Chapter One: The Graceful Scholar and the Chivalrous Swordsman (Part One)

Spring in Chang’an always carried a heady warmth, three parts intoxicating. The catkins along Vermilion Bird Avenue drifted like shredded clouds, damp with morning dew, falling softly onto the blue stone slabs. Deep within the Huaili Quarter stood a residence, not grand but refined—that was the Xiao estate.

Now, from the windows of the western chamber, the sound of reading floated out: “A gentleman hides his talents within, waiting for the right moment to act…” The voice was clear and gentle, like raindrops dripping from the eaves. Young Xiao Yan sat by the window, cradling a scroll of the Book of Changes, his brows slightly furrowed as he pondered the mysteries within the hexagrams. He had just turned ten, dressed in a moon-white robe with subtle orchid patterns embroidered at the collar, his hair bound by a jade crown, revealing a smooth forehead. Sunlight streamed in at an angle, casting light shadows upon his long lashes, presenting the very image of a scholarly scion.

A quiet “pa” sounded as he closed the book upon the desk. Xiao Yan turned and strode quickly out into the courtyard. Beneath the old locust tree lay a short sword, its blade narrower than usual, the scabbard wrapped in shark-skin silk—a glance told it was no ordinary weapon. He picked up the sword, flicking his wrist so that the shark-skin scabbard slid to the ground, revealing a blade white as jade. This sword was called “Shadowbreaker,” left to him by his father.

“Keep your breathing steady, shoulders sunk and elbows dropped,” came an aged voice from beneath the corridor. Old Zhong, leaning on his cane, stood there, his clouded eyes still sharp. He had once been his father’s bodyguard, staying on after his father’s death to teach Xiao Yan swordsmanship.

Xiao Yan took a deep breath, stepping forward with his left foot, the sword tip angled to the ground: the opening stance, “Hidden Dragon.” Though his frame was still slim, each movement possessed a certain resilience. When thrusting, strength burst from his waist and abdomen, his arm moving like a serpent emerging from its den, the sword’s wind whistling fast and sharp; when drawing back, his shoulders relaxed, wrist turning lightly, the sword’s motion flowing like water.

“Not right,” Zhong suddenly said. “Your swordplay is too refined.”

Xiao Yan paused, sweat already beading on his brow. “Zhong, I’ve memorized all the forms.”

“Knowing the forms doesn’t mean you know the sword.” Zhong walked up, his bony finger tapping Xiao Yan’s chest. “Your mind is always on ‘ritual’ and ‘measure,’ but the sword is for killing. When your father fought in the Western Regions, it wasn’t refinement but ferocity that let him challenge the Turkic khan’s golden tent with a single strike.”

Xiao Yan lowered his head, gazing at the sword’s gleaming blade in the sunlight. His father, Xiao Yanzhi, had been a renowned scholar in Chang’an, earning honors at twenty, but three years later, he abandoned office for the military, following General Li Jing to campaign in the West. His mother said his father sought a life beyond mere scholarship, yet in Xiao Yan’s memories, his father was always gentle—teaching him to write “The lonely smoke straight in the desert,” reciting poems to him when he was ill.

“Practice again,” Zhong turned away. “You will truly be initiated when you feel the sword as an extension of your arm.”

Xiao Yan resumed his stance, this time trying to set aside all scholarly thoughts, focusing only on the sound of wind through locust leaves and the trembling of wind chimes at the eaves. The sword seemed to come alive in his hand—thrust, slash, sweep, block—his movements gradually flowing, carrying the sharpness unique to youth.

He practiced until the sun dipped westward. Finally, he sheathed his sword. Zhong handed him a sweat cloth. “Stronger today than yesterday. Remember, the scholar's ritual belongs in the heart, the hero's ferocity in the hand. In Chang’an, mere book-learning won’t keep you alive.”

Watching Zhong’s retreating figure, Xiao Yan suddenly recalled a scene from three days ago in the western market. A few thugs were robbing a flower vendor; he wanted to intervene, but Zhong held him back. Later, a dark-clad swordsman stepped in, dispatching the thugs with swift blows. That swordsman looked at him with disdain, as if to say, “A bookish youth with no strength—how dare you meddle?”

“I will be both scholar and hero,” Xiao Yan murmured, as if making a vow to himself. He picked up the Book of Changes, its pages rustling in the wind, opening right to, “As heaven moves strongly, so too must the gentleman strive unceasingly.”

Time flowed swiftly—five years passed in a blink. Xiao Yan was now fifteen, taller, his features refined, his brows bearing both the warmth of a scholar and a hint of the sharpness of a swordsman. He had been admitted to the Imperial Academy, gaining fame in Chang’an as a talented youth; his poems and essays were often cited as models by his teachers. Yet none knew that every night, he practiced swordsmanship in the courtyard, his “Shadowbreaker” sword now attuned to his heart.

