Chapter 1003: Snowy Jianghu, Some People See Things Through to the End

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The Jianghu Dream: The Knight-Errant Who Lives in Our Hearts

**Introduction**

In my youth, watching wuxia dramas with their glimpses of heroic swordplay, I always found myself inexplicably longing for that world. When the stories ended, I couldn't help but fantasize about being a dashing, free-spirited knight-errant who could settle scores as he pleased—standing firm and unyielding when his sword was sheathed, yet capable of wielding it with swift, flowing grace, like mercury pouring out or clouds unfurling.

After long days and nights spent dreaming, a world of jianghu formed in my heart, a jianghu dream. I believe I am not alone in this.

As the old saying goes, "A thousand readers have a thousand Hamlets." Similarly, for a thousand ordinary people constrained by the rules and conventions of real society, there are a thousand different jianghu worlds within their hearts. Those who seek fame find it, those who seek profit gain it, those who seek exhilaration find it, and those who seek stability achieve it. These jianghu worlds, which do not exist in reality, are like places where we fulfill our dreams. The tighter we are bound by the shackles of "rules," "boundaries," and "social norms," the more we yearn to freely stir up chaos and live unrestrained in the deepest parts of our hearts, within that jianghu. Simply put, the self that resembles a knight-errant in our inner jianghu is the true self we aspire to be.

But life is full of detours, too many irreversible paths. One wrong step and there's no turning back, which is the essence of "driving south to reach north." Sometimes, looking back, the direction we've taken deviates completely from our initial dreams. Yet, we are chased and driven by things like "social progress," "maturity of youth," and "the arrangements of fate," leaving us no time to pause and grieve. So we drift further and further apart, and the gap between dreams and reality widens, changing as profoundly as oceans turning into mulberry fields. In the end, our dreams are reduced to mere skeletons, remnants—that vast, mirage-like jianghu that emerges in our hearts whenever our blood stirs. In that jianghu, we are the most free, uninhibited, and unrestrained knight-errant.

*Sword Snow Stride* is the jianghu in the author Fenghuo's heart, and within *Sword Snow Stride* reside the knight-errants Fenghuo most admires.

North of Liyang is Beiliang, and north of Beiliang is Beimang. A Spring and Autumn unjust war destroyed countless ancient dynasties that had thrived for centuries. Consequently, only two giants remained to arm-wrestle: the Liyang Dynasty in the south and Beimang in the north. Yet, in the hearts of the people, what was most revered was neither the Liyang Dynasty, which encompassed the entire prosperous south and extinguished many kingdoms in the Spring and Autumn War, nor Beimang, which stood alone on the vast northern grasslands. This was simply because two places in the world were too renowned and glorious: Wudi City, where the "Second Under Heaven" resided, and Beiliang, which raised thirty thousand valiant cavalry.

The "Second Under Heaven" was not truly second, much like Dugu Qiubai never found a single worthy opponent in his life. Wang Xianzhi attained enlightenment through martial arts, becoming truly invincible for decades. Thus, Wudi City, where he resided, also incidentally became a sacred place in the hearts of everyone in the martial arts world. Beiliang was not "cold" at all; at least, the people's hearts were not cold. Far from it, they were burning hot. With a wave of Xu Rentu's hand, thirty thousand iron cavalry could flatten any place on this continent. Therefore, Beiliang was never considered a sacred land in people's eyes, but rather a demonic lair.

There were two such people: one master, one servant. The servant led a scrawny horse, and the master carried a jar of inferior wine. The servant was a little-known swordsman who could leave a sword on top of Wudi City, a place recognized as both sacred and forbidden in the martial arts world. The master was the heir of the demonic lair of Beiliang, a place so feared that people dared not even secretly complain or grumble about it. And so, the story began. From there, the entire jianghu unfolded.

**One. Xu Fengnian**

"A phoenix resides in Shuofang, choosing the Wutong trees of Beiliang for its roost. The world has never seen a divine phoenix, mistaking it for a beautiful swallow or sparrow, taking no notice. Yet, the phoenix is a favored child of heaven, and Beiliang, too, is blessed by creation's grace. When the phoenix nests in Beiliang, heaven and earth connect, bringing peace and prosperity. One day, it will spread its wings, let out a clear cry, and be unmatched in the world."

