On the banks of the Yellow River, a town called Kunyu, decay and dilapidation mingled together.
Once a sprawling settlement, more than half of its buildings had already collapsed. Some sections had been consumed by fire, their charred, ash-black beams still standing amid the rubble, weathered by wind and rain. In the decade-plus since the Jurchens first marched south, war, roving bandits, mountain brigands, refugees, famine, plague, corrupt officials — wave after wave had left its mark on this place.
What had once been Kunyu now retained less than half its former inhabited area. Yet precisely because of its remote location, it counted, amid the near-total desolation across the Central Plains, as one of the better-preserved places with some life still left in it. The roads in and out, though long neglected, could still bear heavy carts. Though the town had shrunk by more than half, its core district still kept its inns, taverns, and even its brothels open for business.
In the past, most of the great crossing points along the Yellow River had been controlled by the Jurchens or the puppet Qi regime. But near Kunyu, where the current ran a little slower, the area had become one of the black-market smuggling crossings along the river. A few small boats, a handful of boatmen willing to risk death, had propped up whatever prosperity the little town had left.
Over the years, there had been repeated turf wars among the underworld, expulsions by the army, and raids by mountain bandits — but no matter what, the small town had gradually pulled through this endless cycle. The population thinned during times of war and slowly grew again when conditions eased somewhat.
In the summer of the second year of Zhenxing, things were relatively peaceful — but with the general situation across the realm having eased somewhat, the major crossings along the Yellow River were no longer under martial law, which in turn had hurt Kunyu’s smuggling trade; business was noticeably slower than the year before.
May marked the flood season, and even fewer people were crossing the river here now. On the third day of the month, the town’s tavern had few customers. A couple of tables of regulars sat in the main hall, and the storyteller who’d been staying in town lately arranged his table and chairs, recounting recent events from across the realm — though with so few in attendance, the middle-aged storyteller’s delivery lacked much spark.
As noon approached, two figures came walking along the road toward the center of town, clearly headed for the tavern’s front door. The two — one tall, one small; one stout, one thin — were a pair of monks in worn, patched robes. The stout monk was tall and broad, built rather like a Maitreya Buddha statue, seemingly getting on in years, with a bundle slung across his back; the small, thin one was only a young novice, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old.
Seeing this pair approach, the waiter’s face showed a flicker of irritation. Monks lived off alms from all directions — but in times as chaotic and war-torn as these, who had grain to spare for charity? He looked the stout monk over carefully, saw no weapon on his back, and instinctively planted himself in the doorway.
“Venerable masters…”
Before he could finish his slightly curt greeting, the stout monk, looking past him into the tavern’s main hall, said with a smile, “We’re not here for alms.”
“We have money,” the young novice said, holding up a string of copper coins.
The waiter’s expression changed at once. “…Please, this way, venerable masters.”
The two monks stepped inside, and the novice asked, “Can we sit upstairs?”
“Of course,” the waiter said with a smile. “Though our proprietor’s recently brought in a storyteller from the north at considerable expense — you might hear him more clearly down in the main hall. But upstairs works fine too, since it’s not too busy today.”
Kunyu’s smuggling trade had, in better days, brought in plenty of business, with smugglers who drank and spent freely — so the tavern’s second floor had a row of tables and chairs along the railing, letting guests look down and enjoy the storytelling and performances from above. The young novice was clearly drawn to that vantage point, and once he spoke up, the stout monk agreed, “Upstairs it is, then.” The waiter, naturally, said nothing further, and led the two up with a smiling face.
Once seated, the stout monk asked about the day’s menu, then, quite generously, ordered several dishes of fish and meat — the waiter was a little surprised, but of course had no objection. Once the order was placed, the monk also asked him to bring three sets of bowls and chopsticks, suggesting a companion was still to arrive.
With the order taken, the waiter went back downstairs. The storyteller in the main hall, noting the new arrivals, raised his voice a little, launching into the story of last year’s world’s-number-one martial arts tournament held in the southwest. The young monk leaned against the railing upstairs, listening with great interest.
About a quarter hour passed this way, when another figure arrived from outside — this time a man of the martial world, unmistakably distinctive, tall and broad-shouldered, his face scarred, hair unkempt and loose. Though travel-worn, he clearly looked like no one to be trifled with. The moment this man walked in, the little bald head upstairs waved vigorously at him. He went straight up. The young monk bowed to him, calling out, “Uncle-Master.” He then said to the stout monk, “Elder Brother.”
