Chapter 482: - Hunmen

Zheng Fanli.

The Sword Saint’s normally calm expression shifted ever so slightly. The name sounded familiar, as though he had heard it somewhere before.

The winds of the jianghu had long since ceased to reach someone at the Sword Saint’s level, but he had heard this name. He soon remembered: when Mr. Bei had faced the State of Qian’s Silver-Armored Guard, this was the name he had given.

The Sword Saint had no idea how famous the name had become. He lived right next door to Count Pingye; if he wanted to know something about Zheng Fan, he had no need to rely on “Hey, I heard…” or “Heh, did you know…?”

Still, watching someone stand in front of the man himself and claim to be his foremost guest retainer was almost too much.

“Cough… cough…”

The Sword Saint pretended to cough to suppress his laughter.

To everyone else, however, it looked as though the scholar’s identity had frightened him.

In truth, many different versions of the “Zheng Fanli” story circulated through the jianghu. At first, none had attracted much attention. The jianghu was vast and filled with all kinds. Plenty of people had stories of their own, and even more had no story at all but invented one to make themselves famous.

But over the past two years, Count Pingye had risen meteorically and his fame had spread far and wide. Along with him, the guest retainer under his command named “Zheng Fanli” had also become famous.

Some said Zheng Fanli was a strategist who stood behind Count Pingye and directed affairs from the shadows, personally controlling the grain and military supplies whenever the Count went to war. Some said he was an assassin who moved through the darkness without leaving a trace, and that he had been the one who killed Prince Fu of Qian inside the city before calmly walking away with the prince’s head.

Others said Zheng Fanli was an army commander skilled in assault, and that Count Pingye’s thousand-li dash to Snow Sea Pass had been his handiwork.

Still others claimed Zheng Fanli was a towering warrior who wore heavy armor and wielded twin axes on the battlefield, could carry a battering ram by himself during a siege, and charged like a rampaging ox!

That last version, however, was not particularly popular in the jianghu. After all, jianghu stories were told for jianghu people, and nobody liked imagining Zheng Fanli as some huge, dim-witted brute. It lacked elegance and sullied the name “Zheng Fanli.”

After hearing the scholar introduce himself, Xiong Liqing first glanced at Zheng Fan.

She knew who Fan Li was.

But this man had just stood in front of her husband and told him that he was her husband’s foremost guest retainer.

Did that not make her his mistress?

Count Pingye did not laugh. Instead, he cupped his hands. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Seeing that Zheng Fan made no attempt to lower himself, the scholar hesitated.

Clearly, in his mind, the names “Zheng Fanli” and Count Pingye ought to command at least a measure of deference even from a distinguished Yan military man. He had not expected Zheng Fan to remain so composed.

Count Pingye had no intention of pretending to be astonished or terrified just to play along.

Playing the pig to eat the tiger was tiring.

Besides, the pleasure in such a performance belonged to the audience, not to him. Why should he put on a show for the other people sitting in this little wine shop?

If Emperor Yan, the Marquis of Zhenbei, and the Marquis of Jingnan were sitting here, then fine. Count Pingye would not mind making a fool of himself, behaving nicely, and lowering himself to amuse them.

Everyone wore masks sometimes. But after all these years of clawing his way upward, had he not done it precisely so he would have to perform less often in his own life?

Asking the current Count Pingye to humor this scholar was like asking some Nascent Soul old monster who had cultivated for thousands of years to fight to the death with another man over a woman. It was simply absurd.

“Food’s ready.”

Zhou Bian came out.

There was rice mixed with lard, two plates of wild greens, one cold and one stir-fried, and a pot of wine.

Count Pingye lowered his head and took a sniff.

Mm. Fragrant.

At home, food like this would have been too greasy. But on the road, when the body was tired and good food hard to come by, it was perfect.

Count Pingye held out his right hand.

Xiong Liqing picked up a pair of chopsticks, poured wine over them, carefully wiped them with her handkerchief, then placed them in his palm with the tips facing forward.

Count Pingye shoveled in a mouthful of rice, closed his eyes, and said, “Mm. Delicious.”

Xiong Liqing washed and wiped a second pair of chopsticks with wine, then rose and offered them to the Sword Saint across the table.

The Sword Saint had already picked up a pair and was about to eat. He was not nearly so particular.

But since the princess herself had risen to hand them to him, he hesitated, gave a slight nod, and accepted them.

He could not be bothered to stand.

By now, the Sword Saint had seen through this husband and wife. They were the sort who could buy “a gentleman dies for one who understands him” by the cartload and then sell it wholesale.

