Chapter 754: Liaodong Tiger

In the vast Western Regions, a towering mountain range stretches across the land, like a long sword bisecting the region. The Protectorate General of the Western Regions, first established by the Great Feng Dynasty, was situated at a broken mountain pass. After the collapse of the dynasty whose territory surpassed that of the current Liyang, the Protectorate gradually devolved into an ownerless city. Through more than two hundred years of bloody conflict, this ancient city forged its own rules. It boasts perhaps the most complex social network under heaven. An aging man in a smoky noodle shop might once have been a royal noble from a Spring and Autumn Period state. The boorish butcher, who exposes his chest daily, could be a former Central Plains general who once commanded tens of thousands of elite soldiers. And perhaps those elderly white-haired women, who haggle with vendors for half an hour, only when they finally get their way and turn to gently smooth their hair, does their demeanor hint that in their youth, they must have been noble ladies raised amidst lush mountains and clear waters. Beyond these remnants forgotten with the Spring and Autumn period, the city is predominantly populated by desperate outlaws who have fled here, everyone engaging in various illicit activities. There are horse bandits who habitually plunder the borderlands and come here to drink in their leisure; unassuming killers who slaughter without compunction; and some who are ostensibly merchants but are actually assassins or spies for various factions. In this chaotic gateway to the Western Regions, people die almost daily, yet their deaths adhere strictly to rules. If someone dies outside the rules, someone will inevitably step in to ensure a proper conclusion to the matter.

On a temporarily hired carriage heading towards the city, the coachman was a sallow but sharp-eyed middle-aged man. He was spouting saliva, talking about the city’s “rules,” with a young man beside him—a rare sight in the Western Regions. While elegant scholarly attire wasn't uncommon in the city, the young man's demeanor was. To the native-born man, this passenger seemed like a character from the storytelling he'd heard in his youth: a scholar traveling to the capital for exams, staying in an old temple, who would then encounter a fox spirit in human form. In the twilight, the man looked up at the vast city, whose contours were now faintly visible, then couldn't help but glance sidelong at his non-extravagant foreign employer, feeling a touch of pity. In the city they were heading to, although most lives and deaths followed rules, those rules still had to be established by someone. If one unfortunately encountered that small group of people, whether they adhered to rules simply depended on their mood. Some might become rich overnight, chosen by a powerful figure in the city, and rise to prominence in the largest city of the Western Regions, home to over a hundred thousand people. Others would simply vanish without a trace. A few years prior, the coachman had driven a group of four—three men and one woman, all armed with sabers and swords, looking quite skilled—into the city. Before they could even rest, they were cornered by a cavalry detachment charging from the inner city. It was truly a fierce battle. The four were indeed formidable; they leaped directly from the carriage, sprang onto the rooftops, and a deluge of arrows failed to harm them in the slightest. He dared not watch further, abandoned the carriage, and practically crawled away. Afterwards, he learned that all four had been hanged at the East Gate. They were reportedly heroes seeking revenge, but unexpectedly, their enemies had become powerful figures in the inner city. Despite suffering only forty or fifty casualties, they made the heroes pay with their lives. Such tragedies occurred several times a year. Ultimately, anyone could enter that city, but not everyone could leave. However, the coachman dared not mention this, fearing he might frighten his young employer, and even more so, that his commission would become a cooked duck that flew away.

Before the humble carriage entered the city, the coachman kindly provided the young man with more details about the city’s current situation. For instance, the city was divided into inner and outer sections. The outer city had four local gangs and sects that enjoyed mock cavalry battles outside the city for no particular reason. At their strongest, the opposing forces would charge with up to a thousand cavalrymen. He heard the four factions combined had over three thousand warhorses and even several hundred powerful crossbows. Cross them and expect to be torn apart by five horses; those guys weren't above such things. Three families in the inner city were even more untouchable, all with impressive backgrounds and wealth. In this city, they were essentially local tyrants. The Chai family, for example, collected twenty to thirty pieces of dragon robes and python robes. On the rare occasions the Chai family head made grand public appearances, he genuinely wore a dragon robe as rumored, surrounded by several beauties in phoenix crowns and ceremonial robes, truly like empresses and imperial concubines, which was quite an eye-opener. Nearing the city gate, the parched coachman took a swig from his wineskin, then turned to the young man, who was listening intently, and grinned, "I'm just telling you this so you can be more careful, young master. But just in case, I mean *just in case* you really run into trouble, if you see any red-robed monks with prayer wheels nearby, you must quickly go to them for help. After all, in our Western Regions, they are living Buddhas; even the most unreasonable people will show some restraint around them."

