Amidst the ancient path and western breeze, a bony, emaciated yellow horse was tied to a tree, exhaling weak snorts. A few black crows perched on the branches cawed noisily, their squawks grating on the ears.
An unremarkable old man slowly emerged from behind the tree, tightening his waistband with a helpless expression. Even relieving himself brought no peace. He looked up and shooed the crows with a few “shoo-shoo” sounds, but the birds, accustomed to life near the city, were no ordinary sparrows from Spring Goddess Lake—they had seen their share of the world and were unafraid of the old man’s half-hearted intimidation.
The old man didn’t bother getting upset. With one hand, he grabbed the reins and led the horse forward. He lifted the ragged money pouch at his waist—there were not many copper coins left. He glanced sorrowfully at his faithful companion, the yellow horse nicknamed “Little Yellow,” who was as dear to him as a son. He never rode him. If only a single mat could be made from reeds, it would always be for Little Yellow first.
Sigh. Poverty weakens a man’s spirit, and a thin horse’s coat grows long. Originally, the silver he carried was enough to live comfortably from the northern lands all the way to this eastern region, thousands of miles. The old man had endured wind and rain, with few expenses—only when the wine worms in his belly stirred up a riot would he go to a market or roadside stall to buy a pot of wine to soothe his cravings. But along the way, he had encountered several pitiful souls, and his silver had flowed out like water. Once, his master had said, “In chaotic times, even a human is not as valued as a dog in peaceful days.” Yet even in this so-called era of peace and prosperity, not everyone could afford to live the life of a peaceful dog.
This old man, from West Shu, had traveled far and wide. He never claimed to be a righteous martial hero who rescues the distressed. Rather, he had learned to live within limits, knowing that even the wealthiest can’t rival the emperor or his master. As for comparing misfortunes, there was no bottom—no matter how bad one’s life was, someone else always had it worse.
The last time he spent a large sum of silver was during a river crossing. It wasn’t for the few coppers needed for the ferry fare. The boat was manned by a mother and daughter, while the boatman, the head of the household, was a gaunt-faced man who quickly grew tired of rowing and handed the oar to his wife. He squatted at the bow, engrossed in dice games, clearly a lazy good-for-nothing.
As the boat neared the shore, the man noticed the old man’s pouch revealing silver coins and, with a sly grin, asked if he wanted to “treat himself.” Thinking it meant cooking a few river carp, and with half a pot of wine still left in his flask, the old man agreed. But when the mother and daughter, expressionless, began to remove their patched and thin clothes, the old man was startled. He quickly realized they were river prostitutes and stopped them at once. Upon landing, besides the small change, he left the bulk of his silver and hurried off. Though in the past, while traveling with his master, he might have been entranced by a bold village woman nursing her child, standing rooted to the spot until his master pulled him away, he had never gone so far as to engage in such acts. Especially not with these two, who were young enough to be his daughter or granddaughter. The girl was barely thirteen or fourteen, malnourished and underfed, making her look no older than eleven or twelve, like a daughter of a wealthy household. To do such a thing would surely bring divine retribution.
Even if one were to argue that “even a servant at a prime minister’s gate holds the rank of third class,” and even if the gatekeeper of the First Chancellor couldn’t compare to Old Huang of the Northern Liang Prince’s Mansion, well, he was merely a stable hand in the Prince’s Mansion. But by that logic, if not third class, at least seventh class should be his. If he ever truly desired a woman, would it be so difficult? With the dozens of straw sandals he had woven for his master, surely he had earned some favor. Once, while traveling, his master had casually mentioned that upon returning to Northern Liang, he would find him a warm wife to share his bed.
Old Huang chuckled at the memory, instinctively swallowing hard. Of course, he would never dare to defile a fresh young maiden. As for a woman of mature charm, he felt unworthy. Yet deep down, hadn’t he secretly hoped for a soft, fair-skinned woman to share his blanket? It was just polite banter between him and his master. How did the young master take it so seriously?
Old Huang slapped his own face and muttered, “Let you play the high and mighty one. Back then, instead of becoming a blacksmith, you should have trained in swordplay, all to get close to those female martial heroes. But somewhere along the way, you trained yourself into a fool, letting that noble aspiration slip away like a piss.”
His master was learned, yet never pretentious. His words were always pleasant to hear. Whenever they stole chickens or ducks or roasted cucumbers and sweet potatoes and were in a good mood, his words would flow like poetry. Old Huang clearly remembered one saying: “There are those in the world whose ambitions soar higher than the heavens, yet whose fate is thinner than paper. They dream of achieving great deeds, but lack the talent and strength. That’s the most pitiable of all.”