For anyone else, a small gesture like this might become a celebrated anecdote if word spread or someone recorded it in their notes. With these two, especially the man, there was enough of it to drown in.

The three began eating their rice with the wild greens.

The scholar who had just announced his grand identity was left standing awkwardly to one side.

The drunkard licked his lips, took another large swallow of wine, smiled, lowered his head, and began picking at the salted egg he was eating with his drink.

Over at the other table, the swordswoman said, “Come back.”

Naturally, she was speaking to the scholar.

His expression shifted back and forth. He plainly felt humiliated, but he did not have the courage to start trouble with the three people calmly eating in front of him.

The swordswoman rose, walked over, caught him by the shoulder, and pulled him behind her.

The scholar tried to step forward again, but the sword in her hand suddenly trembled.

He hesitated, then stopped.

The drunkard watched all this without saying a word, as though he had not been the one endlessly commenting on everyone just moments before.

The swordswoman saluted with her sword and addressed the Sword Saint. “Sir, the sword is an upright and honorable weapon. Why hide it from sight?”

The Sword Saint ignored her and continued eating.

Count Pingye could not be bothered with “Zheng Fanli,” and the Sword Saint naturally had no interest in chatting with some sword-carrying girl he had met on the road.

But the swordswoman persisted. “Sir, every sword beneath Heaven possesses its own radiance. You have wrapped yours so that its light cannot escape. Can you not hear the sword lamenting?”

The Sword Saint continued eating and casually took another bite of vegetables.

Zheng Fan had started first and therefore finished first. Men who spent years in the army generally ate quickly.

Xiong Liqing immediately set down her chopsticks, took out another handkerchief, and carefully wiped Zheng Fan’s mouth.

The Sword Saint noticed from the corner of his eye and suddenly looked a little wistful.

Zheng Fan looked at him. “Missing your wife?”

The Sword Saint nodded. “When I had nothing tying me down, I never felt it. Even after I married, I didn’t notice much. But the moment I leave home, I start missing her.”

“Heh.”

Zheng Fan smiled.

Like the scholar before her, the swordswoman had been completely ignored.

She raised her head with an almost amused expression. “Sir, can you truly not hear the sword lamenting?”

Count Pingye looked up at her. “Swords can glow?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.” Count Pingye nodded. “He isn’t keeping it covered because he doesn’t want you to see it shine. He’s afraid the light will blind you.”

After a brief pause, he accepted the toothpick Xiong Liqing handed him and added, “If you want to see it that badly, go outside, open your eyes wide, and stare at the sun. Same thing.”

“So, according to you, young master, this gentleman’s sword is enough to put all of us to shame?”

Count Pingye considered this for a moment, rubbing his chin. “You’re flat-chested.”

“What?”

“And too skinny.”

Only then did the swordswoman realize that the young man in black was appraising her figure. Anger and embarrassment flashed across her face. “Do you realize that those two remarks alone give me reason to cut off both your hands? Yes, the Yan have entered Jin, but for a Yan man to behave this arrogantly out in the wilderness, far from any great city, do you truly think there is no one left in Jin who can stand against you?”

Count Pingye shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I mean you’re not my type. You’re built like a stalk of hemp. Move the wrong way and you’d probably jab yourself with your own bones. Men are usually more tolerant of women, but since you’re not pretty enough, my tolerance has limits. So sit back down, eat your food, and stop bothering me.”

Xiong Liqing took out an iron case, opened it, drew out a rolled cigarette, and placed it at Count Pingye’s lips. “Don’t be angry, Husband. Have a Huazi.”

Xiong Liqing was accompanying Count Pingye to the capital this time. Her status was indeed meant to help raise his profile, but she was not merely a decorative vase.

She did not want to be one, and the Fourth Lady would never tolerate some aloof ornament in the household putting on airs.

Even Liu Ruqing had been made by the Fourth Lady, blushing all the while, to practice the tune “Eighteen Touches.”

As for Xiong Liqing, the Fourth Lady had told her every detail of the Count’s daily habits and preferences so she could take good care of him.

The princess took out a fire striker and lit Zheng Fan’s cigarette.

The drunkard saw the entire exchange.

The hand holding his wine bowl began to tremble.

Then his gaze shifted to the Sword Saint in white, and the wine in his bowl actually sloshed over the rim.

The swordswoman, meanwhile, drew her sword. “This is the first time anyone has ever dared say such things to my face.”

“Miss, that’s because the people you usually associate with are too insignificant.”

The swordswoman smiled faintly. “Is that so? I’ve spent most of these years with my master. Perhaps my master is insignificant in your eyes as well?”

