Chapter Twenty-Nine

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A few descended the mountain and reached a rural village. The sky had grown dim, and the air was thick with the scent of burning wood, yet there was no aroma of cooked rice. Farmers, having toiled the fields all day, were leading their oxen home, faces adorned with smiles, occasionally greeting passing villagers. Early spring rains had been frequent this year—was this not heaven’s pity for these suffering people?

They walked deeper into the village, where many earthen houses stood, alongside numerous abandoned ones. When the inhabitants had all perished, the homes naturally fell into ruin, or if they could no longer endure, they fled to escape famine.

The early spring dusk fell swiftly, and given the village’s remoteness, the four could only find refuge for the night in a larger abandoned house, intending to rest briefly before journeying on at dawn.

Passing by the village well, several women gathered to draw water and chat. Their attire set them apart; they seemed unwelcoming to the four strangers, whispering of village gossip. After filling their buckets, they quietly headed home, mindful not to spill a drop despite the jostling of the rough road.

Night fell rapidly, and without the moon, the darkness was impenetrable.

They arrived at a sizable earthen dwelling, seemingly abandoned only recently; its doors and windows had been torn away by villagers for firewood. Though only a hollow shell remained, the house still looked large. Yang Feng glanced around, noting time was short. “Let’s choose this one—darkness is coming quickly.”

Xiao Yu picked up a wooden stick, lit a piece of tattered cloth with her fire striker, and wrapped it around the end, fashioning a torch. The four entered the house, which was dilapidated—charcoal and broken porcelain scattered across the floor. Evidently, many travelers had taken shelter here before them.

Inside were two small rooms and a wood storage room for cooking fires. The bed was a kang made of yellow earth, and the stove was similarly built, though no pot remained. Apart from the scattered charcoal and porcelain shards, the house was utterly empty.

After a moment’s inspection, the four returned to the main hall. The night was fully dark now, and the torch’s flame flickered weakly. Fortunately, Xiao Yu had brought wax. She took some wrapped in paper, found a suitable shard of porcelain on the floor, placed the wax on it, threaded a thin string from her clothing as a wick, and lit it—creating a simple candle.

Xiao Yu handed the porcelain to her master and made three more in the same way—one for each person.

A soft yellow light filled the room. With no doors or windows to shield the chill night air, the small flames alone were insufficient; they needed a fire to sleep comfortably.

Xiao Yu put away the wax. “Master, while the villagers are still awake, I’ll take some copper coins to barter for firewood and food.”

Yang Feng looked to Lin He. “He’er, you and I will go. It’s not suitable for the girls.”

Xiao Yu glanced at Lin He, who nodded. “Fushou Mountain Village isn’t far. There might be bandits around.”

At the hour of You (early evening), darkness enveloped the village. The farmers had yet to retire, but without moonlight, only the faint glow from paper windows lit the homes. Years of drought had reduced the population, and the streets were eerily quiet, save for the rustling of cloth shoes on hard earth.

The two arrived at an earthen house with a small courtyard enclosed by low walls—no gate, less than ten feet high, barely taller than Lin He. Such courtyards were uncommon in the village; houses with them were wealthier and more likely to trade food.

They entered the courtyard. In the corner stood a cow shed, built from wood, tall and sturdy—higher than the house itself. This was to prevent theft, for in times of drought, no household could bear to lose an ox. Where the ox was, the home was; losing it meant fleeing famine. Thus, even if the house was earthen, the ox shed was built solidly.

Lin He knocked twice. Soon, a middle-aged man’s voice called from inside.

“What do you want?” He had clearly noticed them already.

Lin He replied, “We have traveled far and hope to exchange some firewood and food.”

The man unbarred the door and cracked it open slightly. Lin He lit a torch to show himself clearly. The man’s expression changed to excitement.

“Hero Lin!” he exclaimed, immediately opening the door.

Lin He was puzzled—no one had ever addressed him so respectfully. But upon seeing the man’s face, everything clicked. This was the couple he had rescued days ago.

The man was deeply moved. “Quick! Come in! Come in!” He pulled them inside and hurried to bring stools.