After entering the city, the young master alighted at an inn he recommended in the bustling market of the eastern city. He gave the coachman a few extra taels of silver, which, despite some dark rust, showed no signs of dullness and looked quite pleasing. This made the coachman feel his words weren't wasted; good deeds brought good rewards. However, when he saw the young man unassumingly walk into the inn, the coachman's gaze became complex. In truth, his words were ultimately wasted. Whether a stranger could leave this inn alive depended on fate; even if they were lucky enough to escape, they'd be thoroughly fleeced. But then, thinking about how the inn would later give him a cut based on the "fat lamb's" wealth, the coachman couldn't help but chuckle secretly. Just then, the young man also turned and smiled back. The coachman's smile momentarily stiffened but quickly returned to normal, and he even waved at the poor fellow, who was unknowingly walking into a tiger's den.

As the coachman cheerfully whipped his horse and departed, he probably had no idea that if this city was a terrifying local snake coiled across the Western Regions, he had personally delivered a mighty river dragon powerful enough to easily swallow that snake.

The one who hired the carriage and entered the city was Xu Fengnian, who had failed to receive a clear answer from Lanta Mountain. There were over 300,000 registered and unregistered monks in the Western Regions, and the monastic soldiers affiliated with Lanta Mountain publicly numbered 40,000 to 50,000. However, even though Xu Fengnian personally visited Lanta Mountain, he failed to bring a single soldier with him. Yet, things were not entirely without hope. Xu Fengnian's journey to this Great Feng Dynasty Protectorate of the Western Regions was to do his utmost for that slim chance, and then leave the rest to fate. In the center of the inner city stood a small hill, no more than twenty zhang high, called Little Lanta. At its summit was the world's largest prayer wheel, made of gilded copper and weighing 120,000 catties. The exterior of the cylinder was carved with the Four Great Bodhisattvas—Manjushri, Samantabhadra, Avalokiteshvara, and Ksitigarbha—and 8,000 lifelike celestial maidens. The interior was inscribed with 810,000 repetitions of the Six-Syllable Mantra and the entire Tripitaka. The prayer wheel had large, graspable rings, but they were effectively ornamental because no one had ever successfully turned the wheel since its creation. Thus, the great blessing of reciting the Buddha's name 810,000 times for each revolution had yet to be received by anyone.

This curious anecdote had long circulated in the Central Plains alongside the eastward spread of Buddhism. It was said that the difficulty of "this Dharma being hard to turn" first lay in ascending Little Lanta, then in possessing the strength of a dragon or elephant, equivalent to hundreds of thousands of catties, and thirdly, in having Buddhist affinity. Monks from Lanta Mountain once said that even Lu Zu and Wang Xianzhi would find it difficult to turn.

For Xu Fengnian, regardless of whether Lanta Mountain asked him to turn the prayer wheel, even if he were to attempt it by force, it wasn't impossible. But Xu Fengnian couldn't guarantee success. Lanta Mountain produced a continuous stream of enlightened monks; there were still two Living Buddhas like Liu Songtao, plus the Six-Pearled Bodhisattva, and dozens of high lamas. If they were to join forces to defend something or prevent someone from doing something, it would indeed be incredibly difficult to overcome them. Xu Fengnian believed that with the strength of a Martial Arts Ranker (one of the Fourteen), pushing the prayer wheel would not be difficult in terms of raw power. The real challenge lay in that elusive Buddhist affinity.

Lanta Mountain gave the young prince who personally visited a four-character reminder: “Heavenly Water Bathes Buddha.”