The young lord was outrageous. But "outrageous" alone couldn't fully describe Xu Fengnian's arrogance. His father was the Liyang Dynasty's only non-imperial king, and the most powerful army in heaven and on earth was his backing. Xu Fengnian certainly had ample reason to be arrogant. Thus, for his first twenty years, he lived a lawless life. He dared to snatch courtesans, reward notorious bandits, reject his engagement to a princess, and even host a grand music feast upon the former emperor's death. So, people called him a good-for-nothing, a scoundrel outwardly splendid but inwardly rotten. Even those who didn't openly criticize him secretly hoped in their hearts that he would squander Beiliang's vast family fortune, so that the great mountain pressing down on the entire jianghu and even the Liyang Dynasty would crumble on its own.

Does this sound familiar? Indeed, this is a favorite plot of Fenghuo's—a protagonist with a terrifyingly profound background, who might be a slacker or have physical/mental flaws, thus not being favored by most. Then, on a certain day, this protagonist seems to suddenly experience an epiphany, awakening and embarking on a path of counter-attack. *The Unrighteousness of Ultimate Young Master*, *The Daoist Canon of Satan*, *Little Ao of God Descends*, and *First Place of Toad*—all followed this path. So, following the old pattern, Xu Fengnian, who had been secretly scorned by the world for his first twenty years, also embarked on his path of self-validation, like a phoenix undergoing nirvana.

His six-thousand-li journey was a grueling ordeal of long treks and meager meals, suffering more than ten times the hardship he'd experienced in his first twenty years combined. But despite his complaints, he walked every step of the way, even finding joy amidst the bitterness, making a few friends, and playfully teasing some young ladies. His blade training was a self-discipline akin to asceticism. Masters are never made overnight. Even with the Tidewater Pavilion arsenal at his disposal, and with Wang Chongyang to teach him the Great Yellow Court technique and Li Chungang to impart the Two Sleeves Green Snake, Xu Fengnian still had to climb the martial path slowly, relying on his own perseverance, enduring suffering that his perpetually smirking face never once betrayed. Navigating society is not difficult, but the world Xu Fengnian had to face was filled with immense prejudice against him. Outside Beiliang, commoners feared him, powerful clans hated and scorned him, and figures at the pinnacle of jianghu or the imperial court wished to eliminate him quickly. His path was a perilous one, fraught with both overt and covert schemes, so much so that readers feel mentally exhausted just imagining it.

But without such trials, there could be no nirvana. For the sake of his mother, who was wronged in that city long ago, to seek justice for her; for his father, who loved and protected him for half his life, to ensure his future peace; for the women by his side; for the Fengzi Camp behind him; and for Old Huang, who was already buried but never forgot to smile at him from afar before he died—for all these reasons, Xu Fengnian had no choice but to walk this path. The young lord's outrageousness was not truly outrageous; that phoenix was originally a divine creature from the nine heavens. How could this mundane world understand his aspirations and pride?

—Those who believed in him would gain eternal splendor and prosperity.—Those who did not believe in him would be enveloped by his karmic lotus fire and fall into hell.

**Two. Jian Jiu Huang (Old Huang)**

"Sheng Sheng Man" Young Master Old Huang

Beside the Tidewater Pavilion,Carp and lotus, a pond fallen in Beiliang.Wind and rain from all directions,The young lord is most outrageous.Spring sleep, blue bird supports the couch,Calls for Red Musk, changes clothes.Do not say it's early, flowers are blooming in the haze,The whole city admires!Nine swords buried Sword Nine,Poured a pot of Dukang wine, not daring to be disheartened.Ten years of tempering, blade cracks Wudi City walls!After ten years, a single drunken morning,Facing north from Gu Mountain, heaven and earth as bed,Asking the mountain spirit, "How long is six thousand li?"

