Chapter 21: The Three Marvelous Strokes

This sudden burst of five-colored light fell upon the southern courtyard at astonishing speed, vanishing from Lu Xin’s sight almost instantly. Yet Lu Xin could sense that whatever had just flown over his head was breathing—it was alive.

Birds can fly, and they breathe, but there is no bird in the world that glows with such resplendent colors. Indeed, even the full moon of Mid-Autumn would be eclipsed by such radiance. Lu Xin was deeply shaken, his heart racing wildly.

A full minute passed before Mute Wu finally loosened his grip. Lu Xin looked up at him. For someone of Mute Wu’s martial prowess, his expression was grave as well. One thing was certain: Mute Wu had clearly known in advance that this five-colored light would appear, perhaps even the exact time of its arrival.

“Uncle Wu, what was that thing? It was flying so fast.”

“A divine bird, or if you prefer, a demon.”

“A divine bird? A demon?”

Feeling the path Mute Wu traced on his palm with his fingertip, Lu Xin’s pupils contracted sharply, his astonishment deepening. The world, as it turned out, was far more mysterious and unfamiliar than he had ever imagined. In less than two years since he had arrived in the Tang Dynasty, he had seen poisonous insects that could devour a human body in an instant, monks who soared through the air and killed without hesitation, and now, even demons had emerged. At this moment, Lu Xin would not have doubted Mute Wu if he claimed that spirits, gods, immortals, and devils truly existed in this world.

Mute Wu explained that what had just flown overhead was a demon bird known as the “Five-Colored Phoenix.” Every year on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, it would descend into the southern courtyard of the Xu estate, linger for half a quarter of an hour, and then depart. No one knew where it came from or where it went, but its visits were an open secret in the Xu household.

“Ancient texts record that the Five-Colored Phoenix is born with rainbow wings and five tails, and can live for eight thousand years. It descends to the mortal world, delights in gold and silver, and is extraordinarily intelligent...”

When he first arrived at the Xu estate, Mute Wu had secretly investigated the origin of the Five-Colored Phoenix, but could only find a few references in old books. Fortunately, it had never harmed anyone, nor had it ever revealed itself openly before a crowd. Over time, its annual visits became a matter of routine. Moreover, it seemed to have a profound connection with the Xu family. Xu Sanjin, and even the old Mr. Xu in his day, were all aware of its presence.

“Uncle Wu, by your account, this creature comes to the Xu estate for food, but since it only returns once a year, how much gold and silver could it possibly consume?”

“Some things are best left unknown. I let you witness this only to teach you: the world is vast, and there are always mountains higher than you can see, always people greater than you can imagine. When I was young, my pride knew no bounds; though I knew the world was wide, I saw myself as the center of it, regarding others with disdain. Because of this arrogance, I made grave mistakes and suffered dearly for them. Now that you have mastered the Miao Bi Sword Art, you are young and full of vigor. I do not wish to see you repeat my errors and lose your life for the sake of a sword.”

On this Mid-Autumn night, Mute Wu seemed to be recalling many memories, his heart sinking into a deep stillness, devoid of joy or flavor. Yet Lu Xin did not dare forget a single word; he engraved it all upon his heart. He knew that the man Mute Wu had become saw through the affairs of the world—neither striving nor contending, untroubled by joy or anger. The only thing he could not let go of was the memory of his family’s massacre.

“Uncle Wu, who was it, all those years ago, who could surpass your sword and slaughter your…”

Lu Xin longed to know what had happened ten years before. So much time had passed, and yet Mute Wu claimed his enemy was still searching for him. Lu Xin hoped that one day he might help Mute Wu resolve this trouble. Yet he stopped himself halfway through the question; to rip open another’s wounds is always an act of harm.

Fortunately, Mute Wu seemed unbothered, though he gave no answer, as if he had not heard the question at all. Thus, the Mid-Autumn Festival of the second year of the Zhenguan era passed in quietude. Two men, a jar of wine, a plate of mooncakes, each lost in their own thoughts. The longing of ordinary people may one day be fulfilled in reunion, but the longing of Mute Wu could only stir a fleeting ripple in the river of time, never to return to the past. As for Lu Xin, he did not know how to cross the river of time and return to his own future.

Yet memories are real—untouchable, but warm. Before the endless march of time, all things—heaven and earth, sun, moon, and stars—will eventually fade away. Life cannot endure the vicissitudes of ages, nor compare to the fleeting clouds above. In the face of time, life is but silent dust, insubstantial and laughable. Yet memory can traverse time, stand above it, and let you see everything clearly.

Mute Wu said that impatience is the greatest taboo for any martial artist. He taught Lu Xin the sword not so he could kill, nor to seek vengeance, but simply to give him a skill for self-preservation. Since martial arts are not for murder or revenge, one should let things take their natural course and seek enlightenment through fate. Lu Xin found this reasoning persuasive, and so his impatience faded.

The days that followed were equally peaceful. The Tang empire was still stable, and the Xu family’s business prospered. At least in Yuezhou, on the shores of the Eastern Sea, everything appeared tranquil and prosperous. Besides managing the tea trade, Lu Xin devoted himself to practicing the sword. He had ample time to study swordsmanship; even on horseback, traveling to Hangzhou, he practiced breathing techniques to accompany his sword forms.

