Chapter 3: The Hero’s Post

They say real men don’t cry, unless their hearts are truly broken. For Wei Hongqing to sob like that in front of his sworn brother... well, that said it all. Liu Xiaolou had wanted to stay and keep him company, but in the end was sent away. He returned to Qianzhu Ridge with a heavy heart, full of mixed emotions. Outraged on behalf of his brother, and quietly lost about his own future as a rogue cultivator. He couldn’t sleep all night. What future did rogue cultivators on Wulong Mountain really have? In the middle of that long, sleepless night, he suddenly thought of the spirit ginseng. Since Wei Hongqing’s dual cultivation ceremony had been called off... should he take it back? Sure, a good chunk had already been eaten, but there was still more than half left... Before dawn the next morning, he hurried back toward Ghostdream Cliff. They were sworn brothers, after all. Wei Hongqing was heartbroken; he couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. He had to check on him. And of course, when asking about the ginseng, he’d need to be extremely careful with his words. Wei Hongqing was already wounded.... no need to rub salt in it. Naturally, this wasn’t about being stingy. He and Wei Hongqing were known as the “Twin Handsomes of Wulong Mountain”—their talent was average at best, but their looks were unmatched. It wasn’t as if Wei Hongqing couldn’t find another cultivation partner. Better to take the ginseng back, store it properly, and offer it again when Wei Hongqing found new love and held another dual cultivation ceremony. When he reached the cliff again, the red decorations were still fluttering in the wind, but Wei Hongqing was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Zuo Gaofeng from Banmu Gorge, a close friend of Wei Hongqing, was there waiting. They exchanged a brief cupped fist salute. Zuo Gaofeng spoke first: “Xiaolou, you’re here... have you seen Hongqing?” “I saw him last night,” Liu replied. “I couldn’t stop worrying, so I came to check in. Where is he?” “He’s not here. I was worried too...” The two of them sighed and lamented Wei Hongqing’s broken engagement. Before long, more friends arrived: Xishan Hermit,  Lingling Traveler, and even Tan Bajhang, disciple from the distant Tan family, outside Wulong Mountain. All were good friends who were deeply worried about Wei Hongqing. Tan Bajhang wore an anxious expression. “I told Brother Hongqing the wedding hour was all wrong! Who schedules a wedding for early morning? That’s bad luck! I warned him to change it, but he didn’t listen. And now look... something really did go wrong!” Seeing everyone staring blankly at him, Tan Bajhang looked confused. “What? Did I say something wrong?” Zuo Gaofeng narrowed his eyes. “Wait... early morning? What time exactly?” “Between nine and eleven,” said Tan Bajhang. “And yesterday wasn’t even an auspicious day!” “Hold on,” Xishan Hermit chimed in. “He told me noon.” Lingling Traveler frowned. “He told me between three and five.” Liu Xiaolou blinked. “He told me around five or six.” Zuo Gaofeng rubbed his temples. “He told me evening....seven to nine.” The group fell into stunned silence, staring at each other. Then Liu Xiaolou finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper: “Seniors... what sort of gifts did you all bring?” The words had barely left his mouth before Zuo Gaofeng dashed into the stone cave, the others hot on his heels. They tore the place apart like headless flies. All they found was a single sheet of yellow paper. Wei Hongqing had left a note: “To my dear brothers, I have been wounded by love and now resolve to roam the world. From this day on, let us forget each other in this vast Jianghu." Zuo Gaofeng read the note aloud, then clutched his chest, agonized. “My Leopardfang Sword... it was a mid-grade treasure...” Tan Bajhang, Xishan Hermit, and the others broke into cries of their own, mourning the expensive gifts they’d given. For rogue cultivators, every spiritual item was hard-won and precious. To lose it like this... who wouldn’t be upset? Only Lingling Traveler had escaped disaster. Though he matched their outrage on the surface, he was secretly feeling great. He’d given a talisman, and thankfully... thanks to his thick skin and excellent memory, he’d gathered the courage to ask for it back before leaving the mountain yesterday. Wei hadn’t gotten away with that one. Zuo Gaofeng grumbled a few words at Lingling Guest, faintly blaming him for not giving a heads-up. