Three great ships sailed from the river into the lake. The vast and misty spring Goddess Lake stretched for eight hundred miles, fed by six rivers and connected to the great river. It had long been a battleground for generals and a favored destination for poets and literati. Standing at the prow, Xu Fengnian explained the strategic landscape of Spring Goddess Lake to Yu Youwei, embellishing his account with military theories once imparted to him by the strategist Li Yishan. “Before the Spring and Autumn Period, when the north and south were locked in rivalry, this was the key strategic point everyone fought to control. Whoever held Spring Goddess Lake could launch an eastern campaign, dominate the land from a high position, and seize power like a lion pouncing on a rabbit. In earlier times, when northern forces sought to campaign into the southeast or southern armies aimed to march northward, they all had to pass through the eight-hundred-mile expanse of Spring Goddess Lake. There are ‘three cities, three passes, and three mountains’ of strategic significance, with the three cities being the most important: Xiangfan, Xingyang, and Wuling. On a national scale, Xiangfan is the most crucial; for the southeast, Xingyang holds greater importance; and in our province, Wuling is the pivotal fortress. Xiangfan has always been called the waist and backbone of the nation. During the chaotic Three Kingdoms period, when war raged in this region, Wang Mingyang of the former Western Chu, a scholar from the Shangyin Academy, was appointed governor of Xiangfan in a moment of crisis. He fiercely resisted Xu Xiao’s army of one hundred thousand soldiers, defending the city for three years. Even after the demise of the Western Chu and the fading of Western Shu, Wang Mingyang still refused to surrender. The city’s food supplies ran out, and Wang even resorted to killing and eating his own wife and children. When the city finally fell after three years of siege, a population of two hundred thousand was reduced to less than ten thousand. Xiangfan became a ghost city, and even ten years after its fall, it was said that more than one hundred thousand wandering souls still refused to leave, howling through the night. The imperial court was finally forced to summon the Taoist Grandmaster from Mount Longhu, who came in person to conduct a grand celestial ritual for the dead, with no fewer than 36,500 ceremonial offerings, an act so grand that it was unprecedented and has never been matched since. This battle earned Wang Mingyang the title of the greatest defensive general of the Warring Spring Periods, and even Xu Xiao held him in deep respect. But for one man to achieve such glory while dragging two hundred thousand others to their deaths ensures that Wang Mingyang will remain a controversial figure for a thousand years more.”
Yu Youwei, trembling with fear, asked, “We won’t be going to Xiangfan, will we?”
Xu Fengnian had recently taken to habitually flicking his fingers absentmindedly throughout the day, perhaps due to his sword practice becoming obsessive. He chuckled lightly, “I originally planned to visit Xiangfan, but if you’re afraid, we’ll go straight to Wuling instead.”
Yu Youwei shook her head in silence. Suddenly, Xu Fengnian heard a clamor from the stern of the ship, with people crying out in fear and panic. Yu Youwei, unfortunately still dwelling on the tale of Xiangfan’s ten thousand vengeful spirits, felt a chill run through her, and it took her a moment to realize she was still on the deck of the ship, sailing safely across Spring Goddess Lake. She broke into a wry smile at her own foolishness. Xu, however, ignored her and rushed to the stern, where he saw a crewman writhing on the ground, his arm drenched in blood. Two young kui beasts, their bodies glowing red, loomed over him, growling menacingly. Lu Qiantang approached the prince, offering a brief explanation—it was a trifling matter. The two young kui had been playfully running about and had accidentally collided with the crewman. With their savage tempers, they had simply bitten him. Xu frowned deeply. The tiger-kui was a ferocious ancient beast that fed on men when hungry. Kneeling by the crewman, he noticed the young kui named Jin Gang seemed to sense his master’s anger. The creature lowered its head with a whimper, and its skin changed from red to black. Yet, Xu did not indulge the beast. He snapped his fingers and sent Jin Gang flying backward, creating a gaping hole in the ship’s hull before it plummeted into the lake below. The elder sister, Bao Sa, peered through the hole at her younger sibling, then turned her pitiful gaze toward Xu Fengnian, as if pleading for leniency. Xu snorted coldly, stood up, and ordered, “Compensate the injured man with some silver. By the way, have the Fengzi Camp help repair the hull.”
As dusk fell, Spring Goddess Lake was filled with a hundred ships gliding across the water, sails unfurling in a bustling and vibrant scene. The closer they drew to the southern lands of fish and rice, the more distant the memory of the vast, lonely wilderness of Beiliang, their northern homeland, became.