Xu Fengnian checked into a second-floor room at the inn, opened the window, and looked out with a troubled expression. Guyu (Grain Rain) was on the second day of the third month. However, the Buddha's birthday, when "nine dragons spit water to bathe the golden body," wasn't until the eighth day of the fourth month. Logically, Xu Fengnian couldn't afford to waste an entire month in this isolated frontier city, thousands of li from Beiliang. However, at the foot of the mountain, Xu Fengnian encountered a stooped old woman devoutly praying with a small prayer wheel. After a chat, the old woman gifted the ordinary prayer wheel to Xu Fengnian. Reflecting on it later, an unintentional remark from the old woman resonated in his heart like the booming of a great bell. She had said that the prayer wheel shouldn't be spun too fast; it wasn't about the number of rotations accumulating more merit, but about doing it calmly and steadily. Xu Fengnian knew the old woman was just an ordinary Buddhist devotee from the Western Regions, but precisely because of this, he truly felt that sense of "there is a divine will in the unknown."

A bitter, helpless smile touched Xu Fengnian's lips. Did he truly have to endure waiting until the eighth day of the fourth month? The great battle at Hutou City in Liang Province was raging, Liu Province was on the verge of chaos, and people were dying daily at Hulukou in You Province. Even if he, the King of Beiliang, couldn't personally command troops from the Beiliang Protectorate, he felt he needed to be there, to see the smoke and hear the war drums with his own eyes and ears, to feel at ease. If he could turn the prayer wheel, then after Kou Jianghuai entered Liu Province, there would be another 40,000 to 50,000 fearless and valiant monastic soldiers, potentially turning a losing battle into a winning one. Then, Huang Man'er, who was bearing the brunt of the Liang-Mang western front, could enjoy a bit more security. This was Xu Fengnian's personal motive for acting under Tuoba Bodhisattva's nose this time, and it was precisely why Tantai Pingjing was so infuriated at the time.

When Xu Fengnian slew the Northern Mang True Dragon, his cultivation had significantly dropped. If he could avoid it, why would he willingly risk himself by going outside Hulukou? But the Beiliang Iron Cavalry was different from other frontier forces. The whole world knew these cavalrymen bore the Xu surname, and the Beiliang border army also understood this. Yet, Xu Fengnian had inherited the princedom. How difficult would it be to truly win over the hearts of 300,000 armored soldiers? The military and the martial arts world were two different realms. It wasn't that Xu Fengnian, having become one of the world's few martial arts grandmasters, gained the capital to command thousands of troops. Xu Xiao, back then, was merely a minor grandmaster in martial arts. Why was he the only one who could truly command respect? Why was Gu Jiantang the world's foremost saber grandmaster, yet his confidant Cai Nan, leading tens of thousands of troops, upon seeing Xu Xiao in armor and holding a spear, willingly knelt and saluted Xu Xiao with sincere admiration, even turning to ask Xu Xiao to review the army, despite risking disgrace and being deemed useless by Liyang's civil officials? The reason was simple: Xu Xiao alone couldn't kill many people, but since Xu Xiao emerged like a tiger from Liaodong, how many great cities had he massacred? How many tens of thousands of surrendered soldiers had he buried alive? Martial artists were not scholars; they had no sentimental notions of "unrighteous Spring and Autumn, Central Plains sinking." Even if you were a soldier from a fallen kingdom who again donned armor for the Zhao family, despite your hatred, deep down, you would have an indescribable respect for Xu Xiao.

How could Xu Fengnian not know that the Little Lanta prayer wheel might not turn? Yet, he still had to stand there, conflicted.

Anyone could sit on that dragon-carved chair in Tai'an City; Xu Fengnian could not. No one could sit on that tiger-skin chair in Qingliang Mountain; only Xu Fengnian could. This wasn't something Xu Fengnian could change, even if his martial arts cultivation reached the realm of celestial beings. A person living a lifetime inevitably has attachments; it's extremely difficult to become a self-sufficient recluse. Xu Xiao, who rarely spoke grand philosophical truths, once said that people come into this world to suffer and repay debts. If, by the end, one has a surplus, that is the greatest achievement for a man. Previously, Xu Fengnian hadn't felt this deeply. But later, when he saw the arrogant behavior of those military households in Ling Province, while heartbroken, he also felt a sense of relief. "Look," he thought, "these are the descendants of those who fought alongside Xu Xiao to establish the empire. Xu Xiao never let down your fathers' sacrifice of life and death, which is why you enjoy prosperity today! Even in a barren frontier like Beiliang, Xu Xiao ensured that after laying down their arms, they could live lives of peace and luxury in Ling Province, a 'Jiangnan beyond the Great Wall,' no less than in the Central Plains." Xu Fengnian's hatred for Zhong Hongwu, his true killing intent, wasn't because the Great General of Huaihua looked down on him, a second-generation rich kid. It was because Zhong Hongwu, who considered it natural to leave the border and throw his weight around, had corrupted the entire military class of Ling Province, making them forget Xu Xiao's painstaking efforts.

