Prologue: Tales of the Great Tang
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Before the Tale Begins:
Longtime readers know that Cangshan’s stories are marked by wild flights of fancy and shameless fabrication; I am a storyteller, not a historian. And for the sake of writing with abandon and delight, the era in this tale is semi-fictionalized. Though I still employ real historical figures and, by and large, remain within the bounds of history, the story itself is anything but orthodox.
For convenience, certain historical figures and events may have altered timelines; both the internal and external circumstances of the Tang dynasty will also be partly invented.
Let this be stated clearly.
...
Dear readers, let us now embark on a new journey together!
...
***
Great Tang, Autumn of the first year of Shangyuan—a time of strange omens. (AD 674)
Even before dusk had fallen, the palace gates were already locked, the four gates barred, patrols strict and unyielding. Just now, Lady Helan of the State of Wei had died suddenly within the palace.
She was dead, yet the identity of her killer remained unresolved.
The Emperor was furious, swearing to punish the culprit and restore justice to Lady Helan. However, it was an open secret, both at court and among the people, that the Sacred Emperor favored Lady Helan. Had it not been for the Empress’s opposition, Helan’s long residence in the palace would have made her elevation to consort only natural.
Yet as the old saying goes: what’s lost is lost.
This mighty imperial city seemed indeed as inauspicious as the Empress claimed—no matter how many pieces the culprit’s body was cut into, it could never bring back Lady Helan’s peerless smile.
The Imperial Guards, though bewildered, could only smile bitterly and nod, unfazed by such sights. Since the founding of the dynasty, how many of Li’s own kin had been buried beneath these palace walls? How many noble bloodlines had been sacrificed to the heavens of Tang?
Even the Empress’s own niece, that woman of unrivaled beauty, could not escape the curse of the palace.
Helan was not the first, nor would she be the last!
...
Suddenly, a clamor arose within the palace—clashing steel and hurried footsteps drawing near. The soldiers patrolling outside the walls stared in shock, instinctively gripping their spears tighter as the commotion approached.
Before they could react, the chaos had reached the ramparts. In the gloom, a shadow flashed—a glint of cold steel—a figure leapt from the heights, left hand clutching a sword, right hand gripping a dark purple jade ornament, descending from the palace wall.
Clang… clatter… crash!
With two swift sword strokes and a blow of the elbow, three armored warriors fell, their weapons undrawn, sent flying, gravely wounded. The shadow seized the moment, darted forward, and with two quick movements crossed the long street, vaulting over the low wall of the Anle quarter outside the palace.
“…”
The soldiers stood dumbfounded; they had never seen such martial skill or speed.
“Who… who is that?!”
...
“Looks like a Daoist…”
...
“Is that a bundle on his back?”
“It’s not a bundle—it’s a child!” gasped one soldier who had seen clearly, still shaken.
“A newborn, wrinkled and bloody…”
...
A lone figure with a sword had stormed the forbidden palace, not only escaping unscathed but carrying out an infant from the imperial halls—such a feat defied belief.
Yet oddly enough, no one spoke of it.
No one dared to.
Later generations, seeking the truth of Lady Helan’s death, found only three vague, ambiguous lines in the Old Book of Tang, Volume 133:
“The Empress’s half-brother Wei Liang and younger brother, the Prefect of Zizhou, Huaiyun, assembled at the foot of Mount Tai per the custom. At the time, Lady Helan, daughter of Lady of Korea, was in the palace and greatly favored. Wu Zetian wished to eliminate her, so she had Gaozong visit Lady Helan’s mother’s residence, and while there, Wei Liang and others served food. Wu Zetian secretly ordered poison placed in Lady Helan’s meal. She ate, died suddenly, and the blame was placed on Wei Liang and Huaiyun, who were then executed.”
...
***
Seven years later.
Second year of Yonglong, Great Tang. (AD 681)
Helan Minzhi, Lady Helan’s own brother, grew arrogant in the Emperor’s favor, defying imperial authority.
He committed adultery with his grandmother, Lady Rongguo Yang; embezzled imperial silks meant for Buddhist offerings; coerced the consort chosen by the crown prince; drank and caroused during the mourning for Lady Rongguo, defying ritual; molested Princess Taiping and her attendants.
Five grave crimes—heaven itself could not forgive.