On the day of the Shangsi Festival, the ladies of Chang’an flocked to Qujiang Pool to enjoy the spring scenery. Xiao Yan donned a lake-blue robe, accompanied by his page, Ah Zhu, heading there as well. The streets bustled with carriages and horses, ladies’ ornaments jingling, vendors shouting, songstresses strumming the pipa—all weaving a vibrant tapestry of Chang’an.

“Master, look over there!” Ah Zhu pointed to a nearby painted barge. Onboard, several well-dressed youths were drinking and making merry. One spotted Xiao Yan, waving with a smile, “Ziyu, come join us!”

This was Wang Chengsi, son of the Assistant Minister of Personnel, a fellow student at the Imperial Academy. Xiao Yan tried to avoid him, but Wang dragged him onto the barge. Inside sat seven or eight sons of the city's nobles.

“Ziyu, glad you could make it.” Wang poured him a cup of wine. “Today’s poetry gathering at Qujiang Pool wouldn’t be complete without you.”

As Xiao Yan was about to decline, someone laughed: “Young Master Xiao is now the darling of the Academy—perhaps he looks down on us mere commoners.” The speaker was Li Xiu, son of the Prefect of Jingzhao, always at odds with Xiao Yan.

Xiao Yan smiled mildly, “You jest, Young Master Li. I’m but a simple scholar.”

Just then, commotion erupted outside the barge. A girl in green stood on the bank, her kite string broken, the kite drifting toward the barge. She chased after it, slipped, and was about to fall into the water.

Everyone cried out in alarm, but none dared act. Xiao Yan, nearest the rail, instinctively reached out, snatching the girl’s sleeve with lightning speed. She, still shaken, looked up at him, cheeks flushed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Take care, miss,” Xiao Yan released her, his gaze falling on the jade pendant at her waist. It was warm white, carved with a soaring phoenix, a fine crack along its edge.

“Isn’t that Miss Su from the Minister of Personnel’s household?” Wang recognized her. “Why are you alone, Miss Su?”

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The girl’s name was Su Wan, the only daughter of Minister Su. She blushed, “I lost my maid.”

Just then, Li Xiu stood up, pointing to the bank. “Isn’t that Pei Jiu, the foremost swordsman of Chang’an?”

Everyone looked where he pointed. A man in black stood under the willow tree, a long sword at his waist, his eyes cold as ice. Pei Jiu was a legend in Chang’an—rumored to split three coins with a single stroke; none in the martial world dared provoke him.

“I hear Pei Jiu is working for Princess Taiping lately,” Wang whispered. “Just days ago, the Ministry’s Zhang offended the princess; he was crippled in the night.”

Xiao Yan’s heart sank. Princess Taiping held immense sway, placing many confidants in the court. His father had died in the Western Regions—rumors linked it to palace intrigue.

Suddenly, Su Wan gasped—her phoenix pendant was missing. They searched everywhere, to no avail. Li Xiu’s eyes gleamed, “Perhaps a thief took it? Don’t worry, Miss Su—let Pei Jiu help, he’ll find it for sure.”

Pei Jiu, hearing the commotion, approached. He swept his gaze over everyone, finally fixing on Xiao Yan. “You were the only one to touch Miss Su—did you take the pendant?”

Xiao Yan frowned, “I did not.”

“If not you, then who?” Li Xiu fanned the flames. “Young Master Xiao’s family may have fallen, but surely he wouldn’t stoop to theft?”

Pei Jiu stepped closer, hand on his sword. “Search him.”

Xiao Yan’s hand quietly clenched. He sensed Pei Jiu’s killing intent—an aura only those who lived on the edge of life and death possessed. To be searched would mean humiliation, even if nothing was found.

“No need,” Su Wan suddenly spoke. “The pendant must have fallen elsewhere; I’ll search again.”

But Pei Jiu pressed on, “Miss Su is merciful, but rules must be kept. In Chang’an, no one plays tricks in my presence.” With that, he reached for Xiao Yan’s collar.

In that instant, Xiao Yan moved. He sidestepped Pei Jiu’s grasp, his right hand darting out like a butterfly, his fingertip lightly tapping Pei Jiu’s wrist. Pei Jiu felt a sudden numbness—unable to exert any force.

The move was so quick that only Pei Jiu himself registered it; none of the others saw how Xiao Yan acted. Pei Jiu, shocked and angry, had practiced sword for thirty years, never so easily countered. He glared at Xiao Yan, now wary. “You know martial arts?”

Xiao Yan smiled faintly, “Just a little, for self-defense.”

At that moment, Ah Zhu ran over from the bank, holding the pendant. “Master, I found it under the willow tree!”

Su Wan took it gratefully, casting Xiao Yan a thankful glance. “Thank you, sir.”

Pei Jiu’s face darkened; he snorted and strode off. Li Xiu and the others exchanged bewildered looks—never expecting the seemingly bookish Xiao Yan to possess such skill.

