Xu Fengnian motioned for the ox-riding Taoist to shut up and was about to send him to fetch some paper from the hut. He needed to write a letter to Xu Xiao about the events on the mountain. If the delicate and pampered Princess Sui Zhu had come to Northern Liang’s Wudang out of childish whim, then there was no need to worry too much—it would just be adding new grievances to old grudges. Xu Fengnian, already plagued by countless troubles, wasn’t bothered by one more. After all, he likely wouldn’t set foot in that majestic capital in this lifetime. But if someone or a small group had instigated her visit, then he couldn’t afford to be careless. Despite Xu Xiao’s lofty position and seemingly boundless glory, a storm could descend at any moment. When dealing with people, the most dangerous were of two types: the exceedingly clever and the self-righteous fools. And in that place, both types were abundant.
Just as Xu Fengnian was about to order his grandmaster uncle to fetch the paper, something extraordinary happened.
The massive, cascading waterfall suddenly exploded!
A torrent of water surged toward them like wild horses breaking free from their reins, drenching both Xu Fengnian and Hong Xixiang. Xu Fengnian paid no mind to the soaking, his gaze fixed on the scene outside the waterfall. In the fleeting moment before the water obscured his vision, he caught sight of Wang Xiaoping, the sword-obsessed Wudang elder whose status matched that of the sect leader, standing proudly atop a boulder in the White Elephant Pool. His peachwood sword, *Shen Tu*, pointed directly into the cave. The sheer arrogance of this sword strike served as a warning to the young prince. Wang Xiaoping, who had remained silent for over a decade, said nothing as he vanished as swiftly as he had appeared—graceful in arrival, graceful in departure. It reminded Xu Fengnian of the young gallants he had encountered during his years of wandering. They all seemed to love posturing, noses in the air, brimming with arrogance. Crossing rivers, they’d refuse the ferry and instead skim across the water—never mind the splashes soaking the common folk in their boats. If Xu Fengnian ever caught such behavior in Liang territory, forget applause or rewards; he’d drag those bastards out and beat them senseless, then dunk them in water for months to see if they’d dare show off again.
Baffled, Xu Fengnian glared at Hong Xixiang, who had been caught in the crossfire. The latter wore an innocent expression. “Brother Wang was born in the Year of the Ox, so he’s stubborn like that. He used to practice his swordplay here and probably got annoyed. Your Highness is magnanimous—don’t take it to heart. He’s training to become the next Sword God, and when Your Highness becomes the undisputed top blade master, it’ll be a legendary tale for Wudang.”
Xu Fengnian snorted. “Go fetch me some ink and paper from the hut.”
Hong Xixiang scurried off eagerly.
Xu Fengnian opened the food box, picked up a bowl, and was about to take a bite of dried bamboo shoots when he suddenly coughed up blood into the bowl, staining the white rice red. He exhaled deeply—Wudang’s medicinal pills were truly extraordinary. Expelling the stagnant blood had cleared his meridians, leaving him much more comfortable. Expressionless, he finished the bowl of rice, chewing slowly. When he was done, it wasn’t Hong Xixiang who returned with the supplies but Jiang Ni, who had never before set foot on the Xuanxian Cliff. She carried an ancient inkstone and a few sheets of high-quality paper. The small inkstone in her palm had a terrifying origin—it was ranked second on the list of legendary inkstones by Jiang Taiya, the West Chu royal uncle who cared not for power or beauty but only for calligraphy. Made of rare fire-clay, it was warm in winter, cool in summer, and could preserve ink for years without spoiling. Though Jiang Taiya, a royal prince, had been reluctant to use it himself, it had fallen into Xu Fengnian’s hands and was put to use every ten days—with Jiang Ni forced to grind the ink beside him. Given how deeply she hated him, her resentment was understandable.
Seeing Jiang Ni, Xu Fengnian still made her grind the ink. He selected the finest brush from Liaodong and waited patiently for the ink to smooth under the delicate hands of the former princess, its fiery clay hue emerging before he began to write. He recorded every detail of his encounter with Princess Sui Zhu in meticulous small script. Xu Fengnian’s small regular script was his finest calligraphic skill. Ancient teachings dictated that one must first learn regular script, then large characters, emulating the styles of Yan and Liu, then medium script following Ouyang Xun, and only finally small script in the manner of Zhong Yao and Wang Xizhi. Most scholars followed this progression, but under Li Yishan’s tutelage, Xu Fengnian had done the opposite—starting with small script and adhering to the archaic seal and clerical traditions. If his small script wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t allowed to touch other styles. Any deviation earned him a strike from Li Yishan’s gourd wine flask. Among contemporary calligraphers, only the wine-loving old monk of Liangchan Temple had earned Li Yishan’s praise: *“When this monk is drunk, his brush yields only the wrath of Vajra, never the mercy of Bodhisattva.”* Thus, Xu Fengnian’s writing carried little softness—only the aura of battle.
