A young hero who roams the land, upholding justice and aiding the oppressed.

When scholars come upon a new essay, they will peruse it tirelessly, carefully tracing every stroke and flourish, while lovers of fine paintings, even if they have seen countless masterpieces, never tire of feasting their eyes upon works that are entirely novel—how much more so when such art broadens one’s horizons.

Guiding his horse through the bustling streets, Zhang Ling’s gaze wandered ceaselessly. Hawkers and porters mingled with common townsfolk, some dressed rather well, though none in true luxury. Compared to Luochuan County, this city was far livelier. Among the crowd, there were also women, and as he passed, their glances met his—whether out of admiration or mere curiosity, their eyes lingered on him, some casting sidelong glances even after he walked by. Zhang Ling could guess at their thoughts, perhaps the stirrings of infatuation, but he returned only a polite smile.

Yet Zhang Ling was well aware that few could afford to ride in blue robes, sword at their side, astride a white steed—such an appearance demanded striking looks, fine silks, a good sword, and a worthy horse, all luxuries beyond most wandering scholars, who often traveled with nothing but a bookcase on their back, the road beneath their feet their only companion. Still, be it a dream or something more, now that he had this chance, he could not forgo a journey spanning thousands of miles.

Zhang Ling halted before an inn, where a young attendant promptly greeted him with a bow and a welcoming smile, eager to take the reins of his horse, Treading Snow. With practiced ease, the boy reached out, but Zhang Ling tossed him a small piece of silver—worth perhaps a hundred coins—and waved him off. “My horse is stubborn and doesn’t let strangers near. Just leave it outside. Bring out some vegetarian dishes, as many as you can. And a pot of your best tea. If the silver’s not enough, we’ll settle up later.”

The attendant hesitated. “Only vegetarian dishes, sir?”

Zhang Ling shot him a glance, and the boy caught himself, immediately falling silent. Zhang Ling added, “Those are for my horse. Bring mine separately.”

The attendant’s face lit up with a forced smile. “How generous, sir! I’ll see to it at once. Please, come in and rest.”

With that, the boy hurried away. Zhang Ling entered the inn, where there were still empty tables despite the few patrons. Only one youth, appearing a little younger than himself and not yet free of childish innocence, sat at a table with a saber by his side, devouring his meal with the voracity of a hungry wolf. The other diners glanced at Zhang Ling, then quickly minded their own business. Zhang Ling paused briefly before choosing an empty table.

Soon, the attendant returned, efficiently serving dishes for both Treading Snow and Zhang Ling. The tables—both outside and inside—were laden with plates. Zhang Ling eyed the spread, then glanced at the attendant’s forced grin. “Seems you’ve brought out everything the kitchen can manage—whether they know how to make it or not. I suppose you’re taking the chance to fleece a well-dressed guest.”

Feigning ignorance, the boy replied, “If it’s not enough, we have more. And we serve the finest osmanthus wine—excellent quality and price. Would you care for a pot?”

Zhang Ling poured a cup of tea and offered it to the boy, who immediately waved it off—wary, no doubt, that this gentleman might be trying to avoid paying for his meal. He’d seen this before: men who looked dignified but refused to pay, covering it with friendly banter and noble excuses.

Zhang Ling, unconcerned, took a sip himself to moisten his throat. “Do you know where the three great clans of Liufeng City are? I’ve heard the martial sects are holding clan competitions soon. I happen to be passing through and thought I might take a look.”

The youth at the next table paused, then continued to wolf down his food. The attendant leaned closer. “The nearest is the Song family, just west of the main avenue. Once you’ve watched their contest, you can ask any disciple for directions to the other two clans—their matches usually follow the Song’s.”

Zhang Ling was intrigued. “I hear the Song family is the most prominent. Is there someone particularly formidable among them?”

The attendant drew even nearer, lowering his voice. “No one dares talk about it openly—for fear the city lord’s men might hear and bring disaster—but everyone knows. In recent years, the Song clan has grown ever stronger, drawing the other two families into their orbit. By rights, the city lord’s office should have stepped in, but they’ve done nothing. The Song’s influence keeps spreading—one could call them the city’s foremost power now. It’s said the city lord dares not move against them because there’s a truly formidable master in the Song family, though no one knows exactly who.”

Zhang Ling looked puzzled. “A master? How skilled? A Grandmaster of the Guiyuan Realm?”

The attendant shrugged helplessly. “That, I wouldn’t know. To us ordinary folk, such people are like immortals—well beyond our reach.”

Zhang Ling waved him off and began his meal in silence. He tossed a roast chicken over his shoulder, which the youth behind him caught deftly. Without turning, Zhang Ling chuckled lightly, “It’s for you.”

He could tell the youth, though busy eating, had been listening attentively. Zhang Ling continued, “You heard what the attendant said. None of that should be spread around. Better not to stir up trouble for anyone else—consider this hush money.”

A muffled “Mm” came from behind, as the youth continued to eat ravenously—clearly as hungry as Zhang Ling had been moments ago.

As Zhang Ling raised his head, several burly men swaggered in, faces fierce and intimidating. One slammed a massive saber onto the counter, adopting a bullying posture and shouting, “Robbery! Hand over all your money!”

Turning to the patrons, he barked, “If you want to leave, do it now—if my blade lands on your neck later, you’ll have only yourselves to blame!”

At that, all but the trembling attendant and innkeeper fled the premises. Zhang Ling grumbled inwardly: Just my luck, first time eating in an inn, and I run into this.

He took a few more bites, gathered his bundle—containing little more than a change of clothes and some banknotes—and rose. He had always abided by the maxim that trouble in the martial world comes from meddling in others’ affairs. He left the inn without paying more, knowing whatever he left would likely end up in the bandits’ hands anyway—better to save it for his next meal.

Outside, as he went to fetch Treading Snow, he saw the youth still seated inside, his eyes shifting ever so slightly toward his saber. Zhang Ling surmised he was another martial artist but paid him no further mind. He had barely walked a short distance when a commotion broke out behind him. Turning, he saw the burly men being flung bodily from the inn. With a brief glance, Zhang Ling turned to leave, but before he could go far, a slightly youthful voice called out to him.

The youth from the inn called after him, “Hey, brother, you’re a martial artist too, aren’t you? Why didn’t you step in just now?”

Zhang Ling found it amusing but did not show it. With his back to the youth, he merely waved a hand. “You’re the hero, not me. Farewell.”

Leading his horse, Zhang Ling quickly vanished into the crowd.