This lyric poem was written for Old Huang in July last year. When I first read *Sword Snow Stride*, I absolutely loved this utterly simple and honest old servant. Leading a scrawny horse that looked ready to collapse at any moment, he alone accompanied Fengnian through six thousand li of mountains and rivers. There were times of hunger and starvation, times of wind and rain. Time and again, they faced close calls, sharing bowls of inferior yellow wine. Two people and one horse, rising and falling together, leaving eight footprints—these six thousand li were the most genuine six thousand li. It was the journey that transformed Fengnian from a cunning but pampered, privileged scion who lacked understanding of how to handle people and affairs, into a mature and resilient individual.

And the only one to witness all of this was Old Huang. He was a grand swordsman, a master, whose Sword Nine could destroy even the sleeves of Wang Xianzhi, the "Second Under Heaven." Yet, he was also an overly kind person with no desires beyond the way of the sword, not even understanding how to flatter. Along the six-thousand-li journey, he could easily have made Fengnian's path a hundred times easier with a single sword stroke. But he didn't. He simply carried his sword case and walked side-by-side with Xu Fengnian. For hundreds of days and nights, this long and arduous journey saw a sword master and a young lord, down-and-out like a pair of martial-arts-less rural master and servant, finding joy amidst their hardship and leaving behind an unadorned legend in the jianghu. The reason I wanted to specially write a poem and a passage for Old Huang is that he is the first truly significant master to appear in this book's jianghu, and to this day, the most vivid and fully fleshed-out knight-errant. I take this opportunity, with the Qingming Festival approaching, to commemorate him.

**Three. Li Chungang**

Green robes linger, half a life entangled,The wooden ox sharpened and then broken.Fengdu last year, Guangling today.White clouds like grey dogs, peach blossoms like human faces.If Heaven had not given birth to Li Chungang,The sword dao through eternity would be a long night,Nothing but a futile, weary effort, like drawing water with a bamboo basket.

In his youth, he alone could make all the young men and women of the jianghu dream with wild abandon. In his old age, he alone could make the entire jianghu feel old. —What a grand, legendary life it sounds like: a green robe, a wooden ox sword, and even in old age, only one arm remaining. Yet, he was always the one and only Sword God of the jianghu. The Sword God who illuminated the eternal night of the sword dao. Sword qi rolling over dragon walls. Two sleeves of green snakes. Sword opening the Gate of Heaven. One sword piercing two thousand six hundred sets of armor. Li Chungang's sword was always so straightforward and unstoppable. He was truly one who "kills Buddha if Buddha blocks, kills god if god blocks." Precisely because of its unstoppable nature, his sword was the sharpest and most irresistible in the world. Thus, he remained an eternal legend and object of worship for countless young men and women who entered the jianghu with dreams, even if those young men and women had long since grown old.

However, Li Chungang's life was not always so straightforward. In his youth, he was a dashing figure in green, impossibly talented in the way of the sword, quickly becoming the Sword God in people's eyes. Countless noble young ladies secretly harbored affections for him; he was truly free-spirited. In his prime, however, he lost his beloved forever on the Demon-Slaying Platform, his Dao heart was broken by Qi Xuanzhen, he fell from the Celestial Phenomenon realm, and was even defeated by the young Wang Xianzhi, losing his wooden ox sword. This could not but lead to profound despair. Then, in middle age, he lost an arm and was confined beneath the Tidewater Pavilion for countless years, detached from worldly affairs, seemingly unable to ever reach the peak of the sword dao again. This was a despair tinged with desolation. Finally, in his twilight years, he re-entered the jianghu and wielded his sword again, experiencing a second spring. He even attained enlightenment in old age, and with a single cry of "Sword, come!", he reached the realm of a Land Sword Immortal, a realm that had been within reach yet eluded him for decades. His counterattack was deafeningly powerful. In the end, with one sword stroke, he pierced two thousand six hundred sets of armor. At the peak of the Guangling River tide, his power surpassed the great tide by three points. Yet, at this very peak, he washed his hands in a golden basin, resembling a suddenly halted sonata, its lingering echoes filling the air. An unstoppable legend, a boundless, desolate grandeur.