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized: what could anyone have done? Wei Hongqing had deliberately told each of them a different wedding time. No one was meant to meet. How could anyone have warned the others? Someone turned to Xishan Hermit. “Aren’t you supposed to be able to divine the heavens? How’d you not see this coming?” Xishan Hermit looked extremely embarrassed and quickly tried to defend himself: “This was a matter of the heart, not the stars. How could I have calculated that?” Liu Xiaolou was the most bitter of them all. That spirit ginseng was three hundred years old. Three. Hundred. Years! And now it was gone for good. Absolutely heartless! Even if he wanted to chase Wei Hongqing down… where in the vast world could he begin? You wimp, Wei Hongqing! he cursed inwardly. If you wanted the ginseng, couldn’t you just say so? We’re sworn brothers! Life-and-death brothers! Do you really think I’d begrudge you a wedding gift? Damn it, after all we’ve been through; was it worth it, for a root? After a full day of frustration, Liu trudged back to Qianzhu Ridge with a belly full of regret and nothing else to show for it. There was nothing he could do now except sulk. And so he did, for days, before finally managing to force himself to forget the loss. He spent several days lying on the three-foot cool terrace in front of his thatched hut, lazily fanning himself with a banana leaf, trying to figure out where to take his cultivation next. The world was as it was: all the great sects had already claimed the blessed lands and spiritual caves. Rogues and independents like him had no choice but to scavenge the scraps those sects let fall. Every step forward was a desperate struggle. The path of cultivation was long; even just the Qi Refinement stage had ten hurdles, and he had only barely crossed the second. The road ahead was impossibly steep. But for the sake of immortality, no matter how rough the path, one had to grit their teeth and walk it. It was midsummer now. There were still months until the harvest at Ewe Ram Mountain’s spirit fields; no point hoping for wages there just yet. Besides, the Zang family only hired twenty rogue cultivators for that job each year. He might not even get a spot. What about heading to the gambling dens in Eight Righteous Manor to try his luck? Last time he ended up with nothing but bruises. Definitely the worst option. And the Hero’s Post. It hadn’t come out for over half a year. Who knew when the next one would be issued? As he lay there lost in thought, the wind chime hanging under the eaves began to ring—ding-dong, ding-dong… Liu Xiaolou turned his head toward the mountain trail. A figure appeared suddenly from the forest, standing before his wooden gate. Liu Xiaolou blinked in surprise. “Wanderer Dai...?” The man in crimson robes was Dai Shenggao. Better known as Wanderer Dai; a close friend of his late master and a senior in his own cultivation path. Dai Shenggao said nothing at first, only stared at him for a moment before speaking softly: “Come with me to your master’s grave.” Liu Xiaolou opened the gate and led the way to a secluded spot in the bamboo forest. There, a modest grave stood beneath the shade of green stalks, marked with a simple stone tablet: “The Grave of my revered teacher, Master Sanxuan.” Dai Shenggao took out a short bamboo tube, pulled the stopper; inside was a cloudy yellow wine. He sat cross-legged before the grave, poured a sip on the earth, then took a drink himself. Back and forth like this, he shared a silent drink with the tombstone, and only when the wine was gone did he finally speak. He turned to Liu, who stood respectfully at the side, and asked softly, “These past six months... how has your cultivation progressed?” “Barely any,” Liu Xiaolou answered truthfully. Dai Shenggao sighed. “In the past, you had your master to rely on. Now... it’s all on you.” Liu Xiaolou looked at the gravestone and nodded. “You’re right, Senior.” Dai Shenggao took out a wooden token and turned it over in his palm. “Wang Laoda is issuing another Hero’s Post. This time, he’s gathering people to strike at the Zhang Clan's stronghold on Jinping Mountain in southern Xiang.” Liu Xiaolou’s eyes lit up. “Zhang Clan? As in Zhang Xianbai. The Number One Arrow of southern Xiang?”