SS CH39

As that single gaze swept over, Ye Fusheng suddenly felt a distinct chill creep down his spine.

It was like a frog pinned under the stare of a venomous snake—a bone-chilling horror that vanished as swiftly as it had come. When he looked again, the man’s smile was as warm and gentle as a spring breeze, entirely devoid of any dark malice.

Ye Fusheng had always possessed an exceptional memory and a sharp eye for detail, so he was absolutely certain he had never seen this face before. But that was merely the face.

Toward this person, he felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity, though he couldn’t quite grasp the thread of it for the moment.

While he stood there lost in daze, the man good-naturedly repeated his question: “How does Your Excellency explain those words?”

Ye Fusheng snapped out of it and said, “Because he got exactly what he wished for.”

The battlefield in the painting carried an agonizing tragedy intensified to the absolute limit. That skeletal frame was broken and incomplete, looking as if it had endured a thousand cuts and ten thousand slashes before being subjected to the elements of wind and rain. Yet, with its back against the scorched earth and the green boulder, it had plucked the very last stroke of bright color from this battlefield, carrying away the final lingering grace beneath this vast heaven and earth.

Red flower and white bones—extreme starkness giving rise to a haunting radiance; it was the exact split second where life and death fused into one.

It ought to have departed with a long, resounding laugh, dying without a single regret.

Chu Xiwei had finished selecting the dry provisions. The elderly vendor wiped his hands with a cloth before wrapping them one by one in oiled paper. He hesitated for a moment, then directed his voice toward their side: “Young Master, this old man is about to pack up the stall. You… have been sitting here all afternoon, so could it be…”

Having his conversation interrupted did not irritate the man in the slightest. He produced a silver ingot and handed it over, saying, “I shall purchase the use of this table and chair for tonight. There is no need to wait for me, old sir. Please head home on your own.”

The silver he offered was more than enough to purchase two fine tables crafted from premium golden-silk phoebe wood. The elderly vendor froze for a moment, acceptingly taking the silver with trembling hands. He bit down on it to test its authenticity, then beamed, repeating, “Good, good, good! Then this old man shall not disturb you. Please suit yourself, Young Master! Heh!”

With those words, he messily piled his packed belongings onto his handcart, his steps accelerating with a speed that did not belong to an old man. Ye Fusheng watched him withdraw into the distance before pulling his gaze back, asking with a beam, “How may I address you, brother?”

“Mu Yan’an.” The man put down his brush, inviting the two of them to sit with a gentle smile. “You two do not appear to be locals either.”

Ye Fusheng leaned against Chu Xiwei as if he had no bones of his own. “We are merely traveling through this region, hoping to broaden our horizons. However, looking at Brother Yan’an’s demeanor, it seems you are a fellow traveler on the same path.”

Mu Yan’an offered a faint smile. “Since you are traveling, have you discovered any noteworthy destinations?”

Ye Fusheng let out a sigh. “We have wandered through the streets and alleys all day without spotting anything extraordinary. I fear we came with high spirits only to leave in disappointment.”

“In recent years, the warfare along the border has grown increasingly severe, causing these peripheral frontier towns to gradually fall into ruin and neglect. There is indeed nothing extraordinary to see. However…” Mu Yan’an rested his chin on his hand. “If you two do not mind the hardship of dining on the wind and sleeping on the dew, there is still one place nearby that is worth a look.”

Chu Xiwei asked, “Where?”

“To be completely honest with you both, my distant journey here was for the sake of a local legend.” Mu Yan’an lightly tapped his fingers against the table. “Have you two noticed the staggering number of crows within this town?”

“Naturally, we have.”

“Crows feed on carrion and delight in funerals, which is a common sight in places long ravaged by the fires of war. However, the crows of General Town enter the town at sunrise and return to the mountains after nightfall. Even during the autumn and winter seasons, they do not migrate south, choosing to freeze to death rather than leave a fifty-mile radius around General Town.” Mu Yan’an spoke with absolute eloquence, recounting the tale like an eyewitness to history, making the events vividly manifest before his listeners. “Yet forty-five years ago, no such bizarre anomaly existed…”

Forty-five years ago, this place was still known as “Baishui Town,” and that river was called the “Baishui River.” At that time, the warfare against the Northern Barbarians had not yet escalated into a massive conflagration. Because this town was far removed from the imperial ears and directly bordered the Northern Frontier, it served as a hub for exchanging goods with foreign tribes. While it couldn’t be described as exceptionally prosperous, it was at least a bustling logistics distribution center, looking nothing like the dilapidated state it was in now.