The Empress was enraged and punished him severely, stripping his title and exiling him to Leizhou.
Knowing the depth of his guilt and shame, Helan Minzhi hanged himself en route, ending his own wretched life.
He, once renowned as the most handsome and talented man of his time, cherished by the Empress as her own kin, was thus no more.
Yet the official who escorted Helan Minzhi, Zhou Xing of the Ministry of Justice, reported another version to the Empress in a secret memorial:
“Upon reaching Shaozhou, we were blocked by a wicked Daoist. With sword in hand, his skill unmatched, he wounded more than ten soldiers and carried off Minzhi—none could stop him.”
...
Another two years passed. Twelfth month, first year of Hongdao. (683)
Gaozong died; the edict named Crown Prince Li Xian as emperor, with Empress Wu presiding as regent and the era renamed Cishi.
In the first year, second month (684), Empress Wu deposed the emperor to Prince of Luling, confining him elsewhere. In May, he was moved to Junzhou, then Fangling.
Thus, the faint fragrance of that soul who suddenly died in the palace was forgotten by all, unmentioned ever again.
...
***
Prologue: “Tales of Old Tang” (I)
Overhead, clouds pressed low; the ancient road wound through mountains.
The late spring drizzle in Guanzhong still carried a chill, lashing the faces of travelers with icy discomfort.
The Prince of Luling, Li Xian, traveled south toward Fangling, his entourage inching along the muddy mountain path.
All those escorting him were trusted retainers of the Empress; among them, General Qiu Shenji of the Left Jinwu Guards and Zhou Xing, official of the Ministry of Rites.
Both men rode ahead, surveying the road with frowns. This accursed weather—the fine, silken rain seemed endless.
...
Below the mountain lay a ferry village; a river, several dozen paces wide, blocked the southern road. Two reed boats shuttled back and forth, ferrying restless, numb travelers through the spring rain.
Despite the slippery path, Qiu Shenji ordered Li Xian’s carriage to make haste downhill, reaching the shore before the last boat departed.
Travelers awaiting the ferry, seeing the official procession approach, stepped aside, wary. Such a display could only mean an official from the capital, perhaps even royalty—none dared provoke them.
No one questioned it; if they wished to cross the river before the rain, they must let the officials go first.
Qiu Shenji intended just that, brusquely ordering the boatman to evict those already aboard.
Once preparations were made, he coldly ordered, “Escort the Prince of Luling from his carriage—he will cross the river by boat!”
Though his words were proper, his face showed not a trace of respect. Small wonder—since Gaozong’s death, the Empress held all power, and Li Dan had ascended the throne. What need had Qiu, a trusted retainer, to trouble himself over a deposed emperor?
...
But the messenger had yet to return; no sign of Li Xian disembarking. Instead, Zhou Xing hurried over.
“General Qiu, I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
“Hmm?” Qiu Shenji scowled, annoyed.
“What problem?”
Zhou Xing replied with resignation, “Princess Wei is about to give birth—she cannot leave the carriage.”
Qiu Shenji was momentarily stunned. “Why at this moment?!”
He thought grimly of how much longer they would be stranded in the rain.
“Then why not call for a midwife?”
“General…” Zhou Xing did not obey, but looked at Qiu Shenji meaningfully. “Why not reconsider?”
Qiu Shenji frowned. “What do you mean?”
Zhou Xing leaned in, lowering his voice. “Don’t forget—the Empress has always disliked Princess Wei. If not for Wei’s meddling, the Emperor would not have become the Prince of Luling.”
“Why not use this opportunity…”
“You mean…” Qiu Shenji’s eyes widened in shock. Was this man suggesting murder?
As Zhou said, Li Xian’s downfall began when Princess Wei, heedless of consequence, urged him to promote her clan—enraging the Empress, who then reduced the emperor to a mere prince.
Yet Li Xian was, after all, her own flesh and blood—Qiu hesitated.
“Is this wise? The child in Wei’s womb is still of the Li bloodline…”
“And without the Empress’s decree, how can we act?”
Zhou Xing smiled coldly. “General, are you afraid of the Empress’s wrath? Think of the deposed Crown Prince Li Xian—what doubt remains?”
Qiu Shenji fell silent.
Li Xian… Yes, the previous crown prince.
