That was one evening—Chen Dasheng sat in the new bathtub preparing to bathe. The household no longer used the old bathing cauldron now; they’d grown wealthy, and it was time to be particular about such things.

They now owned a large new bathtub, though the two of them often sat inside it watching Gennu and An’er splashing about in that big tub.

The tub sat in the west side room, one room holding just the tub and a water-permeable rattan bed for scrubbing down.

Filling that enormous tub required six young servants working briskly for half an incense-stick’s worth of time, and during that time, they couldn’t make too much noise—they had to come and go silently yet swiftly.

This was a luxury enjoyed only by first-rank households.

And now, Qinwei Lane had it too.

Chen Dasheng, leaning on his cane, entered the side room, undressed himself, and sat into the tub. As the water rose around his body he let out a sound—hah~—it had been a long time since he’d properly washed himself; even though his wounds healed remarkably fast, he’d still gone without for so long.

The water splashed and rippled.

The door creaked open again. He leaned back against the wooden board, eyes closed, saying: “No need to attend me.”

But it was Qiqian’er’s voice that answered: “It’s me.”

Chen Dasheng’s eyes snapped open, then closed again.

The ripples in the water spread outward layer by layer; Chen Dasheng didn’t dare move.

Many scars had been added to his back—this matter wasn’t over yet, and now that he’d bathed today, there’d be no hiding it any longer.

Qiqian’er dipped a cloth into the hot water a few times and said toward the tub: “Lie face down.”

Chen Dasheng scraped his foot against the bottom of the tub, then lay prone against the wooden board propped over the tub.

On that board sat even a small pot of wine and a stack of salted beans.

He always favored this sort of strongly flavored, simple, cheap food—perhaps because, back in his hungry days, he’d once fought hard for just such a bite.

But today, this wasn’t something he’d asked for.

And so his heart trembled a little, his voice growing unsteady as he spoke.

“Wi~fe?”

If every family has its own particular temperament, then their family’s temperament was small-mindedness and pettiness.

This temperament clearly came from this very woman. She held grudges without hiding it, and had drilled it into the Old Madam’s pettiness to quite a degree by now.

Qiqian’er focused on scrubbing Chen Dasheng’s back; with one gentle push her heart gave a lurch—the man she cherished, protected close to her heart, had become like this?

The scabs on Chen Dasheng’s back, hard as a tortoise shell, came loose.

They should have fallen off long ago; only for fear his father would notice had he endured the itching and held out until today.

Qiqian’er traced circles on Chen Dasheng’s back with her fingers: “Have a drink?”

Chen Dasheng answered: “No, I won’t.”

She said again: “It’s fine, I’m the one telling you to.”

Chen Dasheng reached out a trembling hand to pick up the wine pot, when from behind came another voice: “You’ve scarred.”

The wine pot dropped into the bathwater. Chen Dasheng didn’t move; Qiqian’er, however, shook her head with regret: “What a pity.”

His back had once been entirely unmarked in front—she’d loved his back, smooth, resilient, even, strong. She’d loved kissing it there, again and again, as if kissing her own treasured possession—after all, she’d lost him once already, and had only just managed to reclaim him.

But now this smooth back she loved so much had scarred, crisscrossed all over.

Chen Dasheng swallowed hard, buried his face down, and had nothing more to say.

Qiqian’er then treated him like a fish, pushing him onto the rattan bed and scraping him down from head to tail as if descaling him. Once she’d finished tending to her “fish,” Chen Dasheng, exhausted to the bone, was drifting into a doze when he heard footsteps.

Without opening his eyes he reached out and caught his wife’s wrist: “Must you go?”

Qiqian’er hummed in assent.

Chen Dasheng opened his eyes helplessly, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before saying: “It’s not worth it. Don’t go.”

He didn’t realize his voice had taken on a slight waver.

Qiqian’er looked down at him: “It is worth it. It’s only a matter of time—the willow trees at the street corner are already budding.”

Chen Dasheng, helpless: “If you must go, go look in on the Ministry of Justice’s major case prison first. The clothes and token are in my study.”

He’d long anticipated this day would come, and had long since prepared what was needed.

Qiqian’er nodded and turned to go, but her wrist was caught again.

Seeing his wife’s expression darken, Chen Dasheng propped himself up with a forced smile: “Hey, let me teach you four words.”