Standing by the window, looking at the bustling street outside, Xu Fengnian mocked himself, "Do heroes lose their freedom when their luck runs out?"

A knock on the door. It was an inn employee asking if he wanted to order some food. If he didn't want the trouble of going downstairs, the inn could deliver to his room. The employee also bluntly asked if he needed extra "outside-the-meal" treats with strong local flavor, stating they had not only "fierce grassland horses" but also "thin Jiangnan horses" who could play tunes, though they were pricier, costing twenty taels of silver for one session. Whether they could stay overnight and at what price depended on the guest's capability. Xu Fengnian politely declined with a smile, only ordering dinner. The employee, seeing he wasn't a "fat target," immediately rolled his eyes and left grumpily, complaining that the coachman, who was still waiting outside the city for good news, had terrible judgment, bringing in such a lean "two-legged sheep." How much profit could there be from this?

Afterward, Xu Fengnian ate the drugged dishes. The inn employee, who came to retrieve the food box and utensils, lingered for a long time but didn't see Xu Fengnian collapse onto the table. He knew they had encountered a tough nut to crack. This wasn't uncommon for black inns like theirs, which had been operating for many years. Since soft methods failed, they would use hard ones. The inn had one or two "treasured guardians" with bloodstained hands. If they genuinely met someone unyielding, they would admit defeat. Men rooted in the Western Regions were particularly straightforward in such matters; they could lose face and, if trampled, they could also pick themselves up. Soon, a burly, scarred middle-aged man pushed open the door. Four or five nosy inn employees gathered at the corridor corner. The bookmaker took bets, and others placed their wagers, betting on how long the handsome young man could last. One heavy gambler, who seemed to have lost many times, went all in this time, betting all his loose silver that the young master would be unharmed. The bookmaker was the same employee who had delivered the food earlier. He gleefully accepted the three or four taels of silver, grinning from ear to ear. Unexpectedly, before the silver even got warm, he had to pay back seven or eight taels. The inn's "Master Lu," who was somewhat famous in the outer city, had just gone in and already came out. The bookmaking employee immediately grabbed Master Lu's sleeve and asked forlornly, "Master Lu, did you perhaps take a liking to that handsome young man's looks and went easy on him? I'll be working for nothing for half a year!"

The man, whose long-standing bandit aura still retained a hint of a sharp soldier's spirit, became furious upon hearing this. He kicked the instigator, sending him crashing into the corridor wall. Fortunately, he used some skill, but it still left the employee gasping for air on his knees like a fish out of water, unable to utter a single word. The man growled in a low voice, "Go easy on your mother! If your old mother was in that room, I'd make sure she couldn't get out of bed for half a month!" The inn employee dared not retort, groaning softly in pain. Compared to that kick, such crude remarks were nothing. What did they count for in the Western Regions? They weren't even fit to be appetizers. Even these young, native-born low-level characters in the city, aged twenty or thirty, knew a thing or two about the inner workings. Twenty years ago, countless displaced men and women couldn't survive on their own skills. Who knows how many "golden branches and jade leaves" served "guests" in dimly lit private brothels. And the men who stood guard and solicited business for them might have been their fathers, or even their husbands. So nowadays, many elderly men, as they sit in the sun waiting to die, like to assume an air of authority and lecture these young people with variations of the same speech: "You young lads, you were truly born too late. When we were in our prime, full of vigor, we met prosperous times. Those women from the East, whether in their teens, twenties, or even late thirties and forties, were far, far more radiant than any woman you see on the streets now. Their skin, ah, felt just like top-grade silk. Although they were always a bit shy, preferring the oil lamp extinguished before *that* happened, or they'd charge extra, that was nothing. Because once you truly laid yourself upon them, you'd know that pleasure. Such erotic fortune, you rascals, don't even dream of it." The man ignored these shallow-minded young ruffians and left directly. Even after moving far from the room, he was still filled with lingering fear. There was something he didn't have the face to say: when he crossed the threshold, a mere glance from that person almost made him unable to move his legs. If that person hadn't smiled and continued the "difficulty," he would have already backed down and hoisted the white flag. But as he walked seven or eight steps forward, as if using all his strength, he was already drenched in sweat. He was, after all, a desperate hero who had lived by the sword for nearly twenty years, yet he dared not sit down. He merely clasped his fists lightly, saying, "Pardon the intrusion, Young Master." Only when the young master nodded and smiled did he gather the spirit to move and turn around. Otherwise, he might have stood there like a log, waiting to die.