His current task had been to travel south to Bazhou to inspect the deposed prince’s residence. Why a general was sent on so minor a mission was because the Empress had another secret order: send Li Xian to join the late emperor.
But before departure, he’d been assigned to escort the deposed Li Xian to Fangling—a seemingly incidental errand, but now, with Zhou’s hint, Qiu saw the Empress’s deeper intent.
Zhou continued, “If the princess were to die in childbirth, the Empress would be greatly relieved. Even if she does not reward us immediately, she will not forget. If the Prince of Luling grieves himself to death…”
He left the thought unfinished, eyeing Qiu Shenji meaningfully.
Qiu was silent, finally glancing at Li Xian’s carriage, a murderous glint in his eyes. “Send the prince’s attendants over the river ahead. Especially the midwife—make sure she boards the boat.”
...
Their voices were low, so the soldiers nearby could not hear, but at a distance, two sharp eyes watched them closely, their expressions shifting with every word.
One was a Daoist, the other a commoner, both young men.
The Daoist was striking, with a high nose and bright eyes, his face like carved jade. His robes fit well, accentuating his bearing. An eight-trigram pendant hung from his waist, a long sword on his back—a wandering hero’s garb.
His companion, however, was his opposite—so ugly as to inspire cold sweat. A scar half a foot long slashed from left brow to right jaw, an inch wide and deep as if plowed by iron, splitting his face in two. On a dark night, one might not tell if he were man or ghost.
Strangely, the ugly man carried a boy of about ten on his back, pale-faced, eyes closed, obviously sick.
...
The Daoist watched Qiu Shenji from afar, smirking. “Since ancient times, monarchs have been fickle; none are more heartless than the imperial house!”
He glanced at the ugly man and the child.
“If nothing else, this journey has taught me the truth of that saying.”
The ugly man said nothing, but this Daoist was a formidable figure, skilled in both martial and mystical arts—and adept at reading lips. Though Qiu and Zhou’s plot was secret, the Daoist had relayed every word to him.
At length, the ugly man rasped in a voice harsh as splitting wood, “Li Xian and Li Xian must not die yet.”
“Oh?” The Daoist arched a brow. “You wish to save them?”
“Yes.” The ugly man looked up.
“Including the child in Princess Wei’s womb.”
He bowed solemnly. “I beg your help, Master.”
The Daoist fell silent, his face growing cold. He had not expected the ugly man to want to save them…
After a long pause, he said, “Three favors.”
“My master sent me down the mountain to grant you three wishes.”
He regarded the ugly man sternly. “Are you sure you wish to squander the third on this?”
The ugly man hesitated, head bowed, then finally said, “Save them.”
“Alas…” The Daoist sighed, his tone softening, a hint of approval in his smile.
“With your temperament, better to abandon revenge altogether. Otherwise, you’ll only bring misery upon yourself.”
In other words, the ugly man was not ruthless enough.
And without ruthlessness, how can one speak of vengeance?
...
“So be it!” The Daoist swept up his sleeves.
“If you lack ruthlessness, so do I.”
“Let this be a matter of conscience for me today. After all… it’s but a simple task.”
He smiled at the ugly man. “This one’s on me.”
The ugly man stared in astonishment. In all their time together, he’d never known the Daoist to shirk real danger—but saving those the Empress wished dead, with the Jinwu Guards close by, would surely mean a bloody fight.
Could it really be so simple?
Just then, a young man in purple robes burst from the ranks, his face drawn with anxiety despite his fine attire.
He hurried into the crowd at the ferry, calling out, “Is there a midwife? Any midwife here? Good people, is there a midwife among you?”
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“Midwife?”
The midwife had already been sent across by that ruthless general; where would another be found? Qiu Shenji had resolved to let Princess Wei die here, and then…
If Li Xian died of grief and hardship en route, what could be more natural?
...
The people waiting for the boat edged away, as if avoiding a plague.
Only the Daoist stepped forward, as if anticipating this moment, smiling at ease.
“I have some knowledge of medicine. Young master, are you seeking a midwife because your household is about to welcome a worthy child?”
The anxious young man was none other than the deposed emperor, Li Xian. Though desperate, he remained courteous, replying in bitter tones, “That is so.”
He bowed. “Master Daoist, do you know if there is a midwife at this wild ferry?”
