Preface

The moonlight over Chang’an always carries a hint of sword’s shadow and the fragrance of ink. When the morning mist still lingers on Vermilion Bird Avenue, two kinds of footprints are already imprinted upon the blue stone slabs: one, the resolute clang of armored steeds; the other, the calm tread of cloth shoes worn by a scholar. And Scholar Xiao is precisely the alchemist of these two spirits—his Tang sword at his waist reflects the soaring eaves of the Wild Goose Pagoda, while the poetry scrolls hidden in his sleeves embrace the lotus breezes from Qujiang Pool.

I first encountered Scholar Xiao in a tavern of the Western Market. He was seated by the window, his left hand pressing on a well-thumbed copy of The Records of the Grand Historian, his right index finger tapping lightly upon the table, his rhythm echoing the cadence of sword techniques discussed by the bodyguards at the neighboring table. Someone laughed at him, saying, ‘You are neither adept at deciphering words nor defending yourself in battle.’ He merely glanced up with a smile, and the light in his eyes was brighter than the iron steed on the eaves. Only later did I realize that the rhythm of his tapping concealed the unstoppable momentum of Pei Min’s swordplay and the soaring grace in Lady Gongsun’s sword dance.

In Chang’an, swordsmen are as numerous as cattle on the plains—there are wandering knights roaming the world, the Golden Guards defending the city gates, and couriers hiding amidst the crowds of the marketplace. But Scholar Xiao is different. His sword is rarely stained with blood, yet it always cleaves through the mists that cloud the human heart. I remember the Lantern Festival, when a group of rogues harassed a woman by Qujiang Pool. He did not unsheath his sword; instead, he called out, “Do you not recall what Du Fu wrote: ‘Behind vermilion gates, meat and wine go to waste, while out on the road, the bones of the frozen poor lie bare’?” The ruffians bristled, ready to fight, but he calmly picked up a withered branch and, with a flourish, wrote the word “Hero” in the mud. The stroke thundered with force, and with the final angled flick, he sent a lantern three fathoms away tumbling down—its oil unstained, its flame unquenched. The scoundrels, stunned, exchanged glances and slunk away in defeat.

His study lies deep within Pingkang Ward, where the window frame bears the inscription: “A sword’s courage, a zither’s heart.” Upon his desk, three objects are always present: a Tang sword honed to a razor’s edge, a block of the finest Shezhou ink, and a dish of freshly roasted peanuts. His visitors are of two kinds: scholars seeking poetry and swordsmen seeking direction. The scholars delight in his discussions of battle formations in calligraphy, likening the crafting of poetry to swordplay—opening, developing, turning, and finishing are as attack, defense, advance, and retreat. The swordsmen seek his insights on the art of the mind, and he tells them, “The true heroism of a knight lies not in killing, but in protection.” Once, a renowned swordsman came to learn the art of breaking an opponent’s move. Scholar Xiao handed him a copy of The Analects, saying, “To break a move, first break the heart’s flaws. If there is guilt within, no matter how refined your swordsmanship, a flaw will show.”

Some say Scholar Xiao’s sword was nourished by brush and ink. He would thump the table in admiration for Jing Ke when reading the Chronicles of Assassins; when copying the Lanting Preface, he would discern the subtlety of swordplay within the winding strokes of a single character. He often said, “The sword is a tool, the book is the soul. A tool without a soul is but scrap metal; a soul without a tool cannot protect the people.” Though this may sound mysterious, his life proved it true. When chaos first erupted during the An Lushan Rebellion and the rebel army pressed upon Chang’an, the defending generals were at a loss. It was he, a mere scholar, who ascended the city walls, and in a rain of arrows, wrote the Strategy for Defending the City with his sword. Each word rang like thunder, reigniting the soldiers’ courage. That night, his sword and his pen sang together like dragons.

Today’s Chang’an is no longer the Chang’an of the High Tang. The stone slabs of Vermilion Bird Avenue have been polished bright by hoofbeats, there are fewer foreign traders in the Western Market, and the laughter in the taverns carries a touch more melancholy. Yet whenever moonlight floods the city, some still see that figure: dressed in blue, half drunk and half sober, wandering the streets. The tassel of his sword sways lightly, like the rhyme at the end of a verse; his steps are unhurried, as if they were strokes of ink drifting across a page.

Perhaps every era needs such a person: scroll in the left hand, sword in the right—one who can find purpose and meaning within the sea of books, and safeguard peace in the realm of swords. Scholar Xiao is Chang’an’s poem to his age—bearing both the grandeur of “a lonely plume of smoke straight across the desert” and the gentleness of “moistening all things silently.”

Open this book, and you will see the spirit of Chang’an, the tenderness of the swordsman, and above all, realize: ink can become a sword, and the scholar, too, can be called a hero.

And when, upon turning a page, you catch the faint scent of ink mingled with a trace of sandalwood from a sword tassel, do not be surprised—Scholar Xiao is walking toward you, emerging from between the lines.