The man stopped at the second-floor stairwell, growing more perplexed the more he thought. Lu Dayi, even at a young age, had been a military hero from a fallen state during the Spring and Autumn Period. For so many years, he had not lost his martial skills. Moreover, upon arriving at this ancient Protectorate General of the Western Regions, he had, by chance, learned many unique secret techniques from martial arts veterans living incognito here. After countless perilous battles wading through blood, he had now even touched the threshold of a minor grandmaster. Though ranked last on the list of twenty outer city experts compiled by enthusiasts, his standing wasn't great, but he was on the list after all. Could it be true, as his aging master said, that the so-called experts cultivated in isolation in the Western Regions were of too poor quality? Lacking vastly compared to the orthodox martial arts world of the Central Plains? Lu Dayi had fled to the Western Regions at nineteen with his benefactor, and having been a sharp soldier, he had long grown indifferent to his former country and hometown. As for the martial arts world of the Liyang Dynasty, he had never been involved. He always felt that this city was essentially the capital of the Western Regions, and being able to make a name and build a career here, even if inferior to Central Plains experts, wouldn't be by much. He firmly believed that among the top ten masters in the inner city, even if not all could rival the world's martial arts grandmasters, at least two or three should qualify for the list. But simply meeting that young man today, Lu Dayi was abruptly awakened to his own narrow-mindedness.

The young man, appearing like a noble scion, genuinely possessed a certain "presence" or "aura." His usually stern master would only occasionally, when enjoying a drink and feeling inspired, narrow his eyes and speak of such misty, profound realms. He also said that encounters between masters were similar to a skilled doctor's "look, listen, ask, feel" method. Observing their aura's rise and fall was just the first step. Listening to their voice's strength was the second. Only then did they exchange names and backgrounds to determine if it was a fight to the death. Finally, the "feel" (sparring) was only resorted to when absolutely necessary, usually resulting in a grim, immediate outcome of life or death. Lu Dayi hadn't taken this seriously before. Having spent so long in the Western Regions, he was accustomed to drawing swords at the slightest disagreement, to assassinations, ambushes, and brawls all driven by money. Who cared what sect or gang you belonged to? If you blocked someone's path to money, even if you were a heavenly king, you'd get a knife. For men and women scratching out a living in this lawless land of the Western Regions, life and death were not something to be taken seriously. Since they didn't even care about life and death, why would they care if you were a powerful figure or a scion of wealth? If Lu Dayi hadn't cherished his hard-won martial arts cultivation, finally holding hope of becoming a regional grandmaster, after today's humiliation, he would have already gathered dozens of strong men to block the room's door. If he still suffered losses, he'd call upon those congenial experts on the outer city's list. If the outer city failed, there were still the top-tier "Bodhisattvas" in the inner city who cultivated their inner energy year-round. The Western Regions had long understood a principle: the Western Regions belonged to its people. Internal strife was one thing, but if outsiders wanted to come here and cause trouble, no matter how influential they were in the Central Plains or Northern Mang, they had to pay up! In the past twenty years, how many powerful newcomers had Lu Dayi seen this great city torment until they were utterly ruined? Just those who died by his and his brothers' hands included seven or eight extremely formidable individuals. Some died in a woman's bed, others were first wounded by a child's hidden blade and then perished in a mob of hundreds. Lu Dayi thought for a moment and finally suppressed the killing intent that had risen within him. He waved over a trusted employee, instructing the boy to inform the innkeeper that the young man in Room B, Section E, was not to be touched.