Yang Feng, noting the man’s hospitality, asked Lin He, “He’er, what’s your relation?”

Lin He smiled wryly, “Not long ago, I saved this couple on Jiuling Peak. Fate indeed brings chance encounters.”

The man set down two benches and said earnestly, “Thanks to Hero Lin’s timely help, you saved me and Zilan’s lives! Otherwise, with only three young children remaining at home, our family would have been utterly destroyed!”

They sat, Lin He humbly responding, “It was but a small deed, nothing worth mentioning.”

The man shook his head. “To martial artists like you, it may be small, but to us common folk, it is a debt of life!”

Suddenly, he hurried to a bedroom, calling out cheerfully.

“Zilan! Zilan! Come see who’s here!”

“Quiet, the children are asleep. Who would come at this hour?”

“Come see for yourself!”

“Lower your voice! Who could make you so happy?”

A woman emerged, and the man covered her with a blanket. The moment she saw Lin He, her expression froze, and she immediately knelt, overcome with gratitude.

Lin He would not allow such homage before his master. He stepped forward swiftly, helped her up, and said, “Why this suffering? By age, you are like my parents.”

Helping her to her feet, Zilan’s surprise softened into emotion. “Among all martial artists, who is as magnanimous as Hero Lin?”

Lin He withdrew his hand. “The entire realm is filled with heroes and nobles; many are magnanimous. I am unworthy of such praise.”

Yang Feng smiled approvingly; Lin He’s demeanor pleased him greatly—just the disciple he hoped for.

The husband said, “Zilan, you chat with them. I’ll go bake some cakes.”

She nodded as he left for the kitchen. Lin He resumed his seat.

Smoke rose from the firewood room. Zilan brought two cups, poured hot water, and handed them over.

“Warm yourselves… We have no tea…”

Yang Feng asked, “Your home seems well-off. Why is the ox shed built so tall?”

A look of helpless sadness crossed Zilan’s face. “My husband and I are not natives. Five years ago, we moved here. My grandfather was once an official in Nanyang and had some standing. But a political purge was launched. My grandfather was beheaded. My husband and I fled with what little we had. Our surname is Xu, but this village is Zhangjia Village. We were shunned and robbed by villagers. Our connections kept us afloat for a few years, but the purges reached here, too. Now we must guard against the villagers; we dare not resist openly.” Her sadness and helplessness were unmistakable.

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Yang Feng nodded. “Since Crown Prince Zhong took office, the government has been weak and corrupt, with many purges. But in the end, only the honest officials suffer.”

Zilan agreed. “The officials are all corrupt and treacherous now. The Crown Prince is weak and unfit. If not for a woman twenty years ago avenging a secret, killing Emperor Zhong Tai, many upright officials would not have been so wronged.”

Lin He frowned deeply. Yang Feng remained silent, sipping his tea. The husband emerged from the wood room, carrying a bamboo basket in one hand and a wine jar in the other. The basket’s bottom held thick logs, topped with freshly baked cakes wrapped in cloth, still steaming.

Zilan said, “This jar of old wine was passed down from my late father. It is a century-old vintner’s brew. I sense your heavy hearts. Whatever troubles you face, this wine is for you—to ease your sorrow and as thanks.”

The man handed the wine and basket to Lin He. Yang Feng nodded slowly, “We’ll accept, then.”

The man added, “If you do not press on tonight, stay and rest here.”

Yang Feng smiled wryly. “The journey is long; we cannot tarry.”

He nodded, “If fate allows, may we meet again, benefactors.”

Outside the courtyard, Lin He offered money, but the couple refused. Yang Feng said, “Let it be, He’er. Repaying kindness is the greatest thanks.”

Lin He nodded, “If fate wills, we shall meet again.”

They left the couple’s home and walked along the village’s muddy paths. All the village lamps were extinguished; the villagers were in bed. The darkness deepened, silence thickened. Lin He carried the bamboo basket in one hand, the wine jar in the other, and they quickened their pace.

Ahead, the abandoned house glowed faintly—Xiao Yu stood outside, holding her candle, worried they might lose their way. She had been waiting long.