The three gathered here were, of course, Lin Zongwu, the number one martial artist under heaven; his junior fellow disciple “Mad Tiger” Wang Nantuo; and the young monk Ping’an.
In these recent times, after the Jurchens had left, the land of Jin had gradually settled into peace. Lin Zongwu had taken his disciple Ping’an into seclusion for a stretch, mainly to solidify the boy’s foundation in martial arts — real combat could sharpen one’s ability to adapt, of course, but ordinary daily fundamentals mattered just as much. After bringing Ping’an out of seclusion, Lin Zongwu had felt that Jin had grown rather uneventful, whereas the south was stirring with turmoil, quietly building toward something big — the ideal place for the boy to season himself. So he’d simply brought Ping’an with him, heading toward the banks of the Yellow River.
In recent years, Lin Zongwu had largely stepped back from managing the affairs of the Manichaean sect, and among those who knew his private movements, only Mad Tiger Wang Nantuo was aware. Upon learning that his senior fellow disciple and grand-nephew disciple planned to head south, Wang Nantuo had written ahead, arranging to meet here in Kunyu.
The three sat down, and the waiter had already begun bringing up the dishes one after another, while the storyteller downstairs continued his engaging tale of the southwest. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Lin Zongwu and Wang Nantuo finally got to the point. “How do things stand in the south?”
“Tense as a drawn bowstring,” Wang Nantuo said with a grin. “Liu Guangshi paid a hefty price to secure the first batch of military supplies from the southwest, and his intent to take everything south of the Yellow River has become pretty clear. Dai Mengwei might well be mixed up in it too, looking for his own cut. Chen Shiquan in Bianliang, Yin Zong in Luoyang, Zou Xu at Funiu Mountain — they’ve all banded together now, bracing for a fight.”
“Chen Shiquan, Yin Zong… surely they’re no match for Liu Guangshi?”
“Liu Guangshi has strong troops and well-fed horses, sure — but on the Bianliang side, Zou Xu is a real force to reckon with. He was personally trained by Ning Liheng himself — defected or not, he really knows how to drill and command troops. Luoyang and Bianliang are now backing him with everything they’ve got — all the resources south of the Yellow River are concentrated in Zou Xu’s hands, in that force of forty thousand of his… They’ve got no other choice, really. Yin Zong used to be the top dog, but these days, Zou Xu doesn’t play games or work angles — with just the strength of the men under him, both Yin Zong and Chen Shiquan have to call him ‘big brother.'”
Lin Zongwu nodded. “Those forty thousand men — even if they’re only half as fierce as the southwest’s Black Banner, I’d imagine Liu Guangshi’s still got some worries in the back of his mind…”
“Once he got southwestern backing, Liu Guangshi wasn’t nearly so timid anymore. Word is, privately, that fellow from the southwest has actually been egging Liu Guangshi on to fight — even said something about refunding two-tenths of everything Liu Guangshi’s already paid, if he captures Zou Xu. So Liu Guangshi’s after Zou Xu’s head, no question. But if it really comes to blows, things won’t be so simple — that old fox Dai Mengwei is privately in league with Liu Guangshi, wanting to seize the Central Plains for himself, but when it comes to the matter of Zou Xu, he’d rather mediate — persuading Zou Xu, Yin Zong, and Chen Shiquan to surrender, form an alliance, and stand together against the southwest. So really, how this all plays out is anyone’s guess right now.”
Wang Nantuo paused. “But one way or another, by the second half of the year, it’s bound to come to blows.”
Lin Zongwu nodded, and they spoke a bit further, when another group came into the main hall below. There were eight of them in all, carrying blades and spears, with the swaggering look of men from the martial underworld. The one leading them was dressed richly and flashily, gripping a long blade, with narrow, triangular eyes and a sinister look about him — clearly some local underworld figure of Kunyu, on familiar terms with the proprietor.
The eight of them came swaggering in with a great deal of noise, looking around, and — seeing the two tables of locals — waved and greeted them with raised eyebrows. It was only then that they noticed the three upstairs, and two of the blade-carrying thugs headed up, presumably to check whether these three “outsiders” posed any threat. Meanwhile the narrow-eyed leader had already sat down at the table nearest the storyteller, calling out, “Old Xia, tell us something exciting — something with women in it. Enough about that damned southwest already.”
“Y-yes, yes…” the storyteller nodded hastily, launching into some tale of the martial underworld involving a great hero and a heroic woman, much to the narrow-eyed man’s satisfaction. Upstairs, the young monk pursed his lips in mild disappointment and leaned back to his food.