His voice trembled at the end, even he doubting hope.
Unexpectedly, the Daoist laughed. “There is no need to worry. I can act as midwife in her stead.”
“You?”
Li Xian was astonished. “Master, that seems improper…”
A man delivering the princess’s child? What decorum is that?
“Hey!” The Daoist waved his hand.
“In dire straits, one does not avoid the healer, nor heed gender.”
“Besides, I am a man outside the world—you need not worry.”
Li Xian hesitated. To have a man deliver his wife’s child—there was something off…
But in this predicament, what choice did he have?
At last he nodded. “Very well. I entrust this to your miracle hands.”
Better a Daoist midwife than two deaths.
...
The Daoist settled the matter with a few words, but Qiu Shenji would not have it.
“Hold!”
He strode over, blocking the Daoist.
“Impudent charlatan! You dare…”
Before he could finish, “Ah!”—before he knew it, the Daoist had reversed his grip and seized Qiu’s arm.
Despite his frail appearance, the Daoist’s strength was immense; even through his sleeve, Qiu’s arm went numb with pain.
He tried to shout, but the Daoist drew him close, whispering coldly in his ear.
“General, your fate is in decline—disaster looms.”
“You…”
Before Qiu could react, the Daoist continued, less obliquely this time.
“Li Xian and Li Xian are both of the Empress’s blood. Even if the Empress commands it, do you think their deaths will go unpunished?”
Qiu Shenji was stunned. The Daoist had struck at his deepest fears.
The Daoist then added, still more chilling:
“There must always be someone to accompany the dead…”
The words, soft but sharp as knives, sent shivers down Qiu’s spine.
Who would accompany them? Who would be punished?
“I…”
He snapped out of it, shouting, “Who are you?!”
But the Daoist had already vanished, leaving only a wisp of immortal presence behind.
...
***
An hour later.
From the carriage by the riverside came a newborn’s cry, bringing warmth to the misty world.
When Li Xian took the baby from the Daoist’s hands, tears streamed down his face. With trembling hands, he caressed the child. “My poor child, born in the wilds…”
“It is my fault…”
“Your father’s fault…”
The Daoist, usually composed and aloof, was moved by the scene, gently comforting him:
“The birth of a young phoenix is a blessing, Your Highness—why grieve?”
“Extremes turn to their opposites, loss gives rise to gain—such is the law. From nothing comes everything.”
“Now, with no place to rest, no burdens of fame, no cravings for luxury, Your Highness is truly in the realm of ‘having in nothingness.’ Why lament?”
Li Xian was drawn in, his face regaining a touch of light.
Perhaps, he thought, he was fortunate after all. This was a true master—not only a skilled healer but a philosopher whose words reached the core.
Just as the Daoist said, in his fallen state, exiled from the capital, he had lost everything—but gained a new child, loyal companions. What more could he ask?
He bowed deeply. “Heaven has shown mercy in sending me your aid, Master. Allow me to bow in gratitude.”
The Daoist waved it off, resuming his aloof manner.
“It was nothing, not worth mentioning.”
His gaze drifted to Qiu Shenji, who stood alone by the rain-soaked riverbank, lost in thought.
If Li Xian and Li Xian were to be truly saved, it would take more than this.
He turned to Li Xian. “The roads are wet and treacherous, the princess is weak—you should set out soon for the posthouse to rest.”
He prepared to take his leave.
...
At that moment, unnoticed, the sick child once carried by the ugly man had awakened. He stood nearby, bewildered by the Daoist and Li Xian’s conversation, staring at the baby girl in Li Xian’s arms.
The Prince of Luling, Li Xian?
Exiled to Fangling?
Princess Wei?
And a child born en route—this, this…
The boy’s eyes widened, his mind blank.
With a flicker of hope, he slipped off his raincoat and offered it to Li Xian.
“It’s cold… don’t let the baby freeze.”
Li Xian paused. He recognized the boy from earlier, knew he was with the Daoist, and felt no suspicion.
Looking around, all his attendants had been sent across the river by Qiu Shenji—there was truly no one to offer even a scrap of cloth.
He accepted it.
“Thank you, young master.”
With a sigh, he said, “My child is unfortunate indeed, swaddled by the kindness of strangers. Perhaps… you should be called Guo’er, the Swaddled One…”
“Guo’er?”