Mute Wu had taught him three forms of the Miao Bi Sword Art. The first, “Transforming Dragon,” drew inspiration from the story of Zhang Sengyao, the painter of the Liang dynasty in the Southern and Northern dynasties. To paint the dragon’s eyes is to bring it to life; thunder and lightning shatter the walls, the dragon soars aloft. If one can master this form, the sword art reaches minor perfection, enabling one to face a dozen opponents at once.

The second form, “Lofty Mountain,” took its meaning from the “Tang Wen” chapter of the Liezi. Towering as Mount Tai, vast as a mighty river. The great master stands atop the peak, his tune too high for most to follow. In this form, the sword is both brush and zither. Driven by inner force, the sword qi can produce the music of strings. The zither is played for one alone, the sword is danced for one alone. At its peak, this form allows one to face a hundred enemies.

The third form, “Azure Sky,” was inspired by the “Tian Zi Fang” chapter in Zhuangzi. The perfected man gazes into the sky, descends into the underworld, wields his sword in all directions, his spirit unchanging. This form is the culmination of the first two: the dragon ascends to the sky, the mountaintop gazes upward to the heavens. If mastered, the sword art enters the realm of transformation, enabling one to take a head amid ten thousand soldiers, undetected by gods or ghosts.

To reach the realm of transformation is the goal of all who practice the martial way—the pinnacle of the sword. According to Mute Wu, he had already mastered the sword at fifteen, and within another fifteen years, he reached the realm of transformation, unmatched in the martial world. Yet three years later, his entire clan was annihilated, and he barely escaped with his life.

What force could destroy the home of one who had reached the summit of martial arts? Even if Mute Wu said nothing, Lu Xin could guess. The enemy was either a powerful sect or a Daoist sorcerer. Either way, their power would have been immense.

Lu Xin once asked Mute Wu, if the sword reached the realm of transformation, was there truly no further path? Mute Wu did not answer directly, but Lu Xin had seen the power Mute Wu wielded with a mere leaf. Perhaps his mastery of the sword had surpassed even the realm of transformation. What that state might be, no one could say. But having witnessed the battles of Daoist sorcerers, Lu Xin knew well how terrifying such people could be.

Zhenguan, third year. Spring.

In April, the southern lands had just seen a spell of gentle rain. Flowers were in full bloom, migratory birds had returned, and spring was at its finest. Lu Xin brought back the last batch of spring tea from Lion Peak Mountain, and from that day on, he was no longer a servant of the Xu estate.

In truth, he had earned the two hundred taels of silver needed to buy his freedom a month before. Yet he had not left immediately. First, the rainy season made travel difficult and the roads impassable. Second, he needed to save more money and provisions for the journey. Third, spring is the season of the finest teas—the tea business on Lion Peak needed someone to oversee it, and Old Tian and his grandson needed help. So Lu Xin chose to stay a little longer.

But now, he had to leave. It had been two years since he came from Creek Town to Yuezhou city. His cousin Lu Tingfang had also disappeared for two years; whether or not he was in Chang’an, Lu Xin wanted to find him. This world remained too strange and cold for Lu Xin. Lu Tingfang was his only kin, the one person he could not let go of.

In the main hall of the southern courtyard, Xu Sanjin hosted a farewell for Lu Xin alone. Over these two years, perhaps because of Mute Wu, Xu Sanjin had treated him well—not as a servant, but more as an equal in business and conversation. Lu Xin was grateful to this former master. After all, it was Xu Sanjin who paid for Grandpa Tu’s burial, and it was Xu Sanjin who gave him hope when he was at his lowest.

“Mister Xu, I am deeply indebted to your kindness, which I can never repay. Please accept my bow!”

Lu Xin was not one to forget a favor. However small another’s kindness, he would remember it always. His bond with Xu Sanjin was not as deep as with Mute Wu, but he still wished to bid farewell with a formal kneel and bow. This was not mere formality, but the proper courtesy owed to such a benefactor.

But Xu Sanjin would not accept the bow, instead smiling as he helped him up.

“That’s enough, that’s enough. Two years ago, I already received your three kowtows. You’ve done much for the Xu family’s tea business—if you bow again, you’ll shorten my life! Ah, to think, in these two years we’ve barely spoken, yet now that you’re leaving, I find myself reluctant to see you go. I still remember when you first entered this house—you were just a frail child. And now, you’ve grown so tall, it truly feels like a lifetime has passed.”

Looking at him, Xu Sanjin’s eyes grew distant, as if recalling bygone days. And it was no wonder he felt so. Lu Xin now stood one meter seventy-five, strong and handsome. Dressed in a fitted blue robe, he looked every bit the dashing young swordsman of twenty. But in truth, he was barely eleven years old.

“One more thing—take this with you. When you reach Chang’an, go find a man named Qian Hai. He is my closest friend; stay at his house and he will look after you in all things.”

Xu Sanjin pressed a jade ring into his hand, instructing him to seek out the Qian residence upon arrival in Chang’an. Lu Xin did not refuse, feeling another surge of gratitude. For someone arriving in the capital with no friends or family, this was indeed a great help.