Chapter 5: The Legend of Shushan

 

Zhou Man had often taken refuge in places like this while fleeing the Wang clan’s relentless pursuit. The cramped chaos of Nipan Street felt strangely familiar—almost like coming home.

A thin layer of blackened mud coated the street, its origin uncertain—perhaps the grime of decades, pressed deep by countless footsteps.

The eaves of the shops leaned toward each other, crowding overhead like a tangle of weary roofs. Peddlers huddled beneath them, their cries rising and falling in the humid air. From time to time, beggars drifted past, banging broken bowls and crooning lotus songs in cracked voices.

After declining the flirtatious greetings of the brothel men and women for the third time, Zhou Man finally caught sight of her destination—

—a weapon shop.

It was large, its open front displaying an impressive array of steel and wood: swords, spears, halberds, axes, hooks, and forks gleamed under dim lantern light. Only in a neglected corner rested a few bows and arrows—unloved, forgotten weapons.

Zhou Man paused briefly at the entrance. Inside, a scholar in a green robe was tapping an abacus. When he noticed her, he smiled with practiced warmth.
“Miss, looking for a bow and arrow? Come in, have a look.”

She hesitated only a moment, then stepped through the threshold.

Rows of bows hung neatly along the wall—bamboo, wood, iron, even a few carved from rare jade. Their strings gleamed faintly, taut and sharp as a blade’s edge.

The scholar, easygoing and shrewd, approached with a merchant’s grace.
“Buying for yourself, miss, or as a gift? What kind of bow do you seek?”

Zhou Man didn’t answer his first question. “An ordinary three-stone bow will do.”

He nodded thoughtfully, took down a polished wooden bow, and said,
“This one’s birch, bowstring of ox tendon. Pulling strength—exactly three stones.”

Zhou Man took it, running her fingers along the smooth curve. The bow felt light but alive in her hands, the tension of the string humming faintly.

“Try it,” the scholar encouraged.

As she gripped the bow, a strange warmth rippled through her—a sensation like blood answering blood. For a moment, it felt as though the bow had merged with her very being.

Temptation flickered in her eyes.

But reason quickly cooled it.
Places like Nipan Street swarmed with cutthroats and conmen. Every merchant here was a predator in silk.

She lowered the bow slightly. “How much?”

“Eight taels of silver,” the scholar said, smiling.

Zhou Man’s eyelids twitched. Silence spoke her answer.

Ever quick to read a buyer, the man chuckled. “We have a boxwood bow as well. Five taels only.”

Zhou Man: “...”

“Not interested?” he prompted.

She shook her head. “Anything cheaper?”

This time, the scholar fell silent. He looked her over, amusement curling at his lips.
“Yes,” he said softly, “I do have something cheaper.”

Zhou Man’s brow furrowed.

He raised a finger and pointed toward a shadowed corner. “But it depends on whether you’re bold enough to buy.”

Following his gesture, Zhou Man saw a messy heap of weapons piled on the floor.

Unlike the polished display pieces, these looked like refuse.
Blades nicked and rusted. Spears bent. Sword hilts cracked. A few were even stained—darkly, unmistakably—with blood.

Some old and brown. Others, still fresh.

Zhou Man’s eyes narrowed. She immediately understood.

The scholar’s grin deepened. “Just arrived. Still hot. Some are ordinary weapons, some might be magical tools taken from monks. Their origins… uncertain. Cheap, but only the brave dare buy.”

That was the nature of Nipan Street—anything could be sold here.
Things belonging to the living… or the dead.

Zhou Man knew these weapons were looted spoils, likely scavenged from battlefields before the corpses had cooled. They were tainted bargains, dangerous but tempting.

Her gaze drifted over the pile.
Most were swords. Yet in the dim corner, she spotted a broken bow, its limbs cracked but not beyond repair. Several arrows lay beside it, their tips dark with old blood. Beneath the stains, faint traces of dark silver cast patterns shimmered like frost.