“Li Guo’er.”
The boy’s face changed; he rolled his eyes and collapsed.
It really was Li Guo’er!
Before fainting, he managed to mutter, “Fuck!”
...
***
Prologue: “Tales of Old Tang” (II)
…
The mountain rain faded.
Fright and illness had left Wu Ning unconscious until nightfall.
By candlelight, he looked around: lattice windows, carved beds, painted beams and rafters—still the ancient style. The day’s bizarre events played vividly in his mind, and he could not help wondering:
Had he truly traveled through time?
“No, please!” he cried inwardly.
Time travel might seem exciting to others, but for Wu Ning, a man of considerable success in his former life, it was a calamity.
He had no regrets, no unfulfilled wishes. Born to a family of accountants, he had enjoyed a good life. Influenced by his parents, he became a member of the Chartered Institute of Management Accountants at twenty-four.
As a member of that prestigious, century-old global institution, his future had been limitless.
So why… why had he ended up in this wretched place?
In his last memory, he’d returned home after his studies and reunited with his childhood friend—not much drinking, not much eating, just listening to that scoundrel boast of his life as a rich heir.
And that wasn’t enough—he had to show off, dragging Wu Ning to visit the family business, and then—
Boom!
With a single explosion, he found himself in Tang!
At the thought, Wu Ning’s young face turned green, and he cursed, “Tang Yi! You bastard, why’d you drag me into that mess?!”
...
“Tang Yi?”
“Who is Tang Yi?”
The door swung open, and the Daoist entered, hearing Wu Ning’s muttered complaints.
Wu Ning froze, quickly regaining his composure.
Since he had transmigrated, he had inherited the memories of the ten-year-old body he now inhabited.
His Tang-era self was also named Wu Ning, born to a humble farming family outside the capital.
Five years ago, a plague had swept through the city, taking his parents. Just as he was left alone, an ugly man appeared—claiming to be his maternal uncle, and took him in.
For five years, Wu Ning had lived with this uncle.
This trip was said to be to visit relatives in Fangzhou.
Travel-worn, the ten-year-old had fallen ill, giving the later Wu Ning a chance to take over.
As for the Daoist, Wu Ning knew him as Meng Cangsheng.
Though only in his early twenties, Meng had trained since childhood with a renowned master, skilled in both letters and arms, and was a genial, open-hearted companion.
More a knight-errant than a priest, really.
Despite being rescued by his ugly uncle, Wu Ning did not think much of the man. He was not only ugly, but lazy, ignorant, and spent his days drinking and brooding. Without the Daoist, they would have starved.
The Daoist now brought in a porcelain bowl, handing it to Wu Ning as he asked, “Who is Tang Yi? And what is a ‘firecracker pile’?”
Well, Tang Yi hadn’t existed in the Tang era, and certainly didn’t thirteen hundred years later—gone with the fireworks.
Tang also lacked firecrackers.
Wu Ning could only change the subject.
...
He examined the fine porcelain bowl, glanced around at the elegant furnishings, and asked, “Where are we?”
He meant: given their circumstances, they could never afford a place this fine.
Meng narrowed his eyes, noting the boy’s new tone and poise.
But he let it pass.
“We are here thanks to the Prince of Luling—an official posthouse.”
“Oh,” Wu Ning replied calmly.
It seemed saving Li Xian had not been in vain—at least they wouldn’t have to sleep in a flea-ridden inn.
“Oh?” Meng was intrigued. This child was different indeed.
He raised his brow, “Aren’t you surprised?”
For a peasant’s son, Li Xian was an unimaginable figure.
Wu Ning hesitated.
In their world, he was the Prince of Luling, Li Xian. In mine, he was just a name in a history book—what was there to be surprised about?
But as Meng pressed, Wu Ning realized the day had been too strange to hide his bewilderment. He paled, fell silent.
Meng said nothing, watching quietly, intrigued by the boy’s composure.
Wu Ning waited, then, seeing he could not escape, said, “Though feverish, I overheard some of your conversation with the general today.”
“Oh?” Meng smiled wider.
“And what of it?”
“Nothing,” Wu Ning shook his head, improvising.
“Just a sudden realization.”
“What realization?”