The atmosphere on the barge was awkward. Xiao Yan rose to take his leave, “I have matters to attend to.”

Leaving the barge, Ah Zhu couldn’t help but ask, “Master, that move was amazing! Did Zhong teach you?”

Xiao Yan nodded, his gaze drifting toward the distant imperial city. The palace walls towered high, glazed tiles flashing gold in the sunlight, yet who knew how many blades lurked within. He knew today’s events would not end here. Pei Jiu served Princess Taiping, and now, Xiao Yan had drawn their attention.

A few nights later, Xiao Yan donned black, slipping quietly out of the Xiao estate. His destination was the Ministry of Personnel—not for any other reason than to uncover the truth behind his father’s death. His father’s old subordinate had whispered to him that his father did not die in battle, but was murdered. The officer in charge of the army’s supplies at the time was none other than the current Minister, Li Song.

Chang’an’s night was bathed in pale silver moonlight. Xiao Yan moved with lightness, like a night bird across rooftops. His agility had been taught by Zhong, known as “Treading Snow Without Trace”—his steps light, landing soundless.

The Ministry’s walls rose two fathoms high, topped with shards of glass. Xiao Yan didn’t climb directly, but circled to a secluded spot behind the estate, where an old locust tree's branches stretched within the walls. He clambered up, leaped lightly, and entered the grounds.

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Inside, all was quiet, save for the guards’ footsteps. Xiao Yan held his breath, moving close to the wall. He recalled his father’s old subordinate mentioning a secret chamber hidden behind the bookshelf in Li Song’s study.

The study was lit by an oil lamp. Peering through the window crack, Xiao Yan saw Li Song seated at his desk, holding a letter, his face grim. Beside him stood a man in black, back to the window, whose build seemed familiar.

“Princess Taiping presses us,” Li Song said, anxious. “That shipment of grain must reach Luoyang in three days—no mistakes allowed.”

The man spoke, voice raspy, “Rest assured, all checkpoints are taken care of. But you—about Xiao Yanzhi’s affair, no loose ends?”

Xiao Yan’s heart leaped. The man in black was Pei Jiu!

Li Song sighed, “It’s been ten years. Who still remembers? Besides, Xiao Yanzhi’s son is just a scholar—he poses no threat.”

“Better to be cautious,” Pei Jiu said. “He showed skill at Qujiang Pool the other day—may have a trick or two.”

“A mere boy, nothing to fear,” Li Song scoffed. “You, focus on moving the grain; don’t let the Censorate catch wind.”

Pei Jiu nodded and left the study.

When Pei Jiu was gone, Xiao Yan quietly pried open the window and slipped inside. Li Song had already gone to bed, snoring loudly. Xiao Yan approached the bookshelf, scrutinizing it. It was filled with books, nothing amiss. Following his father’s subordinate’s instructions, he pressed the spine of a volume of Records of the Historian. A soft “click”—the bookshelf slid aside, revealing a dark opening.

Xiao Yan struck a fire stick and entered the secret chamber. It was small, packed with chests. Opening one, he found it full of gold and silver. Another held account books, each entry listing vast sums, the recipient noted as “Princess Taiping’s Palace.”

So, Li Song had been funneling funds to Princess Taiping! Xiao Yan searched further, finally finding a brocade box in a corner. Inside was a letter from his father, stating he had discovered evidence of grain embezzlement and planned to report it. At the end of the letter were several names—one was Li Song.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded outside. Xiao Yan quickly hid the letter in his robe, extinguished his fire stick, and ducked behind the chests.

The study door opened. Li Song entered, senses alert, heading straight for the bookshelf. “Who’s in here?”

Xiao Yan knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He sprang from behind the chests, striking Li Song’s shoulder with his palm. Li Song, startled, tried to dodge, but was still hit, crying out in pain.

“Assassin!” Li Song shouted.

Chaos erupted in the estate—lanterns and torches flared everywhere. Xiao Yan turned and ran. As he burst from the secret chamber, he found Pei Jiu and guards blocking the doorway.

“Master Xiao, we meet again,” Pei Jiu drew his long sword, its tip aimed at Xiao Yan. “You escaped last time, but not today.”

Xiao Yan drew his “Shadowbreaker,” its blade gleaming cold in the firelight. “Pei Jiu—was it you and Li Song who killed my father?”

“So what if it was?” Pei Jiu sneered. “Your father didn’t know his place—dared oppose Princess Taiping. He deserved to die.”

Rage surged in Xiao Yan’s heart. He moved with his sword, thrusting straight for Pei Jiu’s chest. Pei Jiu’s swordplay was fierce and domineering, the blade wind sharp as a knife. Xiao Yan’s style was agile and elusive, attacking the weak points. The two clashed in the study, smashing tables and chairs to splinters.

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