Indeed, if Heaven had not given birth to you, Li Chungang, it would have been utterly dull.

**Four. Hong Xiang**

Riding a cow backwards, disinclined to argue.On Wudang Mountain, watching sunrises and sunsets,Clouds rolling and unrolling, year after year.Half-step Celestial Phenomenon, three lives entwined in obsession.Xuanwu's rise for five hundred yearsIs not as good as being called "idiot" twice by that person.

On Wudang Mountain lived a shy Daoist who rode a cow. He was of extremely high seniority and peerless talent, said to bear the destiny of "Xuanwu's prosperity for five hundred years." His name was Hong Xiang, and he was the most unpretentious and endearing Martial Uncle Grandmaster on Wudang Mountain. He would always ride on the back of a cow, with a jumbled secular book tucked into his Daoist texts, swaying his head as he walked and read. When he tired of reading, he would go to the mountain peak and stare idly at the sunset, wondering what he was thinking about, or perhaps what he was missing. It was somewhat incredible that such a lazy and unhurried person would shoulder the heavy responsibility of Wudang Mountain's resurgence.

Until he stepped into the Celestial Phenomenon realm. Until he entered the Land Immortal realm. It was only then that readers suddenly realized that this simple-minded young Daoist was truly the reincarnation of Patriarch Lü. And this naive young man, who had remained confined to Wudang Mountain's boundaries, unwilling to descend, had in fact willingly abandoned the Dao of Heaven to reincarnate for three lifetimes in the mortal world, all for the woman in red.

As the old saying goes, "Heaven does not fail those who put in painstaking effort." And for a devoted person like Hong Xiang, who was let down by Heaven once, then twice, finally securing a future with a glimmer of hope—it can be said that his thousand years of wandering were not in vain.

**Five. Various Beauties**

In the morning, pearl curtains rolled up against the casement window,A beauty sits before a mirror, dressing her hair.Outside the window, pear blossoms bloom in March,Before the pavilion, her light makeup is hurriedly applied.Last night, I performed the Fish-Dragon Dance,The young lord struck the zither for the Fish-Dragon Drum.Long sleeves fluttered, mimicking the Moon Palace,Evening drumbeats resounded like confessions!I regret no green snake in my sleeve, to ride a thousand li with you.Do not look back at the vast road ahead,But when you look back, do not forget the path you came from.

A touch of red amidst a sea of green. Jianghu is a man's world, but its most beautiful scenery is always ladies as poetic as verse, beauties as picturesque as paintings. Rouge Tiger, Xu Weixiong; Yu Xuanji, Wang Chudong; the Murong twin sisters; Xuanyuan Qingfeng; Qingniao Qingping, Hongshe Wumei; Miss Hehe loves "hehe"; and the simple and candid Dong Xi; the spoiled yet honest princess; the rustic and gentle young lady; Jiang Ni was an ugly duckling who could transform into a swan by wiping the mud from her face; Bai Huerlian was a peacock spreading its wings to fly. And the Princess of Beiliang, with her Dajiang Longque blade, could single-handedly contend with half the jianghu. What a formidable "other half of the sky."

First, there was the Spring and Autumn unjust war. Xu Xiao, the Human Butcher, rose to prominence. Along with various vassal kings and Grand General Gu Jiantang, he helped the Liyang Dynasty pacify the entire region south of Beimang in this unjust war, establishing a vast dominion. Naturally, Beiliang also suffered heavy losses in this conflict. Xu Xiao's most trusted confidantes and his original inner circle, his "left and right arms," either grew old or died, with half of them lost by the time the dynasty was stabilized. Conversely, out with the old, in with the new. As Beiliang's older generation suffered casualties under the dual assault of war and time, a new generation in Beiliang began to shine: the Four Tooth Generals, the Six Adopted Sons, and especially Chen Zhibao, known as "Little Human Butcher," who forced the death of the Military God Ye Baixie, personally killed the Spear Immortal Wang Xiu, and became the undisputed foremost figure among the new generation in the dynasty's military.