The two thugs came over to the table upstairs, eyeing the three of them. They might have originally been looking to pick a fight, but seeing Wang Nantuo’s fierce, forbidding face, they didn’t dare make a move. Seeing that none of the three carried any conspicuous weapons, they put on a show of bravado, gesturing something to the effect of “don’t cause trouble,” then turned and went back down.
“How are things in Jiangnan?” Lin Zongwu asked with a smile, turning to Wang Nantuo.
“The Fairness Party’s momentum is enormous — advancing a thousand li a day, so to speak. They’ve got well over a million troops under their command now.” Wang Nantuo said, glancing at Lin Zongwu. “Actually… part of why I’ve come this time has to do with the Fairness Party. I wanted to talk it over with you, Elder Brother.”
“I figured you had something on your mind,” Lin Zongwu said with a smile. “No need to hold back between the two of us — go ahead.”
“The Fairness Party’s leader is He Wen. He started out flying the southwest’s banner, but he was never actually part of the Black Banner — you should already know that.”
“I’d heard as much. There’s apparently some real gap between his thinking and Ning Yi’s — that’s what he says openly too, from what I hear.”
“Since last year, He Wen’s been flying the Fairness Party’s banner, calling for land redistribution and the leveling of rich and poor, tearing down the landlords and gentry, making everyone equal. At first it looked reckless — most people figured, at best, it’d end up like Fang La’s old ‘Eternal Joy’ regime. But He Wen genuinely learned a fair bit from that man Ning while he was in the southwest. He’s kept a firm grip on power, tightened up discipline — wherever the Fairness Party goes, they inventory the wealthy households’ property, hold public trials exposing these rich men’s crimes, but strictly forbid indiscriminate killing. In just a year, the Fairness Party has swept across Jiangnan — from around Lake Tai, to Jiangning, to Zhenjiang, and now nearly up to Xuzhou — with strong troops and well-fed horses. Most of Jiangnan is his now.”
Lin Zongwu frowned slightly. “Tie Yan, Wu Qimei — they’ve just let it get this far?”
“Lin’an’s forces can’t hold them back. They’ve sent troops out three times now, and lost every time. Outsiders say the Fairness Party’s men fight without any fear of death — a match for the southwest, some say.”
“So what you’re getting at is…”
“The Fairness Party’s momentum comes largely from the fact that the methods He Wen brought back from the southwest actually work. He goes after the wealthy, redistributes land, dangles profit as bait — but at the same time keeps the common people under control, forbids indiscriminate killing, enforces strict military discipline, shows no mercy on any of that. It’s made the troops under him ever fiercer on the battlefield. But with things having grown this big, the Fairness Party has various factions within it too — one of what outsiders call the ‘Five Tigers’ under He Wen, Xu Zhaonan, used to be one of our branch hall masters, back in the day.”
“You want me to go help him?” Lin Zongwu’s expression darkened.
“Elder Brother, hear me out. Xu Zhaonan commands close to two hundred thousand men now, but he’s always held to his identity as a Manichaean, and always treated the sect’s elders with the utmost respect. The man’s a skilled trainer and commander of troops. At one point, he brought up something about the southwest. Back in the day, Zhou Tong drew on everything he’d learned in his lifetime to leave behind, for Ning Yi, a method for small units to cooperate and fight together on the battlefield. Later, Ning Yi refined that method further, organizing elite scouts into what’s called special forces — units whose sole task is assassinating enemy commanders and cutting down leaders on the battlefield, achieving remarkable feats time and again.”
Wang Nantuo continued, “Elder Brother, these so-called special forces, put plainly, are simply men of the martial underworld with formidable skill — except in the past, those with high skill tended to be arrogant and proud, and methods of coordinated combat were, at best, something practiced regularly only among close kin. But things are different now — with a great enemy looming, Xu Zhaonan has gathered many men together, hoping to train up troops of this same caliber. So he mentioned to me that, in this age, only the Sect Leader himself might be able to devise training methods to rival Grandmaster Zhou’s. He’d like to invite you to come and offer some guidance.”
At this point, the young monk Ping’an, who had long since finished eating, stood up and said, “Master, Uncle-Master, I’ll go down for a bit.” Without saying what for, he headed downstairs, bowl of rice still in hand.