That was until the autumn of that year, when the Grand Ancestor passed away. The late Emperor did not possess his father’s iron-fisted methods and failed to suppress the sinister factions and corrupt officials within the imperial court. Taking advantage of the vulnerability, a vassal king enfeoffed in this region launched a rebellion, secretly colluding with the nine major tribes of the Northern Barbarians to invade the borders on a massive scale. Furthermore, to capture the town through an inside-outside pincer attack, barbarian agents disguised themselves as traveling merchants to slip into Baishui Town, lacing the provisions bound for the frontier passes with deadly poison.

Consequently, Jinghan Pass—the vital throat of the Northern Frontier—had its gates thrown wide open. The defending general martyred himself for the nation, less than one in ten of the town’s citizens survived, and the soldiers’ blood splattered across the battlefield, leaving not even the captives alive.

The chaotic rebel army drove straight inward. Crossing just two more great mountains would allow them to seize Baishui Town, from which point the nation’s gates would lie completely undefended, leaving the barbarian forces a short distance from marching upon the Imperial Capital.

With the nation facing imminent peril, the late Emperor hastily dispatched a grand army to resist the enemy while simultaneously issuing thirteen consecutive decrees, widely summoning noble patriots across the realm to aid the Northern Frontier. At that time, the righteous and evil factions of the martial world temporarily cast aside their personal vendettas, following the army toward the Northern Frontier to cooperate with the citizens of Baishui Town, waging a bitter war along the riverbank. Countless individuals had their blood dissolve into the waters, their souls departing ten thousand miles away.

Some died, some retreated, and even the commanding general was replaced three or four times in rapid succession due to casualties. In the final, most critical juncture, a mere commoner of the martial world was actually appointed as the Vice Commander.

That martial commoner originally possessed no power or status, yet he held a formidable reputation within the martial world. Relying on a chest full of courage and a supreme mastery of martial arts, and having shared a bond of deep friendship through shared adversity with the current Prime Minister, Ruan Qingxing, the Prime Minister petitioned the late Emperor on his behalf during that hour of crisis, requesting him to assist the main commander in resisting the enemy. Not a single soul in the military refused to submit to his leadership.

Regrettably, the situation was exceedingly dire, and the town had run entirely out of food and arrows. Together with the Lingying Guards dispatched by the imperial court at the time, they devised a desperate stratagem. The main commander slit his own throat, surrendering his head to the Vice Commander’s hands, allowing him to approach the main tent of the rebel army under the pretext of slaying the general to surrender the pass, thereby gaining the rebel king’s trust.

The following day, the rebel king personally led his army to attack. The main commander’s head was hung high from the enemy’s flagpole. The imperial grand army fiercely denounced the Vice Commander for betraying his country for personal glory; fueled by grief and rage, they fought with every ounce of their strength, leaving blood flowing like rivers and corpses carpeting the earth. Seeing the tide about to turn, this man suddenly turned his blade on the battlefield, publicly stabbing the rebel king to death. Though severely wounded, he refused to retreat, fighting three major generals of the Northern Barbarians in succession before he was ultimately hacked into pieces by a frenzy of blades, his flesh and bones rendered indistinguishable.

With their leader slain before the ranks, the rebel army fell into absolute chaos and was forced to retreat to the opposite bank. Seizing the opening, Lingying Guards infiltrated their ranks to incite internal strife, successfully holding out until reinforcements arrived to drive the enemy out of the nation’s borders and reclaim Jinghan Pass.

After the battle, the newly appointed main general personally led his men to clear the battlefield, retrieving the corpses of their brothers-in-arms for burial on the spot. However, the Vice Commander’s flesh and bones had been ground into the mud, trampled to unknown distances by men and horses. Beneath the autumn sun, only flocks of crows remained to feed on the carrion and sing their funeral dirges.

With wine poured to honor the heroic spirits and floating lanterns drifting down the long river, the entire army wept over the battlefield. From that moment onward, the names “General Town” and “Hero River” came into existence.

What astonished everyone was that those crows never left General Town from that day forward. They nested and bred in this vicinity, passing down from generation to generation. Every day, they flew into the town to perch upon great trees and small walls, flying back outside the town when the night grew deep. The common folk all said that these crows had gained a spiritual nature from consuming the flesh and bones of heroes. The warriors had turned to ash but their hearts refused to die; their souls had attached themselves to the crows, continuing to patrol this land, protecting the town’s citizens, and watching from afar to ensure the border passes remained safe.