That night, they would moor at an island in the heart of Spring Goddess Lake called Laoshan. As they approached the island, Xu Fengnian noticed Jiang Ni, who rarely left her cabin, standing by his side, and he offered an explanation: “This mountain was originally not called Laoshan—it was once named Jail Mountain, the place where the Queen Mother of the West imprisoned the Jade Emperor’s daughter, the Spring Goddess. Surrounding the mountain was no lake, just a basin. Later, an earthly immortal, enraged by this injustice, drew a circular line around Jail Mountain with a single stroke of his sword, causing the land within eight hundred miles to collapse and fill with water, forming the lake. Over time, the lake became known as Spring Goddess Lake, and the mountain was renamed Laoshan. Naturally, all these tales of immortals creating lakes are but fanciful nonsense. Today, however, Laoshan is covered with pavilions and courtyards, and all sorts of people gather here—not only the powerful and noble, but also monks and Daoist recluses, and even a few exiled remnants of fallen dynasties who have carved out their own little realms on the island. There are many shops as well. Once we land, you can choose whatever catches your eye.”
Jiang Ni extended her hand. Xu Fengnian paused and asked, “What is it?”
Jiang Ni replied stiffly, “Silver.”
Xu Fengnian chuckled. “Alright, as of now, you’ve already earned several hundred taels. How much do you intend to take? Let me just warn you in advance—anyone dares charge you if they hear you’re using my name, you’d be wasting your hard-earned secret manuals for nothing.”
Jiang Ni scoffed. “Do you think I’m like you, someone who seizes wealth through trickery and force?”
Amused, Xu Fengnian teased, “So then, exactly how much silver do you want? Several hundred taels? Or do you want me to give you a few thousand taels of gold on credit? That way, you can read for lifetimes.”
“Only one tael,” Jiang Ni snapped.
Xu Fengnian sighed. “Must you be so stingy?”
Jiang Ni narrowed her eyes. “Hand it over!”
Xu Fengnian rolled his eyes. “Go ask Qingniao for it later. I never carry such petty change around.”
Jiang Ni went back into the cabin and quietly retrieved a small ledger hidden at the bottom of her book chest. The ledger meticulously recorded how much silver she had earned for reading works like “The Taiyuan Sutra,” “The Thousand Swords Compendium,” and “The Whale-Killing Sword,” noting the date, time, and even the number of words read. By now, she had earned far more than the few hundred taels Xu had mentioned—exactly one thousand and seven taels and thirty-four coins of silver. The old swordsman, who had done nothing lately but eat, drink, and sleep, casually entered the cabin as Jiang Ni held a brush in one hand and shielded the ledger with the other. Lao Chungan sighed helplessly, stepping farther back to let Jiang Ni finish her work. Then he sat at the table, poured himself some wine, and dipped his fingers in it. After Jiang Ni had placed the ledger back inside the chest of books and sat facing him, Lao Chungan began to trace characters in wine on the table using his finger as a brush. Stroke by stroke, his energy surged with each motion. Jiang Ni sat upright, watching the old man write with undivided attention. In one swift motion, he inscribed dense, intricate characters, as tangled and jagged as the perilous reefs of the Ghost Gate. When Lao Chungan finally looked up, Jiang Ni remained composed. The old man, as he had stated at the beginning, seemed to make no effort to teach the girl anything. With one flick of his sleeve, he wiped the table clean and began again, this time talking as he wrote: “Old man’s cursive calligraphy has three key elements. First, seamless and unbroken strokes; second, layer upon layer, rising high and wide; and finally, a wordless state—fearless, emotionless, desireless, like this wine—once wiped away, there is no trace. The first point demands unrelenting discipline. Even when drunk and writing sloppily, there must not be a single careless stroke; every mark must follow the rules, because every stroke is carefully practiced beforehand. A single character must fall like a sword strike—no room for carelessness. I’ve always been known for strokes as swift and fierce as serpents and scorpions. A piece of my calligraphy is no different from a sword in its sharpness and grandeur…”
Lao Chungan was getting to the exciting part when he noticed Jiang Ni stifling a yawn. At that moment, the great ship gave a lurch, signaling that they were about to dock. With a heavy sigh of frustration, the old man bent down, sucked the wine off the table, muttering, “Don’t waste it, don’t waste it.” Jiang Ni, long accustomed to the old man’s eccentric ways, walked out with him. She saw Xu Fengnian in the middle of discussing something with Captain Ning Emei. It seemed most of the Fengzi Camp would not be going ashore—and that made sense. For one thing, housing a hundred lightly armored soldiers would be difficult, and worse still, their presence would draw too much attention. As Jiang Ni pondered this, the old man continued to boast about his unparalleled calligraphy, but she barely listened, walking down the gangplank with her gown gathered in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the young kui beasts leap onto the shore, a fat carp dangling from its mouth, evidently trying to impress Xu Fengnian. But Xu Fengnian just scolded the creature, and immediately the little kui dropped to the ground, pretending to be dead. As Xu Fengnian was about to give the beast a kick, another young kui gently bit the hem of his robe, stopping him. Thus ended the reprimand. The two young kui siblings bore no grudge and joyfully followed the Prince again, much to Jiang Ni’s pity. Two silly fools—why were they so obedient to Xu Fengnian?