Old Huang felt that saying captured the truth so perfectly even a coarse man like him could understand it. Was it not a compliment to him—doing only what his strength allowed?
Lost in thought, Old Huang chuckled to himself. When he grinned, one could see he was missing two front teeth, letting the wind whistle through. Slowly, he and his thin horse plodded forward. Yet no matter how long the road, as long as one walks, there is always an end. And sure enough, lifting his head, he could now see the grand city ahead.
Wudi City—once known as Linguan City, it was a vassal city of the Eastern Yue during the Spring and Autumn Period. Its name came from a line in a poem by the ancient sage Zhang: “Facing eastward to the stone cliffs, I gaze upon the sea.”
Later, Wang Xianzhi, once an unknown figure, rose through the martial world, defeating all comers. Recognized by the Eastern Yue royalty, he married into the imperial family, and they sought to use his unmatched martial prowess to rebel and seize the throne. When the rebellion failed, he offered to sacrifice himself to spare the city from punishment. Surrounded, the noble prince committed suicide atop the city walls in front of sixty thousand armored soldiers. But the Eastern Yue emperor still refused to let it go—not by exterminating nine generations of his family, of course, for that might eventually reach the emperor himself.
But the massacre of the city was inevitable. Just then, Wang Xianzhi returned from a duel with the sword immortal Li Chungan. Without a word to the emperor, he charged from outside the city walls all the way to the gates, delivering the city lord’s corpse inside, then fighting his way back out. He repeated this three times. The final time, he reached within thirty paces of the Eastern Yue emperor’s tent, slaying the elite guards of the Eastern Yue Sword Pool, who had served as royal bodyguards for generations. With his own might, Wang forced the emperor into a truce, and thus was born Wudi City, standing proudly as the unrivaled stronghold of the Spring and Autumn era in Eastern Yue. As the years passed, Wang Xianzhi grew ever more mysterious and formidable, reigning supreme over the martial world, truly Invincible in all the land.
Later, when the Liyang Dynasty unified the realm, the founding emperor, having accomplished an unprecedented feat, personally visited Wudi City to speak in secret with Wang Xianzhi. One was the sovereign of all under heaven, the other a commoner said to be capable of slaying a land-bound immortal. The world only knew they conversed happily, neither showing anger nor taking offense. Since then, even when Wudi City secretly executed members of the Zhao Gou faction, the imperial court turned a blind eye.
Now, Wang Xianzhi rarely fights. The world no longer dares to dream of anyone who can defeat this martial artist, who boasts that had he been born five hundred years earlier, he could have debated life and death with the immortal Lüzu. New sword immortals like Deng Tai’a and Qingyi Cao Changqing have only managed to avoid defeat in Wudi City, and are already revered as divine beings. Ordinary martial experts cannot even hope to see Wang Xianzhi, let alone challenge him to a duel with both hands. If Wang Xianzhi truly wished to kill, even a land-bound immortal, unless he had ascended to heaven, would be in grave danger.
The old man reached the towering city gates. Alongside him, martial artists entered the city, each exuding an air of boundless mastery. Some were broad-shouldered, red-haired, with iron arms and sinewy muscles, seeming capable of blowing a man away with a sneeze. Others were refined and extraordinary, adorned with divine weapons, as if even their flatulence would be praised by the martial world as fragrant.
The old man and his thin horse, both hungry and ragged, stood out pitifully. Worse still, before entering the city, the old man deliberately slowed his pace to let a young female warrior, clad in flowing silk robes, walk ahead. As he followed, he stared at her swaying hips, pulling out an ivory comb to tidy his disheveled, gray-white hair, which looked like a nest of tangled weeds.
The beautiful young woman, dressed in elegant attire, was clearly no ordinary lady content with embroidery and music. She had dared to come alone to Wudi City. Sensing his gaze, she turned and glared. But upon seeing an old fool leading a horse worse than a mule, she dismissed him with a cold snort and strode into the city.
Old Huang muttered to himself, “If my master and that kid Wen Hua saw this young lady, the master would probably start scheming to swindle Wen Hua’s money again.”
Inside the city, the old man followed the main road until he could see the inner city walls. He sat at a roadside tavern, spilling all the copper coins from his pouch onto the table with a grin. “Waiter, bring me a pot of fine rice wine, and heat it up for me.”
The waiter, proud of being a local of Wudi City, never looked down on outsiders, especially not a decrepit old man. With a disdainful glance, he sneered, “With this little copper, even a sip of rice wine is a stretch.”
Old Huang chuckled, “No worries. One sip will do. Just give me a small bowl, and I’ll call it a pot.”
Without waiting for the waiter’s reply, he looked up at the city walls and softly murmured, “Master, the wind is picking up. But this time, Old Huang won’t run.”
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