…

“Legends are legends after all. No one knows exactly how much embellishment has been added through word of mouth by later generations. However, in this town, the people truly do not view crows as an ill omen; instead, they regard them as guardian spirits protecting the region.” Mu Yan’an stroked his face, completely forgetting that his hands were stained with ink. This single movement left a dark streak resembling a little mustache, adding a touch of mischievous charm to the man. “The place where the crows gather in flocks is a valley located twenty miles east of the town. It is usually remote and seldom visited by humans, but it is surrounded by dense forests where black feathers blot out the sky, making it quite a magnificent sight. Regardless of whether the legend is true or false, going to take a look will certainly broaden your horizons.”

Ye Fusheng was thoroughly captivated by the tale. Hearing this, he said, “Many thanks to Brother Yan’an for this historical narration.”

Mu Yan’an smiled faintly. Seeing that the ink on the painting table had already dried, he rolled up the paper carefully and set it aside, smoothing out a fresh sheet of white Xuan paper before lifting his brush to dip it in ink.

This action signaled that the conversation had reached its end. Ye Fusheng tactfully rose to his feet. Chu Xiwei, who had remained silent the entire time, cast a long look at Mu Yan’an before standing up as well.

Ye Fusheng cupped his hands and said, “We shall not disturb Brother Yan’an’s elegant leisure. We take our leave now.”

Mu Yan’an had already poured his focus onto the paper, leaving him no spare attention for anything else. Ye Fusheng did not find it discourteous, walking side by side with Chu Xiwei. Reaching the corner of the street, he cast a backward glance; that man was still wielding his brush to paint amidst the wind and dew by the light of a single, bean-sized lamp, remaining so completely silent that he seemed to merge his little space directly into the painting itself.

Turning his head back, Chu Xiwei spoke in a low voice: “His martial arts are exceptional.”

Ye Fusheng was not the least bit surprised. “How exceptional?”

Chu Xiwei: “I cannot tell.”

Ye Fusheng let out a laugh, though his gaze remained quite cold. “I cannot tell either.”

Yet in this world, there were very few people whose depths could elude both of them simultaneously—one could count them on five fingers.

Pausing for a moment, Ye Fusheng said, “He seemed remarkably familiar with me, yet I have never seen him… or rather, I have never seen this version of him.”

Chu Xiwei let out a derisive scoff. “From beginning to end, he didn’t say a single word to me, choosing instead to narrate history to divert the topic. It appears he felt that speaking with me would expose his identity.”

Ye Fusheng: “However, he did point out a path for us, which can be considered a good deed.”

“Pointing a path toward a trap is considered a good deed?”

“Where there is a trap, there must be bait. Right now, we don’t have a choice either.” Ye Fusheng extended his hand toward him. “Shall we go?”

Chu Xiwei cast a sidelong glance at him. “My going is to fulfill the responsibilities of my position. What is your reason?”

Ye Fusheng said nonchalantly, “For you, of course.”

“…” Chu Xiwei’s steps came to a sudden halt. The gaze he turned to lock onto him was somewhat intimidating.

Ye Fusheng instinctively took a step back for no apparent reason. “…A-Yao, I have a question, though I don’t know if I should voice it.”

Chu Xiwei: “Speak.”

Ye Fusheng blinked his eyes. “Why did your face suddenly turn red? Did you catch a chill and catch a fever?”

“…No. Shut up!”

“You’ve truly grown more stubborn the older you get. Isn’t it better to be straightforward?” Ye Fusheng sighed. He realized that since their reunion, the number of times he sighed had grown exceptionally frequent.

Chu Xiwei swept a completely expressionless glance over him, casually plucking away half of a bouquet of flowers that had just bloomed with rampant fury inside his heart, ruthlessly trampling it into a handful of ancient dirt within his mind.

He shifted the topic: “That man just now spoke in great detail, but let me supplement a point for you.”

“Which point?”

Chu Xiwei said, “That martial commoner who martyred himself for the nation was surnamed Qin, named Qin Jingwu. His mastery of the long spear was sublimely perfected, and he shook the martial world forty-odd years ago, known to all as the ‘Dragon-Locking Spear’.”

Ye Fusheng’s pupils contracted sharply. He then heard Chu Xiwei continue:

“Qin Jingwu died for his country, making him a true hero of supreme righteousness. Regrettably, his wife passed away early, leaving behind only two sons and a daughter. His two sons followed him to fight on the battlefield, both achieving monumental merits in that bloody war. Unfortunately, the youngest son died in battle, leaving only the eldest son to return. After the war, he was enfeoffed as the Grand General of State Protection, revered by every soul in Great Chu.”

Ye Fusheng stopped walking entirely. He stared at Chu Xiwei, a brilliant light flickering within his eyes.

Chu Xiwei pronounced each word with deliberate emphasis: “His eldest son is none other than the ‘Northern Hero’, Qin Hebai.”