The crest of the Qiantang River tide surged forward in rhythmic waves. Beside a refined scholar, elegantly dressed maids stood ready with brushes and inkstones. After the scholar completed a poem, a companion recited it aloud, earning thunderous applause from the crowd. Then, the poem and the xuan paper upon which it was written were cast into the Guangling River. Though claimed to be spontaneous, everyone knew these carefully crafted verses had long been memorized. Some aristocratic youths, lacking literary talent, had to strain their minds for days before the event. Others, more unscrupulous, simply bought poems from impoverished scholars, with prices varying based on the buyer’s generosity and the quality of the writer’s words—ranging from a few taels of silver to entire basins of gold.
The heir of Beiliang, Xu Fengnian, had once been the most notorious victim in this game. Hearing the continuous recitations that accompanied the tide, he naturally understood the unspoken rules. Scholar after scholar composed verses on the spot, their words flowing like music. These poetic recitations, echoing alongside the grand naval display on the Guangling River, gave the illusion of imperial prosperity, impressing the common people with the might of Prince Zhao Yi.
Xu Fengnian did not indulge Chen Yu’s curiosity about the topic. Instead, he glanced upward at Prince Zhao Yi of Guangling. From a distance, the prince’s massive frame resembled a small mountain. This fat pig had lain with two former queens of the Spring and Autumn Period, not to mention countless princesses and concubines—so many that even counting them with fingers and toes might fall short. When Zhao Yi was first dispatched to Guangling, rumors spread that every few days, noblewomen who had once been royalty would take their own lives—jumping down wells, swallowing hairpins, or hanging themselves. His infamy rivaled that of Beiliang’s Chu Lushan.
Yet, to regard Zhao Yi merely as a lecherous brute who preyed on noblewomen was to underestimate this three-hundred-jin giant. While Beiliang, under Xu Xiao’s command, and Nan Tang, under Prince Yan Ci, were known for their fierce people, and Beiliang faced the ever-threatening Xiongnu with tens of thousands of archers, it was still the former imperial lands of Xichu and Dongyue—now Guangling—that proved the most difficult to pacify. The scholars of Xichu were renowned for their elegance and intellect, with famous literati as numerous as stars in the sky. If Zhao Yi lacked real ability and relied solely on brutal suppression without winning the people’s hearts, the wealthy Guangling, contributing more than half the empire’s taxes, would have long been reduced to ruins—an economic disaster for the dynasty. Though the emperor’s brothers were not all brilliant, none were truly mediocre. The rise of the Liyang Dynasty was not only due to fate but also the result of the Zhao family’s efforts.
Just as the prince finished his thoughts and prepared to leave the riverside with Lü Qiantang, an untimely sound of galloping hooves pierced the air. Xu Fengnian turned his head and frowned. Dozens of lightly armored cavalry charged forward, cutting through the crowd like a blade through water. Many civilians were thrown aside, some even trampled by the horses. The thirty riders, skilled in horsemanship, bore swords and crossbows, their presence startling. Instinctively, people near Xu Fengnian’s position scattered, creating a path wide enough for two horses to ride abreast.
At the head of the group rode a muscular knight wielding a black serpent spear, his face twisted with malice. His eyes locked onto Xu Fengnian standing by the riverbank. Suddenly, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, accelerating toward him. At that critical moment, a child—possibly separated from his parents—fell onto the road, crying loudly. The spear-wielding rider showed no sign of pulling the reins. Instead, he smirked cruelly, sending chills down the spines of onlookers. On either side of the road stood Guangling aristocrats and commoners alike, none daring to intervene. Who didn’t know that the Youfeng Cavalry under Prince Zhao Yi was responsible for land security? And even if someone wanted to act, they lacked the strength to stop a charging horse. Who had the iron body to block such a beast?
How could a scholar’s brush rival a warrior’s spear?