Qiqian’er, not understanding his meaning, blinked and nodded.

Chen Dasheng pushed himself up, pressed a hand to his lips and coughed a few times, feeling awkward inside—but for the safety of those out there, he had no choice but to teach her.

He lifted his face, brows furrowed: “Hm?”

Qiqian’er’s eyes widened, and she raised her hand to slap him; Chen Dasheng quickly stopped her, pleading: “Wife, wife, I’ll teach you four words—learn them and you can go anywhere, truly.”

Qiqian’er lifted her chin, mouth twisting: “Huh? Then teach me.”

Chen Dasheng furrowed his brows: “Hm?”

Chen Dasheng turned his face aside, disdainful: “Humph!”

Chen Dasheng’s face took on a mocking look: “Tsk~!”

Chen Dasheng’s expression turned indifferent: “Ah.”

Having finished the performance, he looked at his wife with an earnest expression: “Did you learn it?”

Qiqian’er, still not understanding, was about to laugh: “What does it mean?”

Chen Dasheng, helpless: “Doesn’t mean anything in particular—they all mean the same thing, really. Once you’re out there, these four words will be enough for anything. Did you learn them or not?”

Seeing this dead man’s uneasy expression, for the sake of household peace, Qiqian’er finally nodded flatly: “Ah.”

Chen Dasheng sniffed, pursed his lips, and gave his wife a thumbs up.

On the first day of the third month, the seventh year of Daliang, Qiqian’er dressed herself in the robes of the Changdao Bureau, wore a Yishan cap upon her head, a xiezhi mask over her face, and mounted a black horse, swaggering openly into old Qingfeng street.

She hadn’t disguised herself as Chen Dasheng—it hardly mattered, since all seven of them looked identical anyway.

She was, in effect, a miniature Old Blade.

Truth be told, playing a man wasn’t a bad feeling at all—she could twist and swagger her body however she pleased, and no one thought anything of it.

Riding high on horseback, swaying along the street, she passed by all sorts of stalls, seeing everything from top to bottom with unusual clarity. She spotted the wife of the steamed bun shop with the big bamboo steamer, leaning out the window making eyes at the second shopkeeper across the way; the woman, catching sight of her, gave a startled cry and quickly shut the window, only to open it again shortly after and wink at her too.

Tsk!

Halfway along, feeling hungry, she wanted to buy a flatbread to eat, but the vendor wouldn’t take her money? What nonsense was this—did she look like that sort? She dug two coins from the small leather pouch at her waist, which held five hundred cash, and tossed them onto the table.

The vendor smiled, fetched oil paper, carefully wrapped the bread in three layers, and handed it to her with both hands.

Qiqian’er, pleased with herself, reached out and grabbed a handful of copper coins, feeling it was rather a lot; she put a portion back, then in the end tossed a few coins onto the stall and walked off.

Walking off some distance, she heard the vendor’s loud thanks trailing behind her: “Thank you, Lord Xiezhi, for your generous reward!”

Whispers rose around her.

“Did you see that, he paid.”

“Indeed, what grace, what a fine official!”

This counted as a good official? Was being an official in Daliang really this easy?

Hmph~.

And so, munching on her flatbread, she took a bite—there was meat inside? This vendor was truly a good sort; she’d buy from him again next time.

Ambling along, as she was leaving Qingfeng city, a young girl suddenly blocked her horse, first giving her a shy smile.

Tsk tsk tsk…

Then she tossed a red embroidered pouch at her.

Tsk tsk tsk…

Men should all just die!

Qiqian’er turned the pouch over in her hands, examining it. Hm, crude workmanship, inferior embroidery, and the fabric was old too—judging by the wear and discoloration, this must have been from a skirt waistband, best quality sixty cash a chi, no more than that.

This girl’s needlework skills, in her own household, would earn six hundred cash a month at most—not a coin more. And sturdy, dark-skinned too, and she dared bat her eyes at her?

Having thrown it, the girl pointed shyly toward the end of the street: “Lord Xiezhi, this humble one lives at the end of New Lane, my, ahem, my father sells oil, Old Five…”

Having said this, she skipped off happily.

Qiqian’er looked at the pouch, then at the retreating whirlwind, baring her teeth… Tsk!

But little did she know, outside the Changxin Hall, that whipping incident, She Qingling and his son, and the reputation of the Old Blades had already resounded throughout the rivers and mountains of Daliang.

