In the humid heat of Sichuan's Jiading Prefecture, the local relay station was thick with the smell of sweat, horses, and cheap wine. Inside, a burly man who looked like he'd spent more time in taverns than in actual battles was holding court.
He leaned across his table, gesturing so wildly that spittle flew with every word, landing uncomfortably close to his companion's face.
"Hey, you hear the news?" the burly man barked, his eyes wide. "Last month, over in Yingtian... a whole branch of the Ghostbane Association was wiped out. Just like that.
Gone!"
His companion didn't look surprised; if anything, he looked shaken. "Who hasn't heard? A hundred people dead in a single night. They say the place was a butcher shop—limbs everywhere, blood running out the front door like a river.
Even Lin Jiangxian was there. You know him? The Heaven-ranker? Someone split him clean in half with a blade."
The burly man nodded solemnly, lowering his voice as if he'd been there to see the bodies himself. "Serves 'em right. Those Ghostbane bastards have been a stain on the jianghu for years.
I heard Chen Dafu, that rich merchant from Jiangnan, actually set up a shrine in his house to honor whoever did it. A 'longevity tablet' for a nameless killer."
"Chen Dafu?" the companion asked, tilting his head. "What's a silk-seller got to do with a massacre?"
"Personal grudge. Word is, Chen's only son got into a spat with the wrong person, and that person hired the Ghostbane Association to finish the boy off. Chen probably hasn't slept a wink until now."
At the next table, Fang Dingwu snorted into his drink.
As a veteran escort for the Changfeng Agency, Fang had spent the last month hearing a dozen different versions of this story. In some versions, the "hero" was a giant who carried a broadsword weighing eighty pounds.
In others, the man was eight feet tall and eight feet wide—which, Fang thought dryly, would make him a human square rather than a warrior. Some storytellers even claimed the killer had three heads and six arms.
Fang didn't buy any of it. He'd lived long enough to know that rumors grew faster than weeds, and twice as thick.
He signaled to his men. They were finishing up an escort mission and heading back to the agency's headquarters in Jiading.
On their home turf, with the Changfeng name backing them up, they could finally afford to relax their shoulders and breathe easy.
"Check the horses," Fang ordered the station staff. "We're heading out."
As they prepared to mount up, Fang's eyes drifted to a figure sitting by the side of the dusty road.
He stopped mid-stride. It wasn't the man that caught his eye, but the weapon resting in the stranger's lap.
It was a strange sight. It wasn't the curved saber common among soldiers, nor was it the elegant, double-edged straight sword favored by scholars and masters.
It was a Tang Blade—a weapon from a bygone era, straight-edged and purposeful.
Fang moved closer, his professional curiosity getting the better of him.
The blade was about three feet long, housed in a scabbard of smooth, unadorned iron. The hilt was wrapped in simple red cloth, long enough for a two-handed grip, and the scabbard was bound with a few loops of hemp for easy carrying. It was a tool built for one thing: efficiency.
That's a beautiful piece of steel, Fang thought.
He dismounted and walked over. Now that he was close, the "warrior" looked more like a beggar.
The man sat cross-legged, wearing a battered bamboo hat that had seen better decades. His clothes were little more than rags held together by grime and luck.
Dust covered his skin, but Fang noticed one thing immediately: while the man was filthy, the blade in his arms was spotless. Not a speck of dust touched the scabbard.
The man's face was hidden in the shadow of his hat.
"Brother," Fang called out, trying to be friendly. "That's a fine weapon. You know how to use it?"
Silence.
The man didn't even tilt his head.
Fang felt a bit of an idiot standing there, but he pushed through the awkwardness.
"Look, name's Fang Dingwu. I'm a captain with the Changfeng Escort Agency nearby. I don't mean any harm, it's just... you look like you've had a long road and not much to eat."
He reached into his travel bag and pulled out a steamed bun wrapped in oil paper. He held it out, the warm scent of bread drifting between them.
"Here. Take it."
Still nothing. Fang waited for a long beat, sighed, and was about to pull his hand back when a voice finally broke the silence.
"What do you need me to do?"
The voice caught Fang off guard. It wasn't the gravelly, rough tone of a road-weary veteran. It was clear, steady, and surprisingly young.
Fang chuckled, feeling a bit of pity for the kid. "Haha, what can a youngster like you do for me? Just eat the bun, kid."
"My blade is very fast," the young man said. His voice didn't have a hint of boastfulness in it—it was just a flat statement of fact.
Fang smiled awkwardly, his hand still outstretched with the bun. He was about to say something patronizing when the world suddenly blurred.
A flash of light jumped from the young man's lap—a silver arc so fast it felt like a trick of the eyes. Fang blinked, his heart jumping into his throat.
By the time his vision cleared, the young man was already sitting perfectly still again, the "click" of the blade settling back into its scabbard the only sound in the air.
Fang looked down at his hand.
He was still holding the bun, but only half of it.
The cut was so clean it looked like the bread had grown that way.
The young man held the other half in his dirty hand, his face still hidden under the brim of his hat.
"Half is enough," he said quietly.