Bustling street

The young man had just taken a step, intending to call out to Zhang Ling again, but realized that what the other had said was not without reason. He paused, then grinned, saying, "If you’re going to the Song family, I can catch you there all the same." Turning back, he tapped the scabbard of his knife against his left hand, strode after the fleeing men, dragged each one back, thrashed them all soundly, and only then did he feel somewhat at ease, flexing his wrist before giving a not-so-gentle kick to a howling brute at his feet. The men immediately understood, scrambling away in a panic, eager to be out of the young man’s sight.

...

Pots and basins flew one after another through the air, accompanied by the sharp crash of splintering tables and chairs. Most passersby hurriedly detoured to avoid trouble, though a few bolder souls lingered at a distance to watch the spectacle. Following the gaze of one such onlooker, a burly man with rough features, his face flushed with rage and his eyes twisted with fury, glared daggers at a wiry fellow not far away, clenching his fists as if he longed to tear the man apart. The skinny man wore a lewd grin, occasionally beckoning mockingly with a crooked finger.

Driven by fury, the burly man seized a peddler’s wooden bucket and hurled it at his foe. The wiry man dodged nimbly, his mocking smile growing broader, the derision in his eyes deepening. "Big oaf," he sneered, "all brawn and no brains, and poor eyesight to boot! After all you’ve thrown, you haven’t hit me once. Why bother? Go home and get some sleep."

The burly man roared, "Monkey San, unless I rip you to pieces today, I’ll eat my hat!"

With a snarl, he charged straight at the wiry man, as though intent on crushing him with sheer force. Zhang Ling, leading his horse Treading Snow, looked somewhat disgruntled. He’d spent a few taels of silver, barely eaten a bite, hadn’t even touched his tea, and was now forced to leave—while his horse had feasted well. When Zhang Ling exited the inn, there was nothing left in front of Treading Snow but scraps—not even cold leftovers, just the barest remnants.

The sounds of the brawl reached Zhang Ling’s ears. He glanced over to see two men—one hulking, one scrawny—locked in combat. The burly man lunged repeatedly but never landed a blow; both were soon gasping for breath. The wiry man, though agile, was also tiring, his smile fading, though he’d managed to land a few inconsequential blows on his opponent.

Struggling to catch his breath, the skinny man managed, "Wang Daxiong, is that all you’ve got? If you stop now, I might just let you off. What do you say?"

The burly man, blood at the corner of his mouth, spat on the ground and cursed, "Let me off? You lost all my money gambling! Even if your boss comes, I’ll skin you alive today!"

With that, they tangled once more. By chance, Zhang Ling found himself closest to the fray. He didn’t move, simply watched, soon realizing these weren’t ordinary street toughs brawling—they fought with precision, aiming for lethal points, clearly taught at least the rudiments of martial arts.

"A sword in the hands of a villain brings senseless slaughter. In a gentleman’s grasp, it aids the helpless. In a commoner’s grip, it spills blood within five paces. In a hero’s palm, corpses float for miles."

Zhang Ling turned to find, without his noticing, a middle-aged man had appeared beside him. The man’s face was kindly, yet carried an unyielding authority. Zhang Ling replied evenly, "Do you so-called masters always speak in riddles to draw attention?"

The man shook his head and chuckled, "It’s best to keep your distance when watching a fight. Stand too close, and you’re more likely to get hurt." As he spoke, he reached out and deftly caught a flying cleaver right in front of Zhang Ling. The latter remained calm, tapping his short sword across his chest. The middle-aged man laughed heartily, "So, you’re a skilled one too! Forgive my caution. I mentioned four types of swordsmen—which one are you?"

"None of them," Zhang Ling replied offhandedly.

"Oh?" The man’s eyes narrowed. "Then what kind of man are you, Zhang Ling?"

At the mention of his name, Zhang Ling’s brows knitted and he grew wary, saying nothing. The man smiled, reaching out to stroke Treading Snow. To Zhang Ling’s surprise, the usually restless horse nuzzled close, showing unusual affection. The man asked softly, "Do you know its origin?"

Zhang Ling remained silent, so the man went on, "Bai Xiaosheng, master of the Hall of Enlightenment, once journeyed to the far north, where snow falls year-round and night never ends. On his return, a white horse, stepping through snow like daylight in darkness, crossed his path. He named it the Northern Night Dragon. Later, when Qin Yi became deputy master of the Hall, Bai gifted him the horse, and now it’s come to you. Clearly, the deputy master holds you in high regard."

Squaring his shoulders, the man turned to face Zhang Ling. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Song Yutian, head of the Song family in Liufeng City. Qin Yi wrote to me, saying you sought a companion for your journey, so I’ve come to meet you."

Relief softened Zhang Ling’s expression. The revelation of Qin Yi’s position surprised him, but he smiled lightly, "Having the head of the Song family greet me in person is quite the honor."

Song Yutian smiled in return. "If you’ll wait a moment." Turning to the two brawlers, he unleashed a wave of commanding energy that instantly felled both men with a cry of pain.

The two, now revealed as Luo and Wang, crawled to Song Yutian’s feet, trembling, not daring to rise. "Master Song," they stammered.

Most of the crowd, familiar with the scene, dispersed, except those waiting for compensation. Luo tried to speak, but Song Yutian cut him off, "Enough. I don’t care about your petty squabbles—settle them elsewhere. As for the damage, you know what to do. Pay up."

He paused, then continued, "Wang Monkey, Luo Bear, how many times has this happened? If you fight in the street again, not even your family heads will save you."

The men hastily promised to behave; money mattered less than their lives. Those seeking compensation crowded forward, hands outstretched. "Pay up."

Song Yutian, paying them no further mind, nodded to Zhang Ling and led the way. Zhang Ling gathered Treading Snow and followed.

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhang Ling asked, "Aren’t you worried that handling other families’ disputes like this might breed resentment?"

Song Yutian walked on steadily. "If they want favors, they must ask my leave first. Why would they resent it?"

Zhang Ling studied the urbane family head. Though his manner was gentle, there was a shadow in his gaze. Undeterred, Zhang Ling asked, "Are you truly a great master?"

Song Yutian smiled. "Not a great master—barely a lesser one. The Song family did once have a true master of the Return to Origin realm, though."

He sighed softly. "Yet who knows if he’s truly lost all hope in this family?"

Waiting for Song Yutian to compose himself, Zhang Ling asked, "Will the Song family send the champion disciple to accompany me to the capital?"

Song Yutian did not answer at once, turning the question back, "What do you think?"

Zhang Ling considered. "I hope to choose for myself—not just the most skilled, but someone I can trust."

Song Yutian nodded. "That’s wise. Trust is paramount among companions. But know this: any who lose cannot travel as Song family disciples. Not just in our family, but in all families—it’s the same."

For a disciple represents the family's honor. Such unwritten rules may seem harsh, but they are necessary. Thus, no matter how great the sect, only a select few are qualified to show themselves to the world—those who are truly exceptional.