People respected the Prince’s character, and praised Chen Dasheng’s filial conduct.

Moreover, in the old days on Qingfeng’s streets, such a mighty, imposing cavalry troop would often pass by, cloaks billowing as they swept through the long street—these were, after all, Daliang’s last Old Blades. Though as people near the capital they held some fondness for the Black Cavalry Commandant too, that didn’t stop the local folk from admiring strength wherever it was found.

This lord usually moved swiftly through his day—what was he doing today, ambling along, looking this way and that, even buying a flatbread to eat, being… rather endearing, somehow.

Who would have thought that beneath the Old Blades’ tough exterior lay such a side to them—truly… ah, all just ordinary family sons after all, none of it easy, all for the sake of Daliang’s realm.

Qiqian’er had no idea what she’d just saved, dawdling along on horseback, dawdling… dawdling all the way until the capital gates were about to close, before finally riding up alongside the inspection queue of horses needing to enter the capital, waiting to be checked.

This gave the guards quite a fright, front and back.

Normally this group swept in through the gates like a gale, always making it seem as though they were rushing to a rescue—today, why was she so leisurely?

The old gate guard had already spotted her and hurried over, taking hold of the bridle, looking up at her with a grinning smile.

“Marquis entering the city?”

Qiqian’er, not understanding what he meant, wanted to ask, but afraid of giving herself away, held back a long moment before turning her face aside and saying: “Hm?”

You haven’t even checked me yet, haven’t taken the entry toll—why are you leading me straight in?

The guard, elderly, his legs somewhat unsteady, escorted Qiqian’er into the city, and seeing no one around, cupped his hands earnestly and asked: “Every day I watch the City Gate Lords hurrying to and fro, and it’s been so long since I paid my respects—my lord, might I ask how the Prince’s health fares?”

Ah, he was asking about Father.

Qiqian’er nodded: “Ah.”

He was doing fine—already begun tormenting his two grandsons over their studies.

The old guard’s eyes welled with tears; he patted the horse’s neck and sighed: “My family had some entanglement with the Ministry of Works, and found ourselves an unlucky in-law family besides. If not for the Prince… ah, great kindness needs no thanks. I trouble you, City Marquis, to tell the Prince when you return—this humble servant’s whole family kowtows in gratitude for the life-saving mercy. Once I have some spare means, I’ll go to Huguo Temple to light a month’s worth of eternal lamps for the Prince.”

Having said this, he cupped his hands and bowed—such an elderly man, at that.

Qiqian’er quickly hopped down from her horse—goodness, she stood half a head shorter than him.

She gave a token gesture of support, then hurried back onto the saddle, riding off a good stretch before she heard the old guard laugh behind her: “So it was the Seventh Marquis.”

Guan Si’er hadn’t heard this—if he had, he’d have felt terribly wronged, since he stood half a head taller than his older brother. Why should the Seventh Blade be the short one?

Qiqian’er knew where the Ministry of Justice held major criminals—not far from where Chen Dasheng and the others used to live, right by Jiu Si Tang too.

And so she rode on, ambling further inward.

The capital was vast, and as she rode along, she noticed the East Fang gate area had opened up many silk and satin shops—the New Year’s changeover sale, discounting old stock?

Well then, might as well take a look.

These merchants knew how to sell—they’d laid the discounted patterns out bolt by bolt right at the shop entrance. Tsk, wasn’t pomegranate-blossom pattern in fashion last year? Seemed the household didn’t have any of this fabric yet.

Women do love to browse, and Qiqian’er reined in her horse, walking and looking, drawing plenty of onlookers from a distance; now and then she’d lift her mask a little and quickly take a bite of her flatbread.

Yes, this flatbread was enormous—the Qingfeng vendor had truly been generous.

Such an unseemly gesture drew the disdain of a martial-world figure secretly observing from the second floor of a nearby teahouse.

This fellow had a face full of bristling whiskers, was tall and sturdy, chest bared in the spring warmth, chest hair showing, features fierce and imposing; he turned aside to ask the shopkeeper: “Old Wu, is that the invincible Old Blade everyone talks about? Which rank is he?”

Just before the New Year, Chen Dasheng and his father had upheld the law before the throne, and Chen Dasheng’s reputation as an Old Blade had resounded across the realm.