Next, with the dynasty initially stabilized, the jianghu grew restless. This time, Xu Xiao became the Liyang Dynasty's clean-up crew. Any jianghu faction that refused to submit was flattened by his iron cavalry, unleashing countless bloody storms. Xu Xiao thus further solidified his nicknames, "Human Butcher" and "Demon." From then on, jianghu figures paled at the mention of Xu's name and submitted to imperial rule.

Then Xu Fengnian was born. The royal family began to harbor suspicions about the Xu family. A unique and turbulent undercurrent ensued, resulting in Princess Wu, who had just given birth to Fengnian and whose body had not yet fully recovered, shielding Xu Xiao from an undeserved calamity. The price was that she developed a chronic illness and ultimately died young, a tragic end for a generation's female Sword God.

Following this were the young lord's outrageous years. One year, one month, the young lord and Old Huang embarked on their first journey: six thousand li, two people and one horse, enduring every hardship and tribulation. The young lord returned to Beiliang, and Old Huang traveled to the East Sea. On top of Wudi City, Old Huang, using his Sword Nine named "Six Thousand Li," made a name for his sword, but lost his life. Meanwhile, in a certain mountain in Beiliang City, the young lord poured a few cups of warm yellow wine and spoke his heart to the mountain spirits.

From then on, the young lord resolved to train with a blade and set out for a second journey. At Qingyang Palace, he put on a show with Zhao Yutai and Wu Lingsu; in the reed marsh, he gambled with Zhao Heng over fate; on Daxe Ping, he watched a thunderstorm; atop Wudi City, he killed a True Man; and by the Guangling River, he carved off some flesh. Then he returned to Beiliang. On his third journey, he traveled alone, with only his blade.

**The Jianghu Dream: The Knight-Errant Who Lives in Our Hearts – A Brief Analysis**

Nothing is as exhilarating as a potent spirit descending the throat, its razor-sharp intensity spreading through every vein and sinew of the body like a flame, scorching the heart within our chest—a heart whose true nature has been gradually obscured by worldly haze, and whose simplest beats now carry a faint scent of decay. Drinking strong liquor is like self-mockery; with each sip, one recalls old dreams buried deep, too painful to face. As a lyric goes, "Old promises of love are like slaps across the face; every time you recall one, you receive a blow." When deeply drunk, what time haven't we been tormented, bruised and battered, by unbidden memories of the past? Is this not the paradox of life? We drink to get drunk, seeking exhilaration. Yet, in the end, that exhilaration often transforms into the most painful and penetrating awls, piercing the soul and cutting to the bone, becoming the most profound discomfort. Yet, the yearning for intoxication is like an addiction, impossible to quit. Perhaps this is the charm of old dreams: no matter the cost, if it allows us to relive those moments, those people, that past self, then it is all worthwhile. It's just that strong liquor is too harmful to the body. And so, novels came into being.

"Pages full of absurd words, a handful of bitter tears"—Cao Xueqin's single line revealed the aspirations of countless writers over millennia. Isn't writing a novel like a state of deep intoxication? Seemingly absurd plots, incomprehensible madness, inexplicable emotional outbursts, sudden partings and deaths—authors are merely depicting dreams born from their intoxication with the pen and ink, and then from that profound drunkenness. This is why there is such absurdity, such bitterness. Mr. Wang Guowei once said that the highest realm of reading is "I searched for him a thousand times in the crowd; suddenly, looking back, he was there where the lights were dim." He meant that when one reads deeply, what is in one's heart naturally aligns with what is written in the book, leading to a sudden enlightenment. A foolish and impure soul like mine naturally cannot achieve enlightenment through reading as Mr. Wang Guowei did. Therefore, I prefer to read more casual novels that don't require much thought, not seeking self-cultivation, but simply hoping to find some exhilarating passages or trivial pleasures.