Xu Fengnian gazed back at the Spring Goddess Lake, his eyes distant. He murmured, “Have we arrived?”
※※※
The imperial capital, Taian City.
At dawn, the sky was gray and murky.
Down a government road, three hundred iron-clad riders galloped, their hooves kicking up clouds of dust.
Rumors swirled in the capital that Xu Xiao, the Prince of Beiliang, would soon arrive. At once, the city—home to a million souls and the sole metropolis of such size across the empire—boiled with intrigue. The city’s central avenues became theaters of competition; their high-rise buildings filled with spectators hoping to catch a glimpse of the great Commander Xu. Even if they couldn’t see him in person, catching a sight of his retinue would grant them satisfaction. The scholars and officials grew agitated, the martial artists restless, and the aristocrats clamorous. It was said that a dozen or more mid-ranking eunuchs planned to band together and intercept the procession, risking their lives to denounce the butcher, accusing him of the massacre of hundreds of thousands and the destruction of half the realm’s scholarly talent during the Spring Wars. There were even rumors of countless would-be assassins preparing to strike down the tyrant in the streets, and storytellers in teahouses across the city, in unison, began reciting the old stories of the Spring Wars once again.
In Taian, the cicadas in thousands of trees began their sharp, piercing chorus.
Taian had four gates, each flanked by walls. The guards stationed at the gates had cleared the area of unrelated people long before. As the thunderous sound of hooves grew closer, drowning out even the noisy cicadas, those at the city gates and along the ramparts caught sight of the crimson Xu banner flying high above the approaching riders. The fresh morning air suddenly turned suffocating.
The cavalry slowly entered the city.
Except for the sound of hooves, the entire capital seemed to fall silent.
On the main road leading to the imperial palace, the spectators automatically held their breath.
As the riders pressed further into the city, onlookers exchanged glances, finally exhaling in relief.
As the dust settled, two travelers approached the gate from outside. One was an old monk dressed in black robes, with a triangular face and a sinister mien, looking like a withered, sick tiger, though his expression remained aloof. The other man, hunched and limping slightly, wore the clothes of a common wealthy old gentleman. As they passed through the side entrance of the gate, he glanced briefly at the walls and smiled. A few people turned their heads to look, but most of the stares were directed at the monk. The black-robed monk’s appearance was unlike that of a compassionate Buddhist practitioner, but since he was clearly old, people gave him only a fleeting glance before turning away. As for the old man beside the monk, no one paid him the slightest attention. In Taian, the capital of the empire, even the commoners in the streets and alleys boasted of having seen great generals or high-ranking ministers, so who would care to spare a glance at a hunchbacked old man?
After passing through the side gate, the wealthy old man and the black-robed monk walked slowly onward.
The old man, his hands clasped behind him, chuckled, “Yang Tulü, in this city of a million souls, you’re the only one I would call a friend.”
The gaunt old monk replied softly, “If you don’t touch my head, I’ll be your friend.”
The old man laughed and waved off the notion, “That won’t do, that won’t do at all! They say there are two things in this world you must never touch—never pat a tiger’s butt, and never, under any circumstances, pat Yang Taishui’s head.” And yet, even as he spoke, he stretched out his hand without hesitation to stroke the monk’s bald head. The monk made no effort to stop him, merely sighing.
The old man gently patted the black-robed monk’s head and burst into hearty laughter.
The monk’s face remained impassive.
This man’s head—
Back then, Qi Xuanzhen had once touched it too, and half of the Lotus Summit collapsed.
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