guiding the tiny blade through the room. It flew fast and slow, like a child flying a kite, and he enjoyed it immensely.
In Liyang, where martial heroes were often hunted and their heads displayed, ordinary martial artists would have been terrified by the sight of cavalry. Yet here in Beiman’s Longyao Prefecture, the men in the courtyard, knowing full well there were a hundred elite riders outside, did not retreat. When a burly man stood and drew his knife, the others followed suit, ready to rise up in rebellion. They drew swords, unsheathed blades, and raised axes. Without even exchanging greetings, the twenty or so men charged forward. The six or seven riders reacted calmly—two of them guarded their noble master, while the others pulled back their horses and loosed arrows. The first volley struck several men in the forehead, the arrow shafts still quivering slightly. The men, however, only grew more ferocious. One rider reined his horse back, and the beast reared up, its hooves crashing down to crush a man’s chest. But another rider was seized by a martial artist who slipped in during the chaos, stabbed him under the armpit, and then beheaded him with an axe. The flying weapon soared toward the nobleman on the black steed, but the latter, with a sneer, easily deflected it with two fingers. Another rider fared worse—his horse’s front legs were severed, and though his armor protected him from immediate death, he was soon hacked to pieces. As his horse collapsed, his head was sliced clean off. To outsiders, this battle seemed to come out of nowhere, but the true horror was yet to come.
The nobleman on the black steed remained seated like a mountain, his iron spear moving like a storm, each thrust sending a jet of blood into the air. He deflected flying axes with dexterous flicks of his wrist. After the second volley of arrows claimed five or six more lives, the riders drew their Beiman sabers and charged forward, clashing with the martial artists. Then, from the second and third floors of the inn, dozens of men poured out, and grappling hooks appeared on the earthen walls. As the horses turned and galloped away, the walls collapsed with a thunderous roar, leaving no trace of the courtyard’s former structure. The black steed retreated slowly, and the nobleman—clearly no idle wastrel—seemed to have satisfied his bloodlust. With a leisurely smile, he withdrew from the courtyard. Several enraged martial artists, arrows sticking from their bodies, rushed out after him, only to be cut down by a hail of arrows. One man rolled forward, aiming to sever the black steed’s leg, but the white-robed nobleman drove his spear into the man’s neck, pinning him to the ground. With a cruel grin, he twisted the spear, flipping the corpse over and then mutilating its face.
Hearing footsteps, Xufeng Nian recalled Taohua and, upon standing, heard a knock at the door. It was the innkeeper. The female warrior carried a tray with a roasted lamb leg and some snacks. She smiled apologetically: “I’m sorry to bother you, young master. All the other rooms are taken by guests who want to watch the fight—most of them are old regulars who’ve paid their fees. As the innkeeper, I don’t have the face to find another spot to watch, so I’ve come to bother you. This lamb leg is a gift. May I stand by the window?”
Xufeng Nian nodded and smiled: “I appreciate your kindness, madam. In fact, your presence grants me a charm of safety from the chaos. I can’t accept the lamb leg for free, though. I must pay the proper price to feel at ease staying here.”
The female warrior’s eyes flickered with surprise—she hadn’t expected this guest to see through her spontaneous act of kindness. She placed the tray down, picked up some snacks, and walked to the window, casually munching sunflower seeds as she explained: “Young master, you should know that Duckhead Green Inn has been in business for over twenty years. Many people come and go, and there are always fights and killings. But Duckhead Green never interferes. As long as you pay, you can eat, drink, and even indulge in other pleasures. If you’re targeted by enemies or engage in private duels, whether you live or die is up to fate. We always have coffins ready—when you die, you just lie in one and wait for your family to claim the body. If no one comes, we bury you ourselves. No need to fear becoming a wandering ghost. That’s why our business thrives. Battles like today’s between soldiers and bandits aren’t rare. A few years ago, there was an even worse one. The inn wasn’t always this courtyard style—it was completely destroyed back then. My husband, who has a bit of a scholar’s temperament, rebuilt it into this shape. Don’t worry, young master. In Beiman, there’s an old rule: vengeance doesn’t touch bystanders. It’s a poor man’s rule, a stubborn rule, but it’s the old way of the martial world. Only the madmen ignore it.”