Truth be told, among Xu Xiao’s two daughters and two sons, only Xu Fengnian’s calligraphy was presentable. Xu Longxiang couldn’t even recognize a single character. Xu Zhihu was passable, while even the prodigiously talented Xu Weixiong was pitiful in this regard—her poetry might be unparalleled, but her handwriting was so poor even Xu Xiao couldn’t bring himself to praise it. Perhaps that was why Xu Weixiong rarely sent letters home to Northern Liang.
Xu Fengnian blew on the last drops of ink to dry them, then folded the letter. The problem now was who to send it with. He didn’t want to entrust this confidential letter to Wudang’s Taoists, and as for the Northern Liang Manor’s people—Jiang Ni, the last imperial bloodline of West Chu, was far from being a trusted confidant. Her frail frame also made her unsuitable for delivering messages, given the potential for deranged assassins lurking near Wudang. The Northern Liang soldiers at the foot of the mountain had already escorted Princess Sui Zhu’s party away. Did he have to summon a few Wudang experts to accompany him? Xu Fengnian sighed—fine, time for his last resort. He went outside, cut a section of green bamboo with *Xiu Dong*, stuffed the letter inside, and whistled. The azure-white luan descended from Wudang’s peak, and he tied the bamboo to its leg with cloth. With a flap of its wings, *Six-Year Phoenix* vanished into the sky.
Xu Fengnian walked to the edge of the White Elephant Pool, gazing at the shimmering depths and the dragon-horn-like boulder jutting dramatically from the water.
Jiang Ni, who had been standing behind him the whole time, said stiffly, “I want to go down the mountain.”
Xu Fengnian frowned. “What about the vegetable garden? You’d just let it go to waste?”
She repeated woodenly, “I want to go down the mountain!”
Annoyed, Xu Fengnian snapped, “Fine. But the moment you leave, I’ll trample that garden flat.”
To his surprise, Jiang Ni remained unmoved. “Do as you please.”
At a loss, Xu Fengnian suddenly smiled. “Go if you want. Your feet are your own—I won’t tie you down. But before you leave, come with me to do something. In return, I’ll give you this fire-clay inkstone you’re holding. How about it?”
Without a word, Jiang Ni hurled the inkstone into the White Elephant Pool.
She refused to let it be tainted by him. Her obsession with it wasn’t just because it was a relic of West Chu’s golden age—it also held a deeply buried secret. In the Northern Liang Manor, there were only two people she dared openly despise: Xu Fengnian, at the top of the list, and Xu Weixiong, who was flawless in everything except calligraphy and looks. After her failed assassination attempt on the young prince years ago, Xu Fengnian had merely slapped her and uttered a few threats. But Xu Weixiong had rushed back from Shangyin Academy and thrown her into a well. The water wasn’t deep enough to drown her, but the darkness was absolute. To make it worse, that woman with the cruelest heart in the world had sealed the well with a stone slab, leaving Jiang Ni trapped for three days and nights. After her rescue, she’d learned of Xu Weixiong’s terrible handwriting and began secretly practicing calligraphy herself. Without brushes or inkstones, she used twigs as pens and rainwater, snowmelt—any untainted water—as ink. Her memories of copying characters before the age of five were hazy, but as she practiced, she poured her emotions into the strokes, sometimes writing multiple characters in a single flourish. The results were often bizarre, defying conventional calligraphic norms.
Glancing at the sky, Xu Fengnian said, “I’ll call for you tonight.”
Jiang Ni didn’t ask why. She simply went to the hut and crouched in front of the vegetable garden, stealing a few last glances—proof that despite her tough words, she still felt reluctant to leave.
Xu Fengnian shouted, “Ox-rider, get out here!”
The young grandmaster uncle indeed popped out.
Used to the man’s erratic appearances, Xu Fengnian said, “Go prepare some wine, meat, a large brush for writing plaques—or a broom if you can’t find one—and a bucket of ink. Now.”
Hong Xixiang was puzzled. “What does Your Highness intend to do?”
Xu Fengnian grinned. “Practice calligraphy.”
Hong Xixiang paled. “You’re not planning to write on the walls of Ziyang Temple, are you?”
Xu Fengnian reassured him. “Such tasteless behavior is beneath this prince.”
Hong Xixiang hesitated. “Really?”