Count Pingye exhaled a ring of smoke. “And who might your master be?”

The swordswoman lifted her chin proudly. “My master’s surname is Yu. He is the Sword Saint of Jin!”

“…”

The Sword Saint set down his chopsticks. He had finished eating.

Count Pingye smiled. “Then I suppose that monk’s master must be Shakyamuni Buddha?”

“Amitabha. Benefactor, the Buddha must not be insulted.”

The young monk rose and solemnly admonished Zheng Fan.

“Well, this is getting interesting.”

Count Pingye turned to Xiong Liqing. “Pay the bill.”

Xiong Liqing took out a piece of broken silver and placed it on the table.

Count Pingye rose. So did the Sword Saint.

Seeing the three preparing to leave, the swordswoman immediately blocked their path with her sword. “I still haven’t seen the sword. I love swords as much as my own life. Today, I must see it!”

Count Pingye’s expression darkened.

He could overlook someone using the name “Zheng Fanli.” The jianghu was too vast for him to control every rumor and impostor.

What bothered him was that these three had long since stopped being amusing distractions during his meal. He had even warned the woman already that she was not pretty enough for him to indulge.

His threshold for irritation might be higher now, but did they truly think a Count whose title had been built on military merit and piles of severed heads was mild-tempered?

“I’m annoyed,” Zheng Fan said.

The Sword Saint nodded. “So am I.”

The moment the girl falsely claimed to be his disciple, the Sword Saint, who had been watching from the sidelines purely for entertainment, became angry.

When all was said and done, how could a man who had killed a sovereign with one sword, driven his own younger brother into rebellion, and dared enter Litian City alone to challenge the Marquis of Jingnan possibly have a good temper?

Life in Shengle City and Snow Sea Pass had shown him another way to live, yes, but at his core he was still the Sword Saint.

There were fewer things he cared about now than before, but lineage and discipleship mattered deeply to him.

The Sword Saint had never founded his own sect because he himself had a master. It was his master who had led him out of the Yu Clan’s impoverished, fallen circumstances and allowed him to find a path of his own.

You could stand in front of the Sword Saint and mock him as undeserving of his reputation, or make jokes about him selling pork, and he would most likely laugh and ignore you.

But this swordswoman had touched a reverse scale.

The Sword Saint struck.

There had never been any real need for them to hide their identities in the first place.

He did not draw Longyuan. He simply extended a finger toward the swordswoman.

Her eyes narrowed as a terrifying aura rushed toward her. She immediately raised her sword before her to guard herself.

The Sword Saint’s fingertip touched the blade. His finger stopped, but the sword intent contained within it passed straight through the weapon and entered the woman’s body in an instant.

“Careful!”

The young monk growled and planted both palms against her back. He pressed downward, guiding the sword qi the Sword Saint had just sent into her body back out and into the ground.

A small hole instantly appeared in the floor.

After that single finger strike, the Sword Saint withdrew his hand and stood where he was.

The swordswoman coughed up blood and collapsed into the young monk’s arms. She was not truly that weak. Her mistake had been trying to use her own sword qi to resist the sword qi of the man before her. Her own qi had shattered instantly, allowing his to drive straight into her body.

Had the monk not acted in time, the sword qi already inside her would have torn her internal organs apart.

The Sword Saint was not Hero Chen. Hero Chen had always possessed a compassionate streak toward the people of Qian. The Sword Saint had no patience for dithering.

Either he laughed something off, or you died.

“Amitabha.”

The monk handed the swordswoman to the scholar, pressed his palms together, and said, “Benefactor, we met only by chance. Why unleash such killing intent at the first disagreement? Heaven cherishes life.”

Count Pingye took Xiong Liqing by the hand and led her several steps back. “I’ve cut down plenty of people over the years, but you three are rapidly becoming some of the people I most want to cut down.”

One after another, they stepped forward to provoke him.

Were they lining up to die?

The weather had been pleasant today. Count Pingye had planned to climb Tianhu Mountain and pay his respects, then rendezvous with the Blind Man and the main group before entering Litian City.

He had been in a perfectly relaxed mood. Who would have thought that stopping for a meal at a little shop at the foot of the mountain would have someone dragging murderous intent out of him by force?

The young monk stepped forward, evidently intending to recover some face. A faint golden glow flowed around his body.

The drunkard sighed in admiration. “A Buddhist Vajra physique.”

The Martial Artist’s path might look like one broad road, but it actually contained many branches, distinguished primarily by different methods of tempering the body.

Earlier, this young monk had suppressed the accountant precisely by relying on his Buddhist Vajra physique.