“That besides grain to feed people and swords to kill, there are also tongues—words can both kill and save.”
Indeed, this Daoist was formidable—three sentences had saved Li Xian and sealed Qiu Shenji’s fate.
...
As it happened, Meng was delighted by such words. Daoism values insight, and Wu Ning’s words resonated with him.
“Ha ha ha!” he laughed.
“Well said! Yet you have more to learn.”
“Do you not know, all things are neither good nor evil—grain can feed or kill, swords can slay or save.”
“All depends on a single thought, a single heart. Do you understand, Jiu-lang?”
Wu Ning could only nod, “A little.”
“Good!” Meng sighed, smiling at Wu Ning.
“Not as precocious as I was at ten, but still promising.”
“Would you become my disciple, learn the Dao, and wander the world?”
...
“Ah…”
“Ah?!”
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...
Wu Ning was stunned. He’d misjudged this Daoist.
What was this—become a Daoist disciple? Wandering the void in a single enlightenment? Was this an immortal fantasy?
There was no way back to his old life—but with his talents, he was sure to make something of himself. Even in a novel, even a science dunce like Tang Yi could thrive!
Become a Daoist? Impossible.
“Well…” he hedged.
“I’m afraid…”
Before he could refuse, three soft knocks sounded at the door.
“Master, are you inside? I… have a request.”
Wu Ning recognized the voice—Qiu Shenji from earlier.
Meng paused, annoyed at the interruption during his recruitment.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and the burly Qiu Shenji, now in plain clothes, entered, hunched and cautious.
“It’s late—have you not yet retired, Master…”
His tone was humble—gone was the earlier bluster.
Meng smiled. “No need for ceremony, General. Speak your mind.”
Qiu hesitated, glancing at Wu Ning.
Wu Ning read the cue and stood, “I’ll just…”
“No need,” Meng interrupted. “He is my disciple—speak freely.”
His desire to recruit Wu Ning was stronger than his wish to dismiss Qiu.
Wu Ning rolled his eyes—he hadn’t agreed to anything!
“Well…” Qiu hesitated, but decided to speak openly.
He closed the door and bowed deeply, startling both Meng and Wu Ning.
“Master, I beg you—save me!”
He wailed so loudly that the whole inn might hear.
“…”
Wu Ning and Meng exchanged glances, then laughed.
It was instantly clear why Qiu had come.
After all, Meng’s words earlier had hit home. Throughout history, the imperial house has been most heartless. For power, even brothers are slain—what hope is there for a mere pawn?
For Qiu, only death awaited.
Yet this was a death trap:
If he killed Princess Wei and Li Xian, he would die in the end; if he refused, he would die upon returning to court.
He wanted to live.
...
“Master, save me!”
“I have long served the court, obeying the Empress, and though my sins are grave, my family is innocent.”
“I beg you, for the sake of the people, show me a way out!”
Wu Ning nearly burst into laughter.
Was this ancient man truly so naive? Was it faith or folly to entrust one’s life to a stranger met half a day ago?
He sat back, curious to see how Meng would respond.
...
Little did he know, his outsider’s detachment, born from a time traveler’s sense of superiority, only made Meng more interested in his composure.
Wu Ning underestimated the ancients, thinking himself clever, but to Meng he’d already revealed a flaw.
Still, Meng could not imagine the truth—that Wu Ning was from thirteen centuries in the future.
“Save…”
Meng paced, hands behind his back, thinking more of Wu Ning than of how to save Qiu.
“How?”
He eyed Qiu. “If even you don’t know, how should I?”
“No, no!” Qiu insisted. “You are a man of the world—you must have a way!”
“Please, Master, save me!”
“Save?” Meng repeated, his tone now mocking, as he picked up his sword.
“Why should I?”
With a clang, he drew the blade, pointing it at Qiu.
“Do you know who I am? Why should I save you?”
…
Qiu looked up to see Meng’s Daoist robes and cold, murderous eyes. More terrifying—
He was left-handed!
In a flash, Qiu cried, “You… you’re the left-handed swordsman?!”
...
“Alas!”
Wu Ning finally sighed.
He muttered, “Seeking death…”
“Yes. Seeking death,” Meng said coldly, now valuing Wu Ning even more.
He turned to Qiu, “Had you not guessed, I might have spared you. But since you know I am the one who stormed the palace, aided prisoners, killed officers, how can I let you live?”