Returning inside, Lin He found Mu Xiangming gone. As he was about to ask Xiao Yu, she produced a letter, handing it to him with a mournful expression. Lin He set down the basket and jar, took the letter, and read it by candlelight:

“The teacher has passed away, my aunt and uncle are gone. Now that you have been accepted as a disciple by Senior Deng, it feels as though the world has abandoned me again. We are no longer suited to live together. I will no longer follow your footsteps. I believe I am meant to remain in the forest, untouched by this cruel world. Please allow me to live alone in the woods, and I hope that as you step into greater realms and fame, you will not forget me... — Mu Xiangming.”

Though brief, the words stabbed Lin He’s heart like a thousand needles, filling him with overwhelming shame and regret. He clutched the paper, unable to calm himself, burdened by guilt for not noticing her sorrow. He felt powerless to make amends, both emotionally and practically.

How could she find her way alone in such darkness? His eyes brimmed with remorse. Slowly, he folded the letter and tucked it into his chest.

Xiao Yu, an emotional girl, understood the complex bond between them and the suffocating pain of such feelings. Yet Lin He had chosen to follow his master, a man of broad mind.

After placing the letter away, Lin He finally spoke, “Let’s eat, Master… We have more road to cover tomorrow.”

Yang Feng exhaled in relief. He was a strict man; if Lin He had wallowed in sorrow over a woman’s departure, he would have expelled him. That was a promise he had made.

Lin He took out the firewood from the basket, piled it, poured wax over it, and lit it. Soon, a roaring fire filled the house, casting bright light and driving out the chill, though it could not dispel the heavy thoughts within.

Lin He had not felt such fierce fire in a long while. Amid the flames, he imagined four figures laughing and warming themselves by the blaze.

In their conversation:

“Mom, why can fire bring both warmth and light?”

His mother smiled at the girl beside her. “Do you know?”

She nodded. “The teacher says fire is heaven’s power, bringing light and warmth.”

His mother then looked to his father. “You should answer too!”

His father laughed softly. “Fire is neither as bright nor as gentle as you.” Their laughter filled the air.

Lin He silently murmured, “Dad… Mom… What should I do…?”

After a simple meal, they rested. Lin He and Xiao Yu slept separately in small rooms; Yang Feng sat cross-legged in the main hall, guarding his two disciples. The hall had no door, but the two bedrooms did.

At midnight, the fire had long died. Lin He’s room had a back door leading outside. He lit a lamp, took the wine jar, and stepped out. Sleepless, he had heard that wine could soothe troubled minds.

Behind the house was a slope of yellow earth. Lin He sat there, setting the lamp aside, uncorked the jar, and took a deep drink. It was his second time drinking—first with Brother Ma, when he had only sipped lightly. Now, holding the jar, he drank deeply.

He laughed at himself—such weakness to drink so freely.

This wine was indeed remarkable. Despite his large gulps, he detected a faint floral fragrance lingering in his nose—subtle, delicate, persistent. Most potent was the wine’s strength; just two drinks brought a clear intoxication.

“Drinking alone is no fun,” a voice said behind him, tinged with laughter.

He turned to see Xiao Yu approaching, holding two bowls and a candle. Her slender figure clad in a fitted white robe, she looked unexpectedly beautiful.

She sat beside him, placing her candle next to his. She handed him a bowl.

He hesitated.

She smiled, “Take it! Afraid I’ve poisoned you?”

He took the bowl. “You drink too?”

She gestured for the jar. He handed it over. She smiled, “I started drinking at age three!” Then, narrowing her eyes, she challenged, “Dare to compete with me?”

He grinned, “I’ve already had two big gulps—you’d have the advantage.”

Without another word, she raised the jar and drank deeply. Lin He tried to stop her, saying, “Just joking. You’re a girl; drinking with me would cause rumors.”

She pushed his hand aside, laughing, “I’m no cheat! Don’t stop me. If I win, it’s dishonorable!”

Two gulps down, she tasted the wine’s unique quality, then looked at Lin He.

