Aloof Young Man

Zhang Ling walked over to Fang Haiding, who was being so tightly restrained that he was gasping for breath. The former's gaze grew steadily colder, while the latter, no longer as fierce as before, now showed obvious fear. He tried to speak, but the King of Blades sealed his throat, leaving him to utter only incoherent sounds. “Your lord thinks you’re not worth the price,” Zhang Ling said quietly. “Looks like I’ll have to send you on your way myself.”

Shen Yunfeng could no longer restrain himself. Over a decade’s effort, all for the sake of martial advancement, was now being ruined by a younger generation—how could he not be furious? He shouted, “How dare you!”

Zhang Ling abruptly stopped his sword and turned to Shen Yunfeng. “Master Shen, I forgot to mention—this is the imperial palace. Even if you’ve pledged allegiance to the court, you hold no official rank. That means you’ve trespassed into the palace, a grave crime indeed!”

Originally, Shen Yunfeng had only intended to slip in among the officials to observe the situation. Forced by circumstance, he had revealed himself, and now found himself in a bind. His energy surged throughout his body, his limbs tensed, and then, like an untethered wild horse, he sped away. For now, he could only flee and later see if the Minister could help resolve the matter. If not, he would have no choice but to leave the capital.

He dared not surrender. Though doing so might lighten his sentence, he didn’t fully trust Lu Hongyan. Should Lu refuse to help, death would be his only fate.

At that moment, the officials who had been thoroughly entertained by the day’s spectacle finally reacted as Shen Yunfeng made his escape and began organizing men to pursue him.

Song Qingtian could have apprehended Shen Yunfeng immediately, but he never overstepped his bounds. As the old dean had always said, the academy should not interfere in affairs of the court.

When Zhang Ling saw that Shen Yunfeng had disappeared, he once again raised his sword and beheaded Fang Haiding. Because of his position, the gushing blood splattered directly onto the King of Blades. Zhang Ling offered an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, Dean. This robe’s on me. I’ll compensate you later.”

Zhang Ling glanced toward the cluster of civil officials. Though he had never met the Minister Lu with whom he had inexplicably become enemies, he imagined there must be someone among them now gnashing their teeth at him.

Yet Zhang Ling still failed to recognize a crucial issue: in the instant he cut off Fang Haiding’s head, even many military officers looked visibly shocked. To kill with such swiftness and calm, without a flicker of emotion—unless one had undergone inhuman training since childhood, only those who survived the battlefield could show such composure. In their eyes, this youth’s hands must have been stained with much blood.

Only Song Qingtian could see the truth. If Zhang Ling had come from the battlefield, he would inevitably exude an unmistakable aura of violence. But in Zhang Ling’s eyes, Song saw no such ruthlessness. According to his knowledge, Zhang Ling had grown up in Luochuan County and had never left; someone who had never witnessed the carnage of war could not possibly face death with such equanimity.

Among those present, only Song Linjie found nothing odd. He assumed Zhang Ling, like himself, was already familiar with the tumult of the martial world, accustomed to the ebb and flow of life and death, able to remain steady in danger and decisive in killing.

In reality, Zhang Ling still regarded all this as a dream. He cared little for people or events, always adapting to circumstances with a serene detachment.

Song Qingtian continued pondering whether Zhang Ling might be one of those rare, inherently untroubled souls—able to see through dilemmas and approach all things with clarity. After a month’s investigation, he knew Zhang Ling had dabbled in many unorthodox martial arts. Though only his swordsmanship showed real promise, he had a superficial grasp of many disciplines, proof of an agile mind.

Zhang Ling abruptly interrupted his thoughts. “Dean, is there more to this contest? Please step down, I still have a match with Mo Li.”

Song Qingtian found himself growing more and more exasperated with this boy. Normally, elders only complained their own juniors were unpromising and looked down on others’ children. Yet here, his own grandson proved worthy, while this youth he’d only formally met today managed to vex him thoroughly. He shot Zhang Ling a cold look. “What contest? The dueling platform is soaked with blood—an eyesore. Besides, Mo Li is nearly spent. Taking advantage of someone’s weakness—have you no shame?”

Zhang Ling was left baffled. Why was the dean so temperamental upon first meeting him, scolding him like a wayward junior? By contrast, the man back in Luochuan had barely spoken to him in over a decade, only offering a few words of admonition after he began studying martial arts.

With a careless wave, Zhang Ling dropped from the dueling platform, still bemused. Song Qingtian glanced at those below and said quietly, “Zhang Ling, Song Linjie, Mo Li, Ye Yumi—the four of you, when ready, report to the academy.”

With that, Song Qingtian launched himself away, light as drifting clouds.

The officials, satisfied with the day’s spectacle, departed in high spirits, laughing and chatting as they returned home. They now had ample stories to share with their own families. Some elders fond of scolding the young would seize the opportunity to lecture their juniors, enhancing their own sense of importance.

The unsuccessful candidates below, seeing no hope of entry, now tried to befriend the four chosen ones. Yet, save for the shameless Zhang Ling—who, having missed out on any tangible benefit, began to reach toward those with powerful backgrounds—the other three remained indifferent.

Before long, someone arrived to escort the young candidates away.

Zhang Ling had barely taken a few steps when the current Grand General, Hou An, blocked his path. “Young friend, have you any desire to achieve glory and build a legacy?”

Hou An, once a colleague of Zhang Ling’s late father and now Grand General, was supposed to command all three armies. However, the other two commanders were not reconciled to his leadership, so he only retained command over the Xianzhi Army, which had always been under his charge. Fortunately, the emperor was sympathetic and favored this loyal servant, giving him the largest force—while the Xianmin and Xianguo Armies each barely numbered over ten thousand, Hou An’s Xianzhi Army boasted two hundred thousand. Thus, his salary was always the highest priority.

Xianzhi, Xianguo, Xianmin—these names had been discussed between Zhang Ling and Marquis Gu Ping before. He couldn’t help but sigh: his late father, whom he had never met, had truly devoted his life to the country and its people, even bestowing such meaningful names upon the armies. Yet, in the end, he died in service. Zhang Ling himself could never emulate such dedication.

Zhang Ling bowed respectfully. “General Hou, thank you for your regard. I do wish to serve the court, but I aspire to be a civil official. I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer.”

Hou An tried to persuade him. “You practice martial arts—why not use your skills? Why pursue a literary career? You’re not a scholar. Even if you received an official post, at best you’d reach seventh or eighth rank. What’s the point?”

Faced with Hou An’s well-meaning words, Zhang Ling replied with a light laugh, “Then I suppose I’ll remain a carefree wanderer.”

Seeing another ungrateful youth, Hou An said no more, striding out of the palace to see if he could catch up with the other two.

At last, everyone had left. The palace, lively all day, finally grew quiet—save for its true master, who still stood frozen in place.