—Dark silver cast patterns!

Her pulse quickened. She hid her reaction, lowering her eyes.

The scholar caught her hesitation and mistook it for fear.
“Try the birch bow again,” he coaxed. “You might change your mind. If you like it, I’ll give you a fairer price.”

He held out the polished wooden bow once more.

Zhou Man, still weighing her options, didn’t refuse.
She reached out and took the bow, feeling the solid weight in her palm. Drawing the string with practiced ease, she raised it high.

In that moment—her entire aura changed.

Deep as the abyss, towering as a mountain.

With the longbow poised in her hands, she looked like a goddess descended from the Ninth Heaven—distant, divine, and untouchable. The scholar beside her felt his soul tremble as the murky, humid air of Nipan Street seemed to still and cool.

The way she raised her bow…
There was something extraordinary about it.

The scholar’s eyes flickered; he parted his lips, about to speak—
—but suddenly, a commotion erupted outside, followed by a shout:

“Make way! Everyone, clear the road!”

The scholar frowned and glanced toward the street.
Zhou Man lowered the bow slightly, curiosity flashing across her face.

The once-crowded street split apart like water before a blade.
People pressed themselves against the walls, leaving a narrow path open down the center.

A group of more than ten men advanced, dressed in dark blue robes, swords at their waists, expressions grim. Blood stained their collars and sleeves.

Behind them rolled a grand carriage drawn by two black horses. A dragon and phoenix canopy glimmered above it, tassels of gold and jade dancing in the air—a sight far too luxurious for the filthy, narrow street.

Someone muttered in anger, “That bastard again? Didn’t he just come to collect his debt two days ago?”
Another whispered, trembling, “He’s covered in blood… what happened this time?”
And a third murmured, “Didn’t they say he went searching for jasper for that Song family fairy…?”

At that word—jasper—a spark flashed through Zhou Man’s eyes.
A verse from The Yi Divine Secret surfaced in her memory:
An arrow that pierces the rainbow must be forged of heavy silver, or soaked in jasper.

Could this person have jasper in his possession?

Before she could think further, the scholar beside her paled.
The group of cultivators stopped before the shop, forming a ring around it.

The ornate carriage halted at the door.
Now Zhou Man could see clearly—beneath its dazzling gold and silver carvings, the wood was gouged with sword marks, splattered with fresh blood.

The street fell silent.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Everyone seemed to know whose carriage it was.

The scholar stared blankly, his mind blank.
A servant stepped forward to lift the curtain, but before he could, a white, gold-dusted folding fan slipped out and lifted it instead.

A young man stepped down.

The crowd gasped—not at his jade crown or gold-embroidered robe, but because his robe was soaked in blood. Even the edges of his eyebrows were stained crimson.

Yet his bright almond eyes carried a calm, springlike smile.

Despite that, the air around him pulsed with killing intent—an energy so dense it was suffocating.

Zhou Man blinked, startled. He looked familiar… but she couldn’t remember where she had seen him before.

The scholar at her side whispered hoarsely, “Jin Buhuan…”

And with that name, memories long buried stirred within Zhou Man—
memories from a life that no longer existed.

It was before the Fengshan Ceremony.
She had waited atop Jade Emperor Peak for sunset when a disciple brought word:
A man calling himself the Golden Young Master had sent an invitation, accompanied by countless rare treasures, to congratulate her on her impending enlightenment. He wished for an audience, claiming to have vital information to share.

The invitation bore the name Jin Buhuan.

In a world of cultivation filled with blood and deceit, this man was an anomaly.
While others called themselves True Man, Sword Immortal, or Heavenly Emperor, his title was disarmingly plain—Boss Jin.

He traded in everything: weapons, elixirs, talismans, even spirit stone mines.
The entire cultivation world was tangled in his web of wealth.

People joked, “Where there’s profit to be made, Jin Buhuan will already be there.”