Wang Nantuo, still trying to persuade Lin Zongwu, continued, “From what I’ve seen in Jiangnan myself, He Wen and the southwest’s Ning Yi aren’t necessarily at odds. As things stand across the realm now, the southwest’s Black Banner is first-rate in strength, Liu Guangshi’s the loudest voice with real momentum, and among the various factions to the east, honestly, the Fairness Party is the only one that’s kept growing without any visible ceiling. My guess is, if the Black Banner ever surges out of the southwest one day, the Central Plains and Jiangnan might well already belong to the Fairness Party by then — and the two sides could well come to blows.”
“In the past, Elder Brother, you stayed out of things in Jin, and I wasn’t in a position to say anything about it. But now that you’re planning to take Ping’an out to see the world, I do think it might be worth going to see Xu Zhaonan… hm? What’s Ping’an doing?”
At this point he noticed something seemed off down below — Ping’an, bowl in hand, had approached the narrow-eyed man listening to the storyteller, and the blade-carrier standing beside that local tough was now on his feet, apparently speaking to Ping’an with some impatience. Since it was just a child, no one had reacted as if facing a real threat, but the mood was hardly relaxed either.
Lin Zongwu smiled. “Yesterday, on the way here, we came across someone crying by the roadside — a man who’d had his family’s property seized by thugs, his family beaten to death, and he himself badly injured, barely clinging to life. Quite pitiful. Ping’an ran over to ask about it…”
Just as he said this, down below, Ping’an stumbled as someone shoved him roughly, and blood suddenly sprayed into the air — a shard of broken tile had sliced clean across the narrow-eyed man’s throat. The man who’d been shoving Ping’an also suddenly had blood spurting from his thigh. Before anyone could quite react, the young monk dropped low and darted straight through between two tables.
“AAAAAAAAAAAH—”
“Grab him—”
“Boss—”
“Kill him, kill him—”
The noise below erupted all at once.
“…As for the outcome of my questions, the one who did the good deed here, of course, was our friend down there. Turns out he’s the local tyrant of Kunyu, name of Geng Qiu — bullies men and women alike, killed no small number of people. And I also heard he’s taken a liking to coming here to listen to the storytelling lately, so it was right on our way.”
The main hall below had descended into chaos. Under cover of the tables and chairs, the young monk had already, in passing, laid out two more men. Some were smashing furniture, others swinging blades wildly — in an instant the room was a whirl of flying debris, the reek of blood, and dizzying confusion.
Wang Nantuo laughed and nodded. “So that’s how it is… looks like Ping’an will make quite the hero someday.”
“Whether he’s a true hero or not is up to him,” Lin Zongwu said with a sigh amid the chaotic melee below. “Just look at these people — going on about how Kunyu lives off the martial underworld’s rules, when the three types the underworld should most beware are women, the old, and children — and they don’t have a shred of caution among them… Is this Xu Zhaonan really someone we can trust?”
“He’s a man who gets things done. He has ambition, sure, but I don’t think he’d dare act out of line in front of us.”
“Fair enough. If it’s on the way south, I’ll stop by and take a look at him.”
Wang Nantuo laughed. “With you and Ping’an out and about again, Elder Brother, the martial world’s in for quite a stir.”
“Liu Xigua once wrote a poem,” Lin Zongwu said. “‘The winds and clouds of this world rise from men like us; once you enter the martial world, the years press hard upon you; grand ambitions and hegemon’s schemes, all talked over with a laugh — none of it worth a single drunken moment of life…’ We’re old now. What comes next in the martial world belongs to Ping’an and his generation…”
“Liu Xigua writes poetry now too?”
“I find it rather strange myself…”
Crash, bang, crash, bang — chaos reigned below. The tavern’s waiter fled upstairs to take shelter, perhaps hoping the two of them might put a stop to it all, but in the end he didn’t dare say a word. Lin Zongwu stood, took a small ingot of silver from within his robe, set it on the table, tapped it lightly, and then headed downstairs together with Wang Nantuo.
Ping’an had already burst out through the tavern’s back door and was nowhere to be seen.
The narrow-eyed man named Geng Qiu sat dead in his seat. Several of his underlings in the hall were injured; a few remained unhurt, and on seeing the massive monk and the fierce-looking Wang Nantuo, one of them charged forward with a wild shout — likely one of Geng Qiu’s own trusted men. Lin Zongwu smiled faintly. “Bold of you.” He reached out and grabbed the man — and in the next instant, the man went flying, smashing clean through a gray brick wall nearby, which slowly began to collapse.