The boy, who had already killed at sixteen or seventeen, rarely saw Master Lu's face so grim. He dared not make trouble and hurriedly ran to deliver the "military intelligence," not forgetting to glance back at Master Lu's imposing figure descending the stairs. In the boy's mind, a man like this, who seemed to sit amidst piles of bones, drinking fine wine and enjoying beautiful women, was the greatest hero in the Western Regions. To say nothing else, when Master Lu visited high-class brothels for pleasure, the alluring women who usually wouldn't spare a glance for hotheads like them always gave Master Lu a big discount when collecting money, and some even slept with him for free without complaint. It was said they would languidly lean on the bed and murmur, "Master Lu, come again." This wasn't the boy's wild guess; he had once been lucky enough to be taken by Master Lu to broaden his horizons. Although he had sat outside that lady's room all night, not even daring to touch the small hand of a maid waiting alongside him in the corridor, when Master Lu pushed open the door at dawn, he had personally heard that lady utter those words in a lazy, unctuous tone that could melt one's bones. From then on, the boy spent his days dreaming of achieving at least half of Master Lu's capabilities before he would be content to close his eyes and die!

A city densely packed with over a hundred thousand people would be considered large even in the Central Plains, let alone in the vast, even more sparsely populated Western Regions compared to Beiliang. You couldn't possibly compare it to Tai'an City, could you?

After dinner, as night fell, Xu Fengnian leaned on the windowsill, gazing at the city's illuminated nightscape. This city never had a curfew, and the prominent wealthy families of the Western Regions were all gathered here, naturally creating an atmosphere of carefree abandon. Beiliang naturally wouldn't truly ignore such a strategically important frontier. From his master Li Yishan onwards, they were not content with being restricted to Beiliang's three native provinces. According to their plans at the time, not only the thousands of ambushing soldiers in Qingcheng Mountain, but also the Western Regions, including the refugees from Liu Province, and even Western Shu and Nanzhao, should become strategic depths once war broke out. This way, the Beiliang Iron Cavalry's unparalleled field combat strength could be fully unleashed. Western Shu would provide infantry, Nanzhao would provide military funds, and the Western Regions, together with Beiliang's three provinces, would serve as the strategic depth for the Xu family's iron cavalry to gallop freely. That was the optimal strategic concept, truly the brilliant mind of Xu Fengnian's master Li Yishan. Unfortunately, even though Xu Fengnian successfully intercepted and killed Prince Zhao Kai and that "sick tiger" in the Battle of Tiemen Pass, the imperial court still held the upper hand, and Xu Fengnian ultimately failed to help his master fulfill this long-cherished wish. However, Xu Fengnian couldn't simply lose heart or give up completely. That's why Cao Wei's elite detachment, which secretly entered the Western Regions, came into being. This also came at the cost of nearly all ten thousand You Province cavalrymen almost perishing outside Hulukou. In contrast, Xu Fengnian's arrangement for the down-and-out old scholar Liu Wenbao, whom he first met at Spring God Lake and later accommodated at the Xiamai Inn in the capital, to infiltrate this city with the covert identity of an owner of a B-class room in the Fushui Society, responsible for coordinating between Beiliang and Cao Wei's cavalry, was a minor matter. Xu Fengnian temporarily didn't want to meet Liu Wenbao, who had infiltrated the inner city but hadn't yet established a firm foothold. Times were different now. According to the Fushui Society, many desks across the land were now adorned with his portrait. Xu Fengnian smiled, touching the rooted mask on his face. News from Xiangfan City wasn't good. Shu Xiu, the woman who left Qingliang Mountain, seemed to be taking her act seriously, showing signs of opposing Beiliang regarding Lu Xu. Still, she hadn't dared to openly break ties with Beiliang and continued to deal with the Fushui Society respectfully and cautiously every half-month, as per routine. With the emperor far away and human hearts fluctuating like rippling water, Xu Fengnian wasn't overly angered or ashamed by this. There was nothing he could do; as a child, he always heard his mother say the world was unsettled, and peace was even harder for women to find. Xu Fengnian couldn't be bothered to contend with a pitiable woman from Southern Jiang. It was one thing for Heaven, the Liyang Zhao imperial family, and the Northern Mang army to contend with him, Xu Fengnian. Xu Fengnian didn't consider himself so miserable as to need to vent his anger on a woman. But Shu Xiu was one thing. If the Han family from Ji Province, whom he had personally supported, dared to betray him in battle, that would cross Beiliang's bottom line and be as heinous as the horse bandit leader Song Diao'er, who secretly contacted the Northern Mang's Taiping Order and the Spring Nazhabo. Currently, Xu Fengnian found it hard to do many things as he wished, but when it came to killing a descendant of Liyang's loyal heroes whose foundation was unclean, Xu Fengnian had no mercy whatsoever.