...
“I…” Qiu, a straight-talking brute, paled and collapsed.
“I…”
He couldn’t even beg for mercy.
“So be it,” he sighed at last, resigned.
“To die by your hand is a good end—at least my family will be safe.”
“Do it!”
Qiu understood that Meng would target only him, not his kin. If the Empress acted, none would survive.
Knowing he could not win, he bowed his head for the blow.
But silence followed, and he looked up to see—
The boy he’d ignored now stood between him and the sword.
“…”
Qiu was astonished, not understanding the ‘master and disciple’ act.
Wu Ning met Meng’s gaze, calm but weary.
He grinned—a midnight sun, and Meng’s heart trembled.
“Jiu-lang, why do you intervene?”
Wu Ning said, “I’ve never seen a killing before.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh?” Meng smiled, lowering his sword.
“If I don’t kill, I must save. But if I can’t save, how can you?”
Wu Ning spread his hands, glancing at Qiu.
The big man stared, all bravado gone—who wants to die?
But Wu Ning’s next words nearly killed him with frustration.
“Simple: just stage the killing outside.”
“…”
____________________
That night, a left-handed, sword-wielding demon attacked the posthouse, injuring Zhou Xing and several guards. General Qiu Shenji of the Left Jinwu Guards valiantly repelled the foe, pursued for miles, and fell from a cliff, dying in the line of duty.
Empress Wu mourned, posthumously promoted Qiu to Grand General, and cared for his family.
...
***
The next day.
Mountain roads, two horses.
Wu Ning’s ugly uncle rode ahead, while Meng and Wu Ning shared a horse behind.
“What a pity,” Wu Ning grumbled. “If only we’d continued with the Prince of Luling, we’d have had good food and shelter.”
“Heh,” Meng chuckled.
“Whose fault? You insisted on sparing Qiu Shenji.”
“Hey!” Wu Ning protested.
“That’s not fair—it was you who let him go, and made things complicated.”
Wu Ning was not stupid. Though inexperienced, he could see the truth.
Meng drew his sword not for Qiu, but for himself.
If Wu Ning had been harder, he would have watched coldly. He would not have said “seeking death,” drawing trouble to himself.
But his previous life would not allow such coldness; he could not bear to see this era’s cruelty so soon after arriving.
It wasn’t about good or evil, nor any self-righteousness—he simply didn’t want his first act in this world to be witnessing such brutality.
...
The Tang—the height of Chinese civilization, the pride of the Han people.
Wu Ning hoped it would be as he imagined—not so cold.
But since Meng had forced his hand, Wu Ning dropped the pretense.
He was what he was—clever, different; let Meng try to figure him out.
He was still Wu Ning, and no one could discover his true origin.
“You never meant to kill Qiu.”
“Oh? How do you know?”
Wu Ning considered. “Anyone who can be swayed by a few words is not a fool. You don’t get that far by being stupid.”
“Then why?”
“Because he isn’t too far gone—he can turn back.”
“He came to beg for his life, proving it. If he knew he couldn’t, why bother?”
“Then how do you know I wouldn’t kill him?”
“If you wanted to, you’d have done so at the ferry. Your words there were more test than threat—to see how far he’d fallen.”
“Had he reacted, you’d have drawn your sword—why wait until night?”
Meng was silent a long while, studying Wu Ning.
Since last night, this ten-year-old had surprised him again and again.
Had he and the ugly man kept their past secret, he might have suspected the boy knew more than he let on—was he a demon?
“Jiu-lang, become my disciple. I’ll teach you everything.”
“No.”
“You’re not so otherworldly yourself—why should I seek immortality?”
Meng said nothing.
His master had once said the same.
“Then, why not call me brother?” Wu Ning said lightly. “You’re skilled, I’m not stupid—let’s join forces and take on this world. Wealth and glory are vulgar, but the world is wide—where can’t we go?”
…
“Very well,” Meng replied, almost against his will.
He didn’t know why he agreed.
...
Bathed in the setting sun, the hills of Guanzhong glowed blood-red. Meng gazed into the distance, unfocused.
“The world is vast… where can’t we go?”
He sensed:
This boy, destined for unrest, might truly carve out a legend in this wretched world.
...