“It’s osmanthus wine, aged at least fifty years. Once opened, it should be finished quickly.” She glanced at him again.

Lin He’s eyes flickered. “If it’s that precious, maybe we should save it for Master.”

She laughed softly, “Master doesn’t drink—Taoists don’t. Pour me a full bowl!” Then she filled her own.

Their bowls were palm-sized—small for wine, but she filled to the brim. Lin He saw no reason not to drink.

They clinked bowls and drank together.

True to character, Lin He finished without pause, eyes closed, gulping it down, unconcerned if Xiao Yu could keep up.

When done, he wiped his mouth, watching her finish hers despite his attempt to stop her. She even flipped her bowl to prove no tricks.

Both began to feel the wine’s effects. Xiao Yu’s cheeks flushed, while Lin He’s complexion also darkened, though his tolerance was worse. Yet he showed none of her joy.

He gazed toward distant mountains, eyes deep and hollow—like an endless abyss.

Xiao Yu watched his profile. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to flutter his robes, as if telling a story both warm and sorrowful.

Lin He remained silent; Xiao Yu also looked toward the same direction. Because of him, her gaze deepened. She bit her lip and began to share her story.

“My mother was a courtesan in a brothel. I never knew my father. My mother died when I was very young...” Her sudden confession caught Lin He’s full attention.

“Fortunately, they say my mother was kind and raised me well, teaching me right from wrong. I didn’t feel shameful; instead, I saw how fleeting and empty feelings between men and women could be…”

She changed tone. “People at the brothel praised my looks, saying I resembled my mother. But the more they praised, the more afraid I became—afraid I’d be forced like them, tormented by men. So I ran away, escaping to Man Country.”

She paused, eyes reflecting a profound calm—a world she had never shared, a scar she could not erase.

She continued, “Later, Gonggong Deng took me in. I lived with the Deng family for five years. Many liked me there, and I was happy. I felt their genuine fondness—Lu Zhang, at the peak of swordsmanship, and Deng Liangzhou, who led a thousand men. But I couldn’t feel moved. To me, relationships were fleeting. I saw no need to risk permanent wounds for momentary joy.”

Xiao Yu spoke with emotion. Lin He listened earnestly. He knew she wanted to comfort him, to ease his sorrow. But his relationship with Mu Xiangming was far from simple. His parents were murdered overnight, and he was powerless—a pain few could bear.

He sighed deeply, still gazing at the mountains. “Many say my mother was great, but she was not famous. Some even despised her… What she spent her life doing failed, leaving her with endless troubles…”

He tightened his emotions and continued, “They never taught me martial arts. They tried to make up for their guilt in their own way, leaving me to watch them leave helplessly… Now I’ve learned four sword techniques, and my breakthrough to the ninth heaven is near. But the helplessness clings, growing stronger…”

They met each other’s gaze.

The candlelight revealed their faces clearly. At that moment, Lin He saw her beauty—unique, shaped by inner choices, like a gentle spring breeze, comforting and pleasant.

A similar feeling stirred within Xiao Yu. Lin He was a soul unlike any she had known, one she admired deeply.

Breaking the silence, Xiao Yu said, “You are already very talented. Master said your future achievements will surpass his!”

Lin He turned away; Xiao Yu still watched him.

“I once obsessed over martial arts, but now I see—what use is supreme skill? What’s lost is lost.”

Yet they both looked toward the same direction.

At that same time, Mu Xiangming was atop Jiuling Peak. Heavy snow fell. She knelt by her teacher’s grave, crying. No one knew how long. Snow clung to her trembling body, her hands red from the cold, her delicate face purple, eyelashes frosted white. Perhaps she wept endlessly.

The mountain Lin He looked toward was Jiuling Peak.

We all have reasons to pity ourselves, but I hope you have someone who pities you besides yourself.

—Kong Yu

Postscript:

Kong Yu wishes to say to readers who have come this far:

Happy New Year in advance. “The Prequel of Martial Crane” has about five hundred thousand words left to complete. I’m sorry I cannot yet present a finished prequel, nor a perfect ending. But in 2025, let us look forward together to new stories!

Author’s note:

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