Xufeng Nian tore off a piece of the oily but not greasy lamb, chewed it slowly, and asked curiously: “With a hundred cavalrymen fighting fifty or so martial artists, and things turning this bloody, do they still ‘follow the rules’?”
The innkeeper’s sunflower seed cracking was rapid. Leaning against the windowsill, she turned and smiled: “Of course they do. If they didn’t follow the rules, they’d be madmen. In Beiman, everyone wants to be a madman, but not everyone can be one. Take my husband—he keeps saying that if I ever cheat on him, he’ll become one.”
Xufeng Nian was at a loss for words and dared not even glance at the innkeeper’s slender waist, fearing he’d be seen as “not following the rules.”
The innkeeper seemed unable to keep secrets, blurting out: “The one on the black steed is Murong Jiangshen. He’s not quite royal, but in Longyao Prefecture, he’s top-tier nobility. His cousin, Murong Zhangtai, in Gusai Prefecture, has even purer blood. We common folk only know that Chengmu Tao Qianzhi died on Qingming Festival for no apparent reason, and his wife and daughter hurried here. They say Murong Zhangtai wanted Tao’s daughter, so he had him killed. As for the high-level martial conflicts, we can’t see through them—we just watch the spectacle. Most of the men here have nothing to do with Tao, but they think his son, the general who kills Beiliang men every day, was a real man. When they heard Murong Zhangtai wanted the girl, they felt sympathy for the widow and orphans, and somehow got worked up into a group to teach him a lesson. In my opinion, it’s all because they’re idle and horny—so bored they could raise birds in their pants. Of course, some are likely paid mercenaries from Tao’s old subordinates. Murong Zhangtai and his noble brats, no matter how despicable, still have dozens of Beiman sabers and warhorses. Today, he brought a hundred cavalrymen. Who will win? It’s hard to say. I’m sure you’ve guessed the identity of the mother and daughter next door—they have Tao’s old loyalists around them, especially that old man with the red mole between his eyebrows. He’s no weaker than Murong Jiangshen with his iron spear.”
Xufeng Nian approached the window, gazing at the blood-soaked courtyard, and sighed. Was this the martial world of Beiman? Judging from the innkeeper’s tone, she didn’t hold Murong Jiangshen in high regard. Yet in Liyang, a nobleman who could charm women in bed and laugh while killing enemies on horseback would already be seen as a rising warlord. In Beiman, however, such men were commonplace? Xufeng Nian furrowed his brows. Moreover, in Liyang, martial feuds could be fierce and tragic, but to fight and die for a general’s widow out of mere reputation—without any personal vendetta—would be unthinkable.
Outside, Murong Jiangshen laughed loudly: “Whoever can last ten exchanges against my spear—want a government post, gold, or women? Ask, and it’s yours!”
Curses erupted.
“Little brat! Your mother said I was too big last night. Come on, call me Dad!”
He was shot dead by an arrow before he finished speaking.
“Murong, you fool! Bend over—I haven’t touched a woman in days, and you look so delicate…”
The man didn’t finish before Murong Jiangshen, expression unchanged, hurled his spear, piercing the man’s skull.
Over half the hundred riders were dead. Of the martial artists, only those who fled or retreated into the inn survived. Murong Jiangshen rode forward, yanked his spear from the ground, and methodically stabbed the wounded. Then he signaled the remaining twenty riders to finish off the survivors. With a dozen riders, he re-entered the courtyard and called out: “Old traitor Sui Song! Come out with your guards and die!”
Xufeng Nian murmured: “It really is different.”
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