Yet strangely, not long after this good reputation arose, all sorts of other rumors sprang up out of nowhere—that the Old Blades’ martial skill was unmatched under heaven, that their body techniques were ghostlike and unfathomable, that the Old Blades were proud and unruly by temperament, that the Old Blades looked down on all martial-world figures, and so on.

This rather provoked the martial-world types.

Adding to this, with Gu Hongyun of the Northern faction recently arriving in the capital and becoming Jiu Si Tang’s deputy commander, Meng Dichen had begun to feel a sense of crisis.

Determined to handle this case impressively, without Jiu Si Tang holding things down, a number of martial-world figures had slipped into the capital amid the chaos.

They hadn’t come to cause trouble exactly—it was just that under the old strict official regulations, questioned at every turn, tailed by watchers, they’d had no freedom entering the capital from start to finish, and naturally felt stifled.

The one asking questions here came from the Northern faction’s Wai Jun Gong family, known in the martial world by the alias “Headless Golden Blade,” said to be one step away from becoming a recluse master.

His trip to the capital this time had a purpose too—having received a commission, he meant to make trouble for Gu Hongyun, stirring up some chaos.

But this didn’t stop him from looking down on these supposedly invincible Old Blades.

Looking down from the teahouse, tsk, such a scrawny little chicken frame, even eating in small dainty bites, and—raising the pinky finger too?

Practically pressing her head right up against the fabric on the street—this womanish thing was supposed to be a blade too?

Pah! Not convinced!

That fellow called Old Wu leaned forward to look, and finally confirmed to Headless Golden Blade: “That’s precisely the Seventh of the Old Blades.”

Headless Golden Blade stroked the blade before him, asking deeply: “How much do you know about them? That weapon in his hand—how skilled is he with it, really?”

This Old Wu was himself a capital idler by origin, who’d scraped together a few shallow skills to earn the nickname “Eight-Direction Ears,” a capital gossip-monger of sorts.

But no matter how much he asked around, he’d never managed to get to the bottom of the scout family’s affairs, and didn’t want to lose face in front of Headless Golden Blade, having taken the man’s money after all.

So he nodded ambiguously: “This Mr. Gu is on duty tonight at the Ministry of Justice prison gate—that much is certain. As for the City Gate Lord’s skill, I truly haven’t seen them draw a blade myself. You’re a man of wide experience—you’d know they used to hold the vanguard position, cavalry blades on the battlefield. Coming to the capital, there’s been no place to show it off, that’s all.”

Headless Golden Blade stroked his beard, giving a cold laugh: “Hmph, the capital’s getting more and more absurd these days—anyone can claim to be invincible under heaven?”

Old Wu, currying favor, naturally went along with his words: “That, that… naturally so. With your wide experience, one glance and you’d see through to the truth. From what I hear, the Old Blades rank by skill—whoever’s strongest ranks first. This Seventh Blade, though…”

Before he could finish, Headless Golden Blade slammed the table, his face turning savage: “Hmph, what Son of Heaven’s face, what law-enforcing xiezhi, invincible under heaven! Today let me, Headless Golden Blade, have a taste of him, and let this bunch of running dogs in the court see what real skill looks like! All that mouthing off, what use is it… just watch what becomes of him!”

He flew out the window, with Old Wu calling after him, none too reassured: “Oh dear, mind you don’t kill anyone!”

Qiqian’er had taken a fancy to a bolt of fabric—a fine damask-patterned silk from the south; her father had been going through his inner robes quickly of late, and this silk would suit him well.

But feeling for her purse, tsk, she had less than four hundred cash.

This fabric, originally two strings two hundred cash, was now selling for just one string one hundred cash—hiss… this cut right to the heart. Missing out on this would surely keep her up at night.

She’d have to raise their monthly allowances after this. Just as she was feeling disappointed inside, suddenly a gust of forceful wind bore down from overhead.

Turning her head, she saw a burly, hairy-faced man flying out from the second floor of the teahouse next door, both hands gripping a gleaming golden blade, slashing straight at her.

A golden blade? Really?

Gold was so soft—could it even be made into a blade?

Headless Golden Blade felt his own movement was swift beyond measure, his technique fierce and powerful, the blade’s force such that it could pierce clean through the wooden panels of the fabric shop’s storefront in a single strike.