Disciples had whispered that he recently clashed with the three great families over the Liangzhou spiritual veins. His visit to Jade Emperor Peak—bearing lavish gifts—had likely been an attempt to win Zhou Man’s favor against them.

But at that time, Zhou Man had already ascended to Emperor of Qizhou.
The Fengshan Ceremony was near; she had no interest in mortal politics.
She had declined his request with courtesy.

Later, her disciples told her he had waited all night beneath the mountain, unmoving, until frost and moonlight coated his robe.

Two days after his departure, the three great families gathered their forces—and Yuhuangding was drenched in blood.

She had only seen Jin Buhuan from afar, but his impression was unforgettable.
Wealth incarnate.

And now, the man once known as the Golden Young Master stood once more before her—alive, bloodied, and magnificent, in a street reeking of mud and death.

A tremor of anticipation passed through Zhou Man. She stepped quietly aside, watching from the shadows.

Jin Buhuan entered the shop, his smile cool and sharp. A black iron sword hung at his side, an old ink brush and a red-gold abacus swaying from his belt.

He greeted lightly, “Brother Sikong, why do you look as though you’ve seen a ghost?”

The scholar—Sikong Yun—exhaled heavily. “So… you came back alive.”

The smile faded from Jin Buhuan’s lips. “So you won’t even bother pretending, then?”

Sikong Yun gave a short, bitter laugh. “A man who dares to act should dare to admit it. Yes—it was I who sold your whereabouts and joined others to ambush you. I didn’t expect you’d crawl back alive. Truly… an eternal regret.”

Jin Buhuan’s gaze sharpened. “Why?”

Sikong Yun threw his head back and laughed.
“How ridiculous! The world is driven by profit. Everyone’s hands are dirty! Kill you, and your business becomes mine. You think I’m the only one in Shu who wants you dead?”

Jin Buhuan’s tone chilled. “And yet, I treated you well.”

“Well?” Sikong Yun sneered. “Sharing thirty percent of your profits was generosity? You forget—you were once a starving beggar on this very street. A local family fed you! You rose only by flattering noble clans, becoming their dog, and now you dare to act above us?”

His voice dripped with venom. The crowd outside listened in silence.

Zhou Man’s brows drew together. So this was Jin Buhuan’s past.

The man stood motionless for a long time before murmuring,
“It seems Heaven finds my bones too hard to crush. You did me wrong, Sikong Yun. And I’m a man who pays his debts.”

At that, a flicker of fear crossed Sikong Yun’s face.
“I acted alone. If you must kill, then kill me. But spare my wife and son.”

Only then did Zhou Man notice two figures among Jin Buhuan’s followers—a woman and a teenage boy, both held fast by a man in purple robes.

Sikong Yun’s eyes clouded with desperation.
Jin Buhuan’s reply was calm, almost gentle: “Settle your own affairs.”

The color drained from Sikong Yun’s face. His jaw clenched.
Then, with a final shout, he summoned a flying sword and slashed.

A clash rang through the shop—metal upon metal.

Jin Buhuan’s empty hand suddenly gleamed with a white blade.
In a single stroke, he shattered Sikong Yun’s sword and drove his blade into the man’s chest.

Steel rang as the broken sword hit the floor. Sikong Yun smiled faintly, blood bubbling from his lips.

Jin Buhuan hesitated for only a heartbeat, then thrust his sword clean through his chest.

Sikong Yun crumpled, eyes wide, blood streaming down his chin.
His final words rasped out: “I didn’t take my own life. You killed me. Jin Buhuan… for the sake of that meal you once shared with me… spare… them…”

He fell, motionless.

The child wailed, “Father!”
The woman covered his eyes, weeping bitterly.

Zhou Man turned her gaze to Jin Buhuan.
He stood still, the point of his sword resting against the ground, crimson swirling down the blade.
His expression unreadable. His silence—colder than death itself.

Previous/Next