The Sword Saint opened his hand.

Hum!

A sword rang.

Longyuan flew from its sheath into the Sword Saint’s hand.

The accountant sitting nearby stared at the sword in shock.

The drunkard beside him was less surprised because he had already formed his suspicions, though his expression became considerably more solemn.

Longyuan was a famous sword of the age, personally forged for the Sword Saint by a Chu swordsmith. Its shape and appearance had long since spread throughout the jianghu.

Armies favored sabers. The jianghu loved swords.

For one thing, the sword was well suited to individual combat. For another, a long sword at the waist and robes fluttering in the wind fit the jianghu’s sense of beauty perfectly.

Countless youths entering the jianghu for the first time would sell everything they had just to equip themselves with a sword. Without one, the jianghu simply did not taste right.

Longyuan’s design was also something many jianghu smiths considered mandatory practice.

In major cities and strategic towns, where regulation was strict, blacksmiths faced restrictions on forging weapons for civilians. Those in power naturally did not want iron weapons flooding into common hands.

But cats had their paths and rats had theirs. The jianghu was itself another name for a world outside the orthodox order. Jianghu people had their own channels for buying sabers and swords, and there were smiths who specialized in serving them. After all, how many copper coins could you earn making hoes and rakes?

In more than half the smithies serving the jianghu, you could always find an imitation Longyuan. If there was not one on display, it was probably because the last had sold and they had not yet forged another.

So when Longyuan appeared, everyone recognized it.

Whether the sword was genuine depended on the man wielding it.

A man who could wound someone with sword qi from a fingertip and then summon Longyuan into his hand could only be one person.

Yet the moment Longyuan appeared, the swordswoman in the scholar’s arms suddenly cried out, “Why is my master’s sword in your hands?!”

“…”

Zheng Fan was speechless.

So was the Sword Saint.

Was this woman an idiot?

“Amitabha. You injured Miss Qingqing and now dare wield her master’s sword. This poor monk has never seen anyone so shameless!”

With that, the monk actually attacked the Sword Saint directly, using his Buddhist Vajra physique to crush straight through him.

Martial Artists often fought this way: relying on the strength of their bodies to overwhelm an opponent in the simplest, most brutal fashion. Naturally, the prerequisite was that the opponent could not break through that body in short order.

Yet even when the Marquis of Jingnan had fought the Sword Saint years ago, he had not chosen to meet the Sword Saint’s blade head-on. He had used his own physique to wear down the Sword Saint’s sword intent, then finished with an unexpected technique from the reclusive traditions.

In this world, very few people dared face the Sword Saint’s Longyuan head-on.

But this monk did.

Because he seemed absolutely convinced that this was not the real Sword Saint at all, merely an impostor.

After that, the fight became very simple.

More precisely, it had been a long time since even the Sword Saint had fought this sort of battle.

His opponent was actually throwing himself onto the edge of his sword.

Crack!

Longyuan pierced the monk’s Vajra physique without the slightest suspense.

Shock flashed in the monk’s eyes. He hurriedly thrust both palms forward.

The Sword Saint did not continue the thrust. Instead, he swept the sword back. Even he was beginning to think these three were simply too stupid.

The blade traced an arc.

The young monk managed to retreat, but a bloody gash had opened across his chest and both hands were drenched in blood.

He looked down at his wounds and could not help sighing. “Although you aren’t the real Sword Saint, your sword has already begun to approach his shadow.”

At that moment, the scholar pulled a signal arrow from his robes. “Once I fire this arrow, the troops camped outside Litian City will march here immediately. Then none of you will escape even if you grow wings!”

Xiong Liqing immediately looked down toward her husband’s waist.

Zheng Fan shook his head. “I don’t have one of those.”

Indeed, the real Count Pingye did not possess such a thing.

Mobilizing the troops at Snow Sea Pass was easy. But outside his own command, without a tiger tally, the only way Zheng Fan could mobilize other forces was by showing his face in person.

At that moment, the drunkard rose from his table, walked over, and dropped to his knees before Zheng Fan.

He kowtowed. “Greetings, Count Pingye. Greetings, Sword Saint. Greetings, Your Highness. My lord, these three are neither mad nor stupid. If this humble one has guessed correctly, they should be members of Hunmen, practitioners of the art of deception. They are not deliberately pretending to be fools in front of Your Lordship and the Sword Saint. Right now, they genuinely believe themselves to be Zheng Fanli and the Sword Saint’s disciple. This is Hunmen’s art of self-deception. They have deceived even themselves.”

[End of Chapter 482]