Chapter 1

Chapter 1

In the Yongjia Sixth Year, the world was divided into three.

To the north, the Rouran iron cavalry raided the borders year after year. To the east, the King of Qi, Xiao Yan, occupied half the lands south of the river and declared himself Emperor. Meanwhile, the legitimate Son of Heaven was trapped in Chang’an, where the court was controlled in turns by eunuchs and the maternal relatives of the imperial family; the Emperor was nothing more than a puppet used for his seal.

My grandfather, Shen Yuan, had once been the Secretary-General during the reign of the Late Emperor. Because he had remonstrated against the Chen Clan (maternal relatives) and their monopolization of power, he was thrown into the Great Prison, had his eyes gouged out, and was exiled to Lingnan.

During the journey into exile, our family was scattered. My mother died on the road, and my father was hunted by assassins; his whereabouts remain unknown to this day.

Only my grandfather and I were left, eventually settling in a place called Yaling.

Yaling was poor-so poor that even bandits couldn’t be bothered to visit a second time. After I killed those three marauding bandits, the way the villagers looked at me changed. They stopped calling me “the blind man’s grandson” and started calling me “Young Master Shen.”

Grandfather heard them, but he said nothing. He simply reached under his pillow and fumbled until he pulled out a roll of bamboo slips.

“Shen Heyi, it is time I taught you how to read.”

I said, “What use is reading? I’d rather learn the way of the blade.”

Grandfather gave a thin smile. “A blade can only kill three bandits. Books can kill three thousand.”

I didn’t believe him. But Grandfather was blind and could no longer walk, and since I couldn’t abandon him, I stayed to study.

He taught me the classics and history, the art of war, and how to read the terrain of mountains and rivers, the timing of the heavens, and the hearts of men.

When he spoke, he always faced the south, as if his empty eye sockets could still look across a thousand miles to see the palaces of Chang’an.

I knew he was waiting.

Waiting for an opportunity.

But six years passed, and no opportunity came. Instead, a half-dead man arrived.

That man was carried into Yaling.

To say he was carried wasn’t quite accurate-he was dragged in on a door plank by a one-armed veteran. The veteran’s name was Zhao Qi. Covered in wounds, he collapsed at the entrance of our courtyard with a heavy thud, dropping to his knees.

“I beg the Master to save my young lord.”

Grandfather came out at the sound and asked, “Who is your young lord?”

Zhao Qi remained silent for a long time, so long that I thought he had fainted.

Then, he uttered three words: “Xie Changgeng.”

In that instant, Grandfather’s face changed.

I had never seen a blind man’s face look like that-it was as if light had suddenly flooded his empty sockets, or as if something had violently pierced through them.

Xie Changgeng.

The eldest legitimate son of the Marquis of Jing’an, Xie Clan. He joined the army at sixteen, and at nineteen, he dealt a crushing defeat to the Rouran at Shuofang. People called him the “Northern Garrison Spear God.”

Three years ago, the Chen Clan forged an imperial edict to seize his military power. He led his personal guards in a desperate breakout and had been missing ever since. The court said he was dead, the Rouran said he had fled, and rumors in the martial world claimed he had gone mad.

No one expected him to appear in a place so destitute that even bandits despised it.

I crouched down to look at him.

A young man lay on the door plank, his face a ghostly pale, his lips cracked and dry. His chest was wrapped in strips of cloth that already reeked of decay-there was likely a very deep wound beneath them.

He was still alive. His breathing was faint but steady, as if he were already accustomed to napping on the edge of death.

“Can he be saved?” Zhao Qi asked me.

I replied, “I don’t know.”

Grandfather said, “Bring him inside.”