Yet, even with such casual novels, reading them thoroughly can still touch the heart and evoke many sighs of empathy. The so-called "learning by analogy"—touching the words means touching the author's consciousness and state of mind as they wrote. I read with the intention of finding my own old dreams, and sometimes, between the lines, I can glimpse similar dreams of the author. In this surge of emotion, old dreams that we had almost forgotten become clear, and the author's hidden thoughts, tucked away in the sentences, also become distinct. Perhaps it is this feeling of shared experience that tightly binds the author and the reader together. This isn't the sudden enlightenment Mr. Wang Guowei spoke of; perhaps it's merely an unexpected midnight reawakening of a dream, like a deeply drunken midnight dream. Absurd, bitter, laughable. They are just exaggerated words; how can they make a heart that has been cold for too long beat so fiercely? They are just a few affected, sentimental lines; how can they suddenly moisten eyes that have been dry for too long? It turns out that, from beginning to end, deep within our hearts, there still remains a touch of innocence, a hint of fragility, and a bit of childishness in pursuing dreams.

That's why, when Old Huang passed away, I found it absurd. If not absurd, how could Xu Fengnian bear to let this loyal, honest old man go alone to Wudi City to prove his sword dao with his life? And then to grieve and regret alone afterward, even going so far as to personally visit Wudi City to try and avenge Old Huang? The deceased are gone. Regret and revenge—the more one dwells on them, the more ridiculous they seem. What can be salvaged by frantically reacting after a loss? The more absurd it felt, the angrier I became. My anger wasn't directed at Fenghuo for writing Old Huang's death, but at my past self. How many times in the past have we had an "Old Huang" by our side—perhaps an elder or a dear friend—quietly accompanying us, nurturing and protecting us? And we, like ignorant rascals, only knew how to enjoy this care and protection, never thinking to return it with kindness. Until one day, they left us in a way that was both unexpected and yet inevitable. Only then did we begin to panic and fear, to feel sorrow and pain. And then, hypocritically and viciously, we transformed this panic, fear, and pain into some unfounded hatred, merely to conceal the guilt hidden deep within our hearts and minds.

In truth, we have always understood that those who quietly give without expecting anything in return are actually the easiest people in the world to move. Because they are consistently overlooked by base and selfish people like us, an occasional heartfelt word might bring them joy for quite a while. But we continue to ignore them, until we lose them. Old Huang was fortunate because, before his death, he at least fulfilled one of his dreams. Xu Fengnian was also fortunate, because he could at least openly tell himself that his not holding back Old Huang was a choice to let Old Huang pursue his dream, and he could further erase the regret in his heart by avenging Old Huang. But most of the "Old Huangs" in our lives simply leave us, often so plainly, even desolately. And afterward, we have no grand excuses to comfort ourselves, let alone anyone to avenge. Compared to Old Huang's passing, it turns out we ourselves are much more absurd.

That's why, when Hong Xiang willingly gave up his cultivation just to allow Xu Zhihu to ascend to immortality, I felt a deep bitterness. The bitterness wasn't because Hong Xiang's pursuit spanned three lifetimes, only to hope for a chance to be with his eternal lady in red three hundred years later. The bitterness stemmed from our own experiences. "Where there's a will, there's a way" is merely a dream. In this world, how many things can truly be accomplished simply by having ambition? Flowers bloom and wither, birth, old age, sickness, and death—these are natural laws. Lü Dongxuan was a figure like an immortal, which is why he could transcend the five elements and forcefully break such rules. But we are not immortals; there are no immortals in this world. When an elder falls gravely ill, we stand by their bedside, watching helplessly as they pass away, powerless. When a friend meets with an accident, we hold the phone receiver, listening to the bad news, silently shedding tears, powerless. As our parents grow old, we see the white in their hair and the wrinkles on their brows, secretly clenching our fists, yet still powerless. Our lives are a continuous cycle of missing out, missing out, and missing out again, driven by time, repeating powerlessness again and again. How many times, in the dead of night, have I imagined myself as a deity who controls the universe, capable of reversing fate and defying death? But every morning upon waking, the sunlight streaming through the window transforms into cold spears, piercing through those nonsensical dreams of mine. "The immortal has ridden the yellow crane away, leaving only Yellow Crane Tower empty here." I cannot become Lü Dongxuan; I can only envy him.