Xu Fengnian rewarded him with a single word: “Scram.”
As Hong Xixiang scurried off to prepare the items—and pray for Ziyang Temple’s safety—Xu Fengnian waited half an hour before the man returned with a jug of fragrant rice wine, two pounds of cooked beef, a massive brush half a man’s height, and a bucket of ink.
Xu Fengnian truly had no idea what this ox-rider did all day—running errands, staring blankly at the water, herding or riding oxen. How did one cultivate the Heavenly Dao like this? If the path to enlightenment was this leisurely, Xu Fengnian might have considered it himself.
The full moon hung like a silver platter in the sky, illuminating the night so brightly that lanterns were unnecessary. Xu Fengnian had initially planned to use a night pearl but abandoned the idea. He called Jiang Ni, who had been standing like a statue in the garden, and together they ascended the mountain.
Ziyang Temple had been spared, but the first of Wudang’s Thirty-Six Palaces—Tai Xu Palace—was about to suffer.
*“Night like a tiny insect, mountains like reclining oxen. The bright moon, a silken cocoon, wraps me and Jiang Ni.”*
Inspired, Xu Fengnian composed a clumsy five-character poem, utterly disregarding meter. Pleased with himself, he asked, “How does this compare to the whiny verses of Liangzhou’s scholars?”
Jiang Ni, burdened with most of the heavy items, didn’t even bother to react.
Xu Fengnian led her up the stone steps to the peak of Great Lotus Summit, where Tai Xu Palace stood. Its white jade plaza was the perfect canvas for calligraphy.
Tell me, what scholar would dare wield a giant brush to write colossal characters before Tai Xu Palace? Only the young prince.
*This* was true aristocratic delinquency.
Bullying villagers and peeping at women over walls? Too petty.
At the palace gates, the mountain breeze cooled them. Xu Fengnian set the supplies on the steps, tore off a piece of beef, and sat pondering how to proceed—regular script, running script, or the cursive he’d only practiced in secret? Should he emulate the *Futu Temple Stele*, *Cold Food Observance in Huangzhou*, or *Swift Draft Cursive*?
Compared to the disciplined regular script, Xu Fengnian actually preferred the wild freedom of cursive. But Li Yishan had forbidden him from attempting it, saying his skill wasn’t yet ripe—a regret.
Tai Xu Palace’s main hall was roofed with peacock-blue glazed tiles, its ridges adorned with yellow and green openwork carvings, exuding grandeur. Its sweeping eaves, known as the *Great Geng Corners*, were famed throughout the land.
Xu Fengnian stood, dipped the giant brush into the ink bucket, and hesitated. He hadn’t decided what to write. *“Only when writing does one regret reading too little; only when wielding the brush does one regret practicing too little.”* The ancients spoke true. Sighing, he finally resolved to drink some wine—perhaps intoxication would inspire him.
When he turned, he froze. Jiang Ni had already taken a huge swig from the jug. Having never drunk before, her cheeks flushed instantly, like the peach blossoms in West Chu’s imperial gardens. Legend had it that the emperor had doted on Princess Taiping to the extreme—when she once asked how much the garden’s blossoms weighed, he ordered them all plucked and weighed, one pound at a time.
Xu Fengnian sighed inwardly. He had brought her here today precisely to see her handwriting.
Contemporary cursive script had moved beyond its clerical origins but remained what Li Yishan called *“draft cursive”*—far from the master’s ideal of *“rules discarded, characters dissolving at the brush’s end.”* Only a handful in the world, like that eccentric monk from Liangchan Temple, could achieve what Li Yishan described: *“Joy and sorrow, wealth and poverty, longing, drunkenness, injustice, resentment—all stirred in the heart, manifested in the brush, harmonizing with heaven and earth.”*
Jiang Ni staggered toward the giant brush and bucket.
Lifting it with both hands, she walked to the plaza’s center and began to write.
Only then did Xu Fengnian realize how breathtaking she was when she smiled—but even more so when she was on the verge of tears yet refused to cry.
Her brush danced like a great dragon, as though guided by spirits.
Two hundred and forty-five characters in wild cursive, often five or six in a single stroke.
It began:
*“West Shu’s moon, the land perishes. East Yue’s moon, the land perishes. At the great river’s head, the people suffer; at its tail, the people suffer.”*
And ended:
*“Jiang Ni swears to kill Xu Fengnian.”*
Clutching the brush, she sat near the final character, ink-stained and lost in thought, tears streaming down her face.
Xu Fengnian sat on the highest step, murmuring, *“What a masterpiece—‘The Moonlit Oath of Slaying at Great Geng Corner.’”*
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