Yet this move of his, this technique, appeared slow to Qiqian’er’s eyes.

Indeed, extremely slow.

The blade came slowly toward Qiqian’er’s face; she simply reached out and caught the flat of the blade.

Hm? The blade was rather thick, a full inch at least.

A real gold blade?

Not convinced!

Headless Golden Blade, gripping his blade, found himself hoisted right up into the air?

The horse beneath her lost its balance; Qiqian’er shifted her weight to adjust her position, and Headless Golden Blade traced a half-circle through the air, like a kite cut loose with nothing to anchor it.

Qiqian’er had always been precise at gripping blades—she was especially good at finding the balance point. With one reach she caught the golden blade right at its point of equilibrium, and out of curiosity as to whether it was truly gold, applied some force.

Snap! The golden blade broke in two with a sound, and Headless Golden Blade tumbled to the ground, staring in shock at the broken half-blade in his hand, his gall nearly bursting, very nearly wetting himself on the spot.

A monster? An immortal?

Qiqian’er, too, came to her senses—damn it, right under the Emperor’s nose, in broad daylight, in front of everyone, how dare you slash at me?!

Strike me and you strike my Choutou—a thousand cuts wouldn’t be punishment enough!

And so she raised her chin, one hand still holding a piece of flatbread, brows furrowing as she gave a single: “Hm?”

Headless Golden Blade was an old hand of the martial world; breaking into a cold sweat, he glanced left and right, then suddenly dropped to his knees, holding up the broken half-blade, his face full of reverence: “Blade Lord!! This lowly one is Zhao Wushou, from the Northern Four Prefectures. Having long heard of your great renown, admiration welling up unstoppably in my heart, I specially sought out a master craftsman to forge a golden blade, meaning, meaning to present it to you as a gift—this, this was all a misunderstanding…”

He lowered his head to examine the broken edge, then held the blade up above his head with both hands.

The marketplace street fell utterly silent.

Qiqian’er, of course, already understood perfectly well what this was about—but should she just let it go at that?

She glanced again at that bolt of damask silk, feeling rather unwilling to give it up—it wasn’t often she got to come into the capital, after all.

And so she nodded, saying flatly: “Ah.” once.

She looked again at the broken blade’s edge—so-called golden blade, just gold-plated on the surface, that was all.

If it had truly been offered to her as a gift, then as a court official she absolutely could not accept a bribe. But, since it was the common people’s admiration for her, presenting a blade before her like some kind of banner of a thousand blessings—not accepting it would seem rather rude too.

She knew full well, of course, that this had simply been a failed attempt on her life—well then, you struck first, and I let you off; that’s me not disgracing my family’s name.

So then, so then… consider it purchased, shall we.

Qiqian’er reached down, pulled out a handful of copper coins from the small leather pouch at her waist, and tossed the whole lot to Headless Golden Blade.

Having thrown it, she dismounted.

Headless Golden Blade flinched back in fright—paying money to spare his life?

Qiqian’er, however, reached out and grabbed the other broken half, turned, and walked into the fabric shop, setting the blade down on the counter.

She pointed at the golden surface of the blade, indicating it was solid real gold.

The shopkeeper didn’t quite know what to do, and in the end could only nod: “Oh, oh, oh, oh~.”

And so the matter was settled.

Qiqian’er stepped out satisfied, tucking the half-price damask silk under her arm, and with a light touch of her foot leapt back onto her horse; giving the horse’s belly a nudge, as she passed Headless Golden Blade she gave him one more disdainful: “Humph~!”

Such were the despicable tactics of some. This old lady had to get to the Ministry of Justice today, and pay a night visit to the palace besides—no point squabbling with the likes of you.

All along the street, people watched as the City Gate Marquis was first attacked, then snapped a massive golden blade in two with her bare hand, and afterward, when the wandering swordsman tried to argue his way out, the City Gate Marquis, wise and valiant, seemingly unwilling to cause bloodshed, had as punishment simply confiscated the man’s blade as collateral.

Given the man eight lifetimes’ worth of courage, he still wouldn’t dare go to the fabric shop to redeem his blade with the money he’d taken from the City Gate Marquis.

Truly, without spilling a single drop of blood, she’d ground that scoundrel’s face into the dirt, leaving him with nothing to say for himself.

Now that was a job handled with real class and propriety!

Tsk!