Suddenly, a young man in the crowd, dressed like a wandering swordsman, shouted, “No!” He placed his hands on the shoulders of two bystanders and leapt into the air, attempting to intercept the horse and save the child. But this well-meaning martial artist, clearly a stranger to Guangling, underestimated the terrifying might of the mounted officer and the cruelty of Zhao Yi’s soldiers. Before he could act, a spear pierced his chest as though he had thrown himself onto the blade. Blood sprayed as the young swordsman fell lifeless to the ground. The rider yanked the spear free, and the corpse tumbled back into the crowd.
In the blink of an eye, the horse’s hooves thundered toward the child, ready to crush him into two bloody craters. Some in the crowd looked away in horror, others watched with morbid fascination, and many simply stared in stunned fear. After killing the swordsman and withdrawing his spear, the rider glared at a young nobleman in the distance, issuing a chilling warning. But his pupils suddenly contracted, his surprise a hundredfold greater than when he faced the reckless swordsman. In the crowd’s view, the young nobleman—dressed in brocade under a white fur cloak—moved with grace, his feet barely touching the ground like a dragonfly skimming water. In a few bounds, he reached the wailing child, scooped him up by the collar, and with a graceful halt, leaned back slightly, facing the mounted warrior. The rider’s fury surged. This boy dared to play the hero under his spear?
The mounted officer raised his iron spear again, charging forward with the horse’s momentum, shouting, “Boy, you seek death!”
Without appearing to exert himself, the young nobleman suddenly reversed direction, accelerating to an extreme speed. In an instant, he created a large distance between himself and the horse, placing the stunned child beside a maid dressed in green. To everyone’s astonishment, instead of retreating after saving the child, the nobleman shrugged off his fox fur, which was caught by the green-robed maid. Then, he charged forward once more.
The spear came like a storm, but the nobleman—who had previously displayed such fluid grace—now showed no expression. He reached out and grabbed the spearhead with his bare hand. Without a word, he pulled backward, actually increasing the horse’s thunderous momentum. The next moment, the crowd gasped in awe as the young man—resembling a noble more than a wandering swordsman—suddenly halted, leapt slightly, and pressed down on the horse’s head.
A collective intake of breath echoed around. The warhorse, weighing at least two thousand jin, was stopped dead in its tracks. Its head slammed into the ground, its front hooves shattering with a loud crack. Its powerful rear body twisted grotesquely. The rider was thrown far from the horse, his spear flying. Given his skill, he should not have fallen so easily, but the nobleman’s technique was beyond comprehension, and thus he met his end in this ignoble manner. As the rider tried to rise using his spear, a sudden, icy killing intent enveloped him. Before he could abandon dignity and resort to desperate measures, the green-robed maid—elegant and gentle in appearance—lifted her foot and crushed his skull into the ground. His death was even more gruesome than the swordsman’s.
The other riders displayed their exceptional horsemanship, halting almost simultaneously. The sound of their horses neighing pierced the ears. In just a few blinks of an eye, the situation had completely reversed.
The nobleman in brocade, standing over the fallen horse and rider, clapped his hands lightly. He gazed at the remaining cavalry, their expressions a mix of anger and fear. He said nothing. Some young women, peering through the crowd, had moments ago been gazing at the heroic figures on the warships. Now, their hearts were filled with this nobleman’s image. To these delicate maidens, the man on the Guangling River—though a paragon of literary and martial prowess—was too distant, too unattainable. The tales of his exploits were mere gossip, something to be read in sentimental novels like *The First Snowfall*, where they might imagine themselves as the tragic heroines. They never truly believed such a refined and talented young man would visit them in the night, whispering their names. Thus, nothing compared to the vividness of what they had just witnessed.
The nobleman seemed impatient to continue the standoff. He took a step forward, and the cavalry, their confidence shaken, instinctively stepped back. Just as the riders regained their composure and felt ashamed, a heavier sound of hooves rang out. The cavalry exhaled in relief, knowing the main force had arrived, and they parted to make way.