The two of them hadn’t walked far from the tavern when Ping’an popped up again from somewhere, unseen, and fell in step beside them, heading toward the docks.
By afternoon, they were already aboard a bobbing ferry, crossing the rolling waters of the Yellow River, heading toward the southern lands beyond.
“Ping’an,” Lin Zongwu called out to the still somewhat excited boy. “Feels good, doesn’t it, being a hero and righting wrongs?”
“Mm-hm.” Ping’an nodded eagerly.
“Do you know — that man Geng Qiu, for all his wickedness in Kunyu, was also the reason certain other, worse people from outside never managed to break in. You killed him today — have you thought about what Kunyu will look like tomorrow?”
“Wh-what will it look like…”
“Tomorrow, the fighting starts. Today you only killed Geng Qiu — the few men he brought into the tavern, you went easy on all of them, didn’t really strike to kill. But now the whole of Kunyu is in for who knows how many rounds of turf war, who knows how many deaths. My guess is, dozens of people will die at the very least — and the ordinary townsfolk living in Kunyu might well get dragged into it too. Thinking about that, does it trouble you at all?”
“But… but I was doing a good thing. I… I just killed Geng Qiu…”
“You killed Geng Qiu meaning to do good. But now that he’s dead, dozens more will die after him — including innocent people, just like the tavern owner and waiter today, who might well end up caught up in it too. Is that really such a good thing, then? Good for whom?”
“Then… then what should I do?” Ping’an stood on the boat, turning to look back at the now-distant riverbank. “Should I… go back… and save them?”
“Turn back to Kunyu, and when the bad men come, kill them again, drive them off — that’s not a bad approach in itself. But starting today, that would mean staying there permanently, looking after all of Kunyu’s people. Do you want to spend your whole life there?”
“Master, what exactly are you trying to say? What am I supposed to do, then…” Ping’an looked at Lin Zongwu — in the past, this master of his had always had a way of saying things hard for him to grasp. Lin Zongwu smiled.
“With Geng Qiu dead, there’s no boss left here, so the fighting’s bound to start. So last night, this old monk went and paid a visit to the second-ranking power in Kunyu — a man named Liang Qing. I told him that Geng Qiu would be dead by noon today, and that he should move quickly to take over Geng Qiu’s territory. That way, Kunyu has a new boss again right away, and while everyone else is still slow to react, there won’t be a war — not too many people will have to die. And while I was at it, since I did him such a big favor, this old monk took a bit of silver from him too, as payment. That’s yours now — call it our travel funds for heading south together, master and disciple.”
He untied the bundle from his back and tossed it to Ping’an. The little bald head caught it in his arms, looking a bit stunned, then laughed. “Master, you’d already planned all this out.”
“Feeling pleased with yourself?”
“Mm.”
“But you know — come back here in two years and take a look. See whether the boss here is still this man Liang Qing. You’ll find he’s turned out just like Geng Qiu — still lording it over people here, still bullying men and women, still tearing families apart. Just like that poor man we saw yesterday — a victim of Geng Qiu’s cruelty. From now on, the poor souls here will be victims of Liang Qing’s cruelty instead. If that’s how it turns out, will you still feel pleased with yourself?”
The monk looked at the boy. Ping’an’s face was full of confusion, then turned to something like hurt. “Master, I don’t understand…”
“All conditioned phenomena are like a dream, a phantom, a bubble,” Lin Zongwu said. “Ping’an, sooner or later, you’ll need to think clearly about what it is you actually want. Do you want simply to kill a bad man and feel good about it in your own heart? Or do you want everyone to end up better off, and only then feel truly glad? You’re still young. Right now, doing good makes you happy, and you feel there’s only good inside your heart — that even after everything you’ve suffered these years in Jin, you’re still somehow different from them. But one day, you’ll come to see your own sins. You’ll come to see the evil in yourself, too.”
He tapped a finger gently against the boy’s small chest. “Right here. Every person in this world carries sin. Where there is good, there must also be bad — good gives rise to evil, and evil gives rise to good. Once you’ve truly seen your own sin clearly, you’ll begin, slowly, to understand what it is you actually want…”
His gaze was solemn as he looked at the boy, almost like an interrogation, a judgment being passed. Ping’an still couldn’t quite grasp the words. But after a moment, Lin Zongwu smiled and ruffled his hair.
“Take your time thinking on it. No rush,” he said. “The martial world of the future — that belongs to you and your generation now.”
The great river flowed on eastward, and across the wide world in this early days of the fifth month, sunlight spread bright and clear.