In the early days of the month, under the night sky, a crescent moon hung.

Unable to sleep, Xu Fengnian simply carried two pots of strong wine and sat on the inn's rooftop, gazing at the particularly splendid night view of Little Lanta in the center of the inner city, with its prayer wheel on the summit. Around the small hill, lanterns and festive decorations adorned every corner, creating a scene of nightly revelry and prosperity. Xu Fengnian inexplicably recalled his verbal sparring with Xie Guanying that day. This scholar, ranked among the Six Land Celestial Court figures, was indeed not someone who only spoke grand but inappropriate words. Xie Guanying had indeed struck a chord in Xu Fengnian's heart when he spoke of one thing: Xu Xiao's true accomplishment in "riding roughshod over the Spring and Autumn period" for half a lifetime after emerging from Liaodong was to utterly dismantle the foundation of powerful clans who believed "the state may fall, but the family endures," and to break the old rule that "in times of peace, noble families and monarchs co-govern the world, but in times of chaos, monarchs change, but family heads do not." The Spring and Autumn Period was full of tragedies and hidden secrets. For Xu Xiao, a vanguard for Liyang, to be able to defeat the mighty Chu, how could there not be unspeakable elements involved? When Xu Xiao completed the grand siege of West Leibi, how many aristocratic clans shamelessly played both sides as fence-sitters? Otherwise, how could there have been so many powerful officials from Western Chu who later transformed and became purple-robed dignitaries in the imperial court? As for the noble families of Southern Tang secretly colluding with Gu Jiantang, Liyang's commander for the southern expedition, opening their nation's gates for the sake of their family's enduring prosperity—those instances were countless. These unspeakable secrets were absolutely unknown to the common people, who could only drift with the tides of fate. Perhaps only after a hundred or a thousand years would a corner of this dust-laden past be tentatively unveiled by future historians amidst vast archives.

The historical records of a previous dynasty were always like maids or servants taken into the home by the historians of the new dynasty, free to be adorned with rouge or splashed with dirty water at will.

If nothing unexpected happened, Xu Fengnian would certainly share the latter fate.

As for whether the black and red ink in historical records a thousand years from now would defame him forever or immortalize him, Xu Fengnian neither thought about it nor could he control it. Just as he had recently told an unnamed old stonemason in Dayu Cavern that he would simply do his best. Xu Fengnian was no longer an incarnation of Emperor Zhenwu or a reincarnation of a Great Qin Emperor; he was simply Xu Xiao's son. Central Plains historians could criticize Xu Fengnian for his ambition exceeding his grasp, leading to the loss of the Northwest Central Plains' gateway, but they could not allow historical records just a few decades from now to start branding the Beiliang Xu family, who originated in Liaodong, as "servants of two surnames." Since Xu Xiao had departed, Xu Fengnian could not allow his father, who slept uneasily during his lifetime, to rest uneasily even in death. Ultimately, Xu Fengnian's determination to fight Northern Mang to the bitter end stemmed from this personal desire: to leave Xu Xiao a respectable name in history, and to accumulate karmic merit and blessings for his parents, elder sisters, and Huang Man'er.

Xu Fengnian took a sip of wine, raised his sleeve to wipe his mouth, but didn't lower it. He smiled softly and said, "Xu Xiao, you, as a father, never knew what to ask of your children, nor did you expect us to achieve great things. But I, a son who barely showed filial piety, used to just oppose you, too petty and stingy to call you 'father' more than a few times, fearing that calling you 'father' would wrong my mother. From now on, you don't need to worry—of course, you can't anymore. Later generations, when they think of you, Xu Xiao, or read about our Xu family in history, someone will genuinely and against the current say, 'The Xu family of Liaodong, tigers roaring for a century, will never fall!'"