Volume One: The King's Command Chapter Two: Never Underestimate the Young

The courtyard had been vacant for less than a week before it was rented out by a wealthy young lord from Central Province. He paid with a gold bar, and the landlord did not even bother to ask questions, serving up the best food in his kitchen as a welcome feast.

This young lord from Central Province was an official dispatched by the imperial court. Piecing together various clues about the incident, he deduced that this was merely one of several locations involved.

"Young Master Bai, most people living around here are vagrants or drifters, and there are many suspicious points. It will take time to sort everything out," said his attendant. The man's temples were slightly bulging, and his voice was powerful—clearly, he was a seasoned martial artist.

A dozen men searched the courtyard inside and out, combing through every corner. Aside from the traces left by the earlier fight, they found only a few simple household items. In a cabinet, several sets of children's clothes were neatly folded.

"When will the other teams arrive?" Young Master Bai raised an eyebrow as he looked at the children's clothes. None of the bodies found earlier belonged to a child. If they could find this person, perhaps the Emperor’s Command Seal would be recovered as well.

With just their group, it was clear they did not have the resources to uncover all the leads. Thirteen teams had been sent from Central Province, sealing off the entire Sanshan City. The tense, subdued atmosphere on Wanfu Street was enough for the keen to sense that something was amiss.

In the back alleys, the presence of wanderers from the martial world seemed to have thinned considerably. Officers, both in plainclothes and uniform, knocked on every door and searched every house, but found nothing.

The main culprit, meanwhile, was already fast asleep on a straw mat, utterly exhausted after the tension of the previous night.

The child he had brought with him was tied to an upright wooden stake. No matter how much the boy struggled, he could not topple it.

The child had cried the whole night, falling asleep only at dawn, with clear tear stains still lingering at the corners of his eyes. At five years old, he could barely withstand the horror of what he had seen: countless black-clad men cut down by his father, then his father’s sword breaking, and his body falling amidst a pool of blood.

"Hey, little one, what’s your name?" He was roused by the question, and as he awoke, he realized it was another morning. If not for his parched throat and empty stomach, he might have thought he’d only closed his eyes for a moment.

He looked up toward the sound. A thin, small man dressed in black with a handlebar mustache was stoking a campfire, over which a battered pot simmered with chicken broth. One whiff told the boy it was mountain pheasant from Liangshan—the breast meat, perfect for roasting. His father often hunted in those mountains, and the most frequent, most beloved dish he brought home was mountain pheasant.

His stomach rumbled loudly, and his mouth flooded with saliva. The man by the fire scooped two ladles into a chipped bowl and set it before him.

"Eat while it’s hot—try it," he said. There was even a chicken drumstick in the bowl, the aroma irresistible, drawing the child’s gaze.

But the boy shook his head with determination, summoning all his strength to shout, "You killed my father! Why not kill me too?"

"If your father had been alive, I would never have gotten the Emperor’s Command Seal. You, though, are of no consequence," the man replied, setting the bowl and chopsticks on the ground and untying the ropes so the child could eat.

As soon as he was free, the boy threw a punch at the man’s face. The man’s mustache quirked up; he raised an arm and sent the boy flying, tumbling down the slope outside the cave entrance. The sudden commotion startled a flock of birds resting in the woods.

The man began eating, seasoning the broth only with salt, but relishing every bite. For someone in his line of work, any meal was a lucky one.

After rolling through the damp earth, the once-clean clothes were now caked in mud, and the low shrubs tore at his garments. When the boy finally stood, his body was covered in scrapes and bruises. Eyes red, he leaned on the uneven trees for support and staggered back to the cave entrance.

The man, having finished a quick wash, had his sword at his waist and was erasing their traces. Hunters often camped in Liangshan, and such signs would not arouse suspicion from the authorities, who rarely ventured here anyway.

"Where are you going?" the boy demanded, fists clenched tightly. The recent humiliation made him acutely aware of the gulf between a five-year-old and a grown man—fighting again would only bring more pain.

"Come if you wish—unless you think you can survive in Liangshan alone. The wild leopards at night are quite fond of children," the man said, setting off in the opposite direction of Sanshan City. He walked for four hours before stopping again, by which time the sun was setting.

For a five-year-old, the journey was all but impossible. By the time he crawled, exhausted, into the light of a street lamp, he collapsed and fainted.

His mind was foggy, limbs limp, but over and over, he felt hot liquid poured into his mouth. This happened several times, until finally, he could open his eyes comfortably and breathe in the scent of wood—a homey, comforting aroma, just like when his father cooked.

Tears welled up unbidden. His crying drew a voice: "I still don’t know your name. A new child in town needs a name, doesn’t he?" The man brought him a bowl of steaming porridge, but the boy only swallowed hard and refused to take it.

"Swordsmen speak with their swords. You can’t even lift a scabbard—how will you avenge your father? Think it over before you come find me," the man said, then patted his thigh and rose to leave.

His father had been a swordsman, and his own goal was to become even greater. But he had never thought a swordsman could die simply because his sword broke. The man made no secret of his identity—in fact, he had defeated his father in a fair duel, battling for over a hundred rounds in the courtyard before winning by luck. It was clear the man was not so invincible.

After all, his own father had never been especially famous.

His father’s favorite saying: a swordsman never attacks from behind.

The porridge by his bedside was still warm. The boy picked it up and drank it all in one go, a smile blooming on his face. His feet pressed firmly to the floor, the blisters on his soles stinging from the friction of his cloth shoes, grounding him in reality.

On the fourth day after his father’s sword broke, in the market town at the foot of Liangshan, the weapons shop that had been closed for half a month reopened. The owner explained he had gone back to his hometown to bring back a foster child.

The child, a little over five, was sturdy and round-faced, but always wore a bitter expression and never smiled.

Next door to the weapons shop, a new blacksmith opened for business. The smith was a one-armed giant, and every blade or sword he forged bore an engraving of a peach blossom on the hilt.

By the town’s spacious square, a white-haired old storyteller had arrived. With a straight back, he stood under the ancient locust tree, so upright that he himself seemed part of the tree.