And when I saw Xu Fengnian and the Old Sword God heading south, killing anyone who stood in their way, even Buddhas, completely disregarding worldly rules and morals, and utterly heedless of consequences—even when, in the end, they slaughtered two thousand six hundred of the King of Guangling's men by the Guangling River over a trivial matter—I found it laughable, and even more, I felt angry. No matter how vast the jianghu, it must have boundaries. With boundaries, there must be established measures, moral codes. But the further Xu Fengnian traveled south, the less I could see where these measures or rules lay. A princess? He took her without a word. Dragon Tiger Mountain? He made an enemy of them. Two thousand six hundred Guangling iron cavalry? He slaughtered them without a second thought, completely ignoring the repercussions. I genuinely can't understand why Fenghuo would make Xu Fengnian create enemies on all sides so irrationally. After all, Fengnian isn't portrayed as a good-for-nothing in the book; he could let go of Jiang Ni when facing Cao Changqing, yet when confronting Dragon Tiger Mountain and the King of Guangling, whose influence was clearly greater than Cao Guanyi's, he insisted on a fight to the death? Because of these somewhat illogical plot points, I found it laughable; and because these irrationalities made me somewhat disappointed with the book, I felt angry.

But now, thinking about it, perhaps the one who is laughable is myself. Those who cannot break free from worldly constraints always envy those who are unburdened by these rules and can be unconventional. I mocked Fengnian for not understanding rules or logic. Perhaps, to be honest, I was jealous. As I navigate this world with difficulty, constrained by one law here and another moral code there, with my sphere of freedom shrinking, how could my tainted heart allow someone like Xu Fengnian to act as unrestrainedly as he pleased in this world? I was jealous, but even more, I was angry. What made me angry was not just that I couldn't be as unrestrained as Fengnian in reality, but that even in my own dreams, I was often constrained by various shackles I had set for myself. As a child, I wished to soar freely like a bird in the sky, but growing up, I couldn't even imagine myself flying high in a dream. This is because the frameworks, laws, and morals of society have poisoned me too deeply, trapping me in such a predicament from which I cannot escape. How could I not be angry about this?

Reading word by word, pondering chapter by chapter, I look at the jianghu stories in the book and reflect on my own life experiences in reality. Comparing events, understanding hearts. *Sword Snow Stride*, a book of some two hundred chapters, turns out to be a tapestry woven from old dreams and reality. The jianghu contains the stirrings of society, and old dreams are mottled with the stains of reality. Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly, and in his dream, he didn't know if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was a man. As I read *Sword Snow Stride*, immersed in the book, for a moment I couldn't tell if I had become a knight-errant of the jianghu, settling scores as I pleased, finally breathing the air of freedom between heaven and earth, or if that old knight-errant had traveled through time and became me, constrained everywhere in this real world, able only to secretly recall, in quiet moments, the splendor of his sword-wielding journeys.

It turns out a knight-errant has always resided in my heart. Every person's heart holds a knight-errant.

"Why doesn't a man carry a Wu hook, and conquer fifty prefectures beyond the pass? I ask you, for a moment, to ascend the Lingyan Pavilion—which scholar there became a marquis of ten thousand households?" The knight-errant in Li He's heart was a general with a horse-slaying blade at his waist, his light cavalry arrayed in a single line, a mere hundred men daring to confront the vanguard of a hundred thousand strong army. Where the white horse passed, there was unbridled vigor and freedom, reclaiming lands and achieving renown. In reality, however, he was merely a scholar who did not last long in his official career, resigned due to illness, and ultimately died of depression. His line, "Which scholar there became a marquis of ten thousand households?", carried such profound self-mockery.