A golden-maned Akhal-Teke horse galloped forward slowly. Its legs were powerful, but the weight of its rider made the journey arduous. The rider’s face was a mirror of Prince Zhao Yi—hideous not in an ugly way, but in its sheer bulk. His luxurious robes, finely embroidered to the point of excess, could not conceal the jiggling of his fat. Akhal-Teke horses were rare treasures, numbering no more than a hundred in the empire. After the imperial palace claimed twenty, the rest were divided among the nobility and high-ranking officials in the capital. Thus, outside the capital, even a dog riding one of these horses—whose long rides left blood oozing from its skin—would have people willing to call it ancestor. Behind the golden horse rode another rare steed, a Qingcong horse, carrying a gray-clothed old man with eyes like blades. Below the horses stood a servant, whispering to his master as the horses halted. He pointed at the Murong siblings, paying no heed to the young nobleman who had dared to challenge the Youfeng cavalry. The servant’s attitude was enough to reveal the master’s arrogance. The fat man hadn’t even looked at the young man who had caused such a stir. Instead, he fixed his pig-like eyes on the group of women, their figures growing more alluring with each glance. He forgot to wipe the drool from his mouth, ruining his expensive, finely tailored Su-style robe.
The crowd sighed inwardly.
With such a notorious master arrived, even a god would struggle to survive in Guangling. They now looked at the nobleman with only scorn. How fickle the hearts of men.
Finally, the fat man wiped the drool from his mouth and waved his hand. “Seize them!”
The servant, whose greatest talent was flattery and intimidation, immediately straightened his back upon hearing his master’s command. He turned to the inept Youfeng cavalry and shouted, “Useless lot! Didn’t you hear the prince’s order? Get to work—seize the women!”
Guangling, encompassing the former Xichu and half of Dongyue, was known for its scholars’ literary spirit. Though the region had seen its share of aristocratic sons bullying women, such acts were usually discreet. No one would dare commit such blatant crimes under the watchful eyes of countless noble families during the grand tide-viewing ceremony. With thirty thousand students in the national academy, many from Guangling, and the former Xichu prime minister Sun Xiji serving as a stabilizing force in the imperial court, even the most unruly aristocratic youths hesitated before breaking the law. Yet there was one exception in Guangling: Zhao Biao, the legitimate eldest son of Prince Zhao Yi. A classic case of a tiger father producing a dog son, he inherited none of his father’s cunning or ruthlessness, only his lust and gluttony. In terms of womanizing, he surpassed even his father. Last year, he had pursued the daughter-in-law of a prefect in Linqing for two prefectures, finally breaking into her home with a gang of hounds and stripping her bare. When the prefect protested, Zhao Yi had him killed on the spot with a jade As You Wish. Then, a righteous official who tried to report the crime to the capital was ambushed and killed before he left his home. The tyranny of the Zhao Father and Son left people shivering with fear.
Xu Fengnian smiled and asked, “Zhao Biao, you want to steal my women?”
Zhao Biao, the heir of Guangling, let out a surprised “Hmm,” as if amused. He leaned forward slightly, finally noticing the outsider, and asked a question typical of his character: “You know me? Are we close?”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Not really.”
Zhao Biao rolled his eyes. “Then why are you talking so much? Don’t worry, I’m not unreasonable. I’m in a good mood today. I’ll take your women, and later I’ll give you a few maids from my mansion who’ve already been used.”
Xu Fengnian couldn’t help but laugh. This fat pig was twice the weight of Jing’an’s heir Zhao Xun, yet his brain was probably smaller than one of Zhao Xun’s fingers. Without Prince Zhao Yi’s protection, this three-hundred-jin mass of flesh wouldn’t be worth a few coins.
Zhao Biao sneered. “Hmph, the only person I admire in my life is Xu Fengnian of Beiliang—Brother Xu!”
With a touch of sentimentality, the prince grumbled, “Now get lost. Taking your women is a great honor for you. If you don’t know how to appreciate it, I’ll skin you and throw you into the Guangling River.”
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