"Drunk, I trim the lamp to gaze at my sword,Dreams carry me back to bugle calls from continuous camps.Eight hundred li of roasted meat distributed among my troops,Fifty strings playing frontier tunes.Autumn parade of soldiers on the battlefield.My horse, Dilu, flies swift,My bow, like a clap of thunder, vibrates.I aspire to accomplish the Emperor's great affairs,And win renown both in life and after death.Alas, white hairs appear!"The knight-errant in Xin Qiji's heart must have been a military commander who strategized within his tent and won battles a thousand li away, leading a mighty army to pacify the land and secure a vast empire for his homeland. In reality, he once came very close to such a dream, but constrained by the incompetence of those in power, his immense talent could not be fully utilized. In the end, he could only trim the lamp while drunk and sigh, "Alas, white hairs appear!"

"What abandoned me, the day of yesterday, cannot be retained;What troubles my heart, the day of today brings much sorrow.A long wind of ten thousand li sends autumn geese;For this, I can drink heartily in a tall pavilion.Penglai's writings, Jian'an's bones,And between them, young Xie, again, so fresh and clear.All embracing unrestrained spirit and lofty thoughts, soaring high,Wishing to ascend the blue sky and view the bright moon.Drawing a sword to cut water, the water flows on;Raising a cup to dispel sorrow, sorrow only deepens.Life in this world is unsatisfying;Tomorrow morning, I'll unbind my hair and drift in a small boat."The knight-errant in Li Bai's heart held more meanings. When writing, he wished to be a lone wanderer with a blade, traveling the world, settling scores as he pleased. Yet when writing again, the knight-errant in his heart became an unconstrained, refined scholar, finding solace in nature and wine, seeing all gains and losses lightly. But in reality, even the dashing Li Taibai could not become the knight-errant in his heart. Speaking of martial arts, Li Taibai's skills were undoubtedly among the best of his era, yet he was unwilling to confine his talents solely to jianghu affairs. Speaking of magnanimity, Taibai was hailed as the foremost of the Eight Immortals of Wine, the most free-spirited, yet he often grieved over his ambitions not being realized.

It turns out that, in the end, the knight-errant in everyone's heart is the person they could never become. We cannot unload the burdens on our backs, erase the responsibilities in our hearts, or abandon the ties that bind us. We are common folk, ordinary people. We struggle and strive for survival in the mundane world, living the most unremarkable lives in the most ordinary ways. We have hated, regretted, raged, and felt unwilling, and then we accepted our fate. In truth, there is no shame in this; the world is inherently realistic. If we want to live peacefully and healthily, we must learn to abide by the world's rules, even if it sometimes means doing things against our will, even if we sometimes have to swallow our pride and endure pain. But we must continue. In this regard, Er Gou has set a perfect example for us: he knelt, he bowed, and only then did he achieve his ultimate glory. This is the price of survival.

However, common and ordinary people can also have their own dreams. Our dreams must not be defeated by the soul-eating, corrosive demons of the mortal world, nor can they be contaminated by the great dyeing vat that is society. Because in our dreams, we are destined to be invincible knight-errants, protagonists of the world. Only protagonists who cheat and use exploits exist; there are no protagonists who lose to rules. Just like Fengnian, who constantly steps on the corpses of his opponents, approaching the peak step by step—there could be no Xu Fengnian who is one day struck down to rock bottom, barely clinging to life like a dog.

*Sword Snow Stride* is a dream for common and ordinary people, because Fenghuo, the author, cannot transcend worldly affairs, and we, the readers, cannot escape the mire of reality. Therefore, this book is a jianghu for mundane mortals. And Xu Fengnian is that knight-errant in this jianghu. He is destined not to repeat the romantic mistakes of Li Chungang or Hong Xiang, nor will he fall from his peak like Old Huang, nor will he lose due to a sliver of timidity like Gu Jiantang. He will not be worn down by the mundane trivialities of survival, or by ordinary urban romance, nor will he be troubled by not meeting the right person or finding suitable opportunities. His life simply needs to move forward, forward, forward. He is a blade, a simple, unadorned blade that strides proudly through gales and blizzards. Its edge is invincible, its power irresistible. Therefore, it needs no scabbard.

Our jianghu dream needs no scabbard either.