The little beggar was bewildered. Could a piece of gold truly not know it was gold?
After all, who in this stagnant Cangshi City could stir up a storm—apart from the world-renowned hero Song Huiya, a figure both praised and cursed, worth a thousand in gold?
But Song Huiya’s tone was far too calm. The little beggar couldn’t quite catch the meaning behind her words. Thinking he’d guessed wrong, he turned sideways, his voice tentative and nervous.
“You… hero, do you know someone named Song Huiya?”
Song Huiya’s insides felt as though they were aflame; her blood boiled dry, her thoughts scattered. When she spoke, her mind drifted—fragments of words, disjointed sounds, no time to think clearly.
Only when she heard that question did realization strike like a blade through fog. So that’s what I am… a blessing to others.
A faint, self-mocking laugh escaped her lips. Her distracted gaze darkened, ripples of emotion hidden beneath the calm. Her thumb brushed over the inscription carved into her sword—again and again—its grooves familiar yet suddenly foreign. A chill of fear spread from her fingertips to her bones.
She had killed.
Many.
But never had she imagined that even a street beggar—uneducated, nameless—had heard of her infamy.
She wasn’t afraid of death, nor of danger. What terrified her was the weight of sins that no prayer could cleanse, a debt that not even repentance could repay.
It felt as though she stood upon a cliff’s edge—an endless drop on every side. When she looked down, the darkness seethed with corpses, hands reaching out from the pit, clawing at her ankles, dragging her toward the abyss.
Song Huiya shuddered violently, snapping awake from that brief nightmare. It felt as if she’d walked between the realms of Yin and Yang. The fear left her cold but clear-headed.
She wiped the sweat from her brow with her finger, brushed her hair aside, and asked evenly,
“Do you know her?”
The little beggar, still unsettled by her long silence, blurted out,
“How could I know such a big shot? I don’t even know if he’s a man or a woman!”
Falling from a thousand-foot cliff of despair, Song Huiya could only laugh in disbelief.
“Then why mention her?”
“I heard it in the city,” the little beggar said earnestly. “People talk about it everywhere.”
She leaned closer, hands cupped around her mouth, and whispered,
“Do you know why she’s so valuable? Not just valuable—she’s worth a general!”
Song Huiya frowned, half amused, half skeptical.
“Why?”
The little beggar puffed up her chest, adopting a mysterious tone.
“Because she’s killed too many people.”
“Oh?” Song Huiya’s brow lifted. “How many?”
“For every Hu person she kills, she kills a Han person too.”
“???”
The little beggar spread her fingers dramatically.
“Out of every ten deaths in the martial world, nine are her doing.”
“…”
Hearing no reply, the beggar assumed the swordsman was embarrassed. Proud of her own wit, she burst into laughter.
“I’m joking! Hahaha!”
Song Huiya’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword, suppressing the urge to draw it.
The little beggar quickly noticed and scrambled to apologize, her tone dripping with false sweetness as she begged forgiveness and hurriedly repeated what she’d overheard in the tavern that day.
Though she didn’t understand half the phrases, and replaced several words with “that thing,” she still managed to recount about seventy percent of it vividly.
When Song Huiya heard how the young swordsman had openly boasted of her “heroic deeds,” she couldn’t help but mutter,
“Boasting of one’s own achievements while condemning another’s good deeds.”
“Huh?” The little beggar scratched her head. “What do you mean?”
“Admiration for fame,” Song Huiya replied after a pause. “Believe three-quarters of what others say. The rest—fools take it seriously. Praise or blame, it’s all the same.”
The little beggar sat slouched, rubbing her swollen feet.
“But isn’t it true? What’s the point of a fake reputation? You fight your life away in the martial world for a name, for glory. You call it being a hero! You can die for it, too. Why then, when it comes to Song Huiya, people can only scold her, never praise her?”
She blinked, then asked innocently,
“Were you talking about Song Huiya, or that old Xie?”
Song Huiya’s logic nearly tangled itself into a knot.
“Don’t you like that Xie Zhongchu?”
“He’s a good man!” the little beggar admitted, though her tone was dripping with disdain.
For once, Song Huiya was at a loss.
“Why?”
The little beggar snorted.
“If anyone badmouthed me, I’d spit at them and nail them to the wall! Only one kind of person isn’t worth my anger.”
“Dead people?” Song Huiya guessed.
“Exactly!” the beggar said smugly, brushing mud off her legs. “He doesn’t argue with people; he just acts holy, telling the world how kind he is. If I had his fame, I’d praise myself better than he ever could! Meanwhile, Song Huiya says one ridiculous thing and the whole city mocks her. Even you—you heard a few words and said she was chasing fame!”
Her temper flared; she looked up and blurted,
“Have you gone stupid from reading too much?”
Song Huiya sat still, face shadowed. The air grew tense until she finally spoke, her voice low and oddly gentle.
“Little Que’er…”
The beggar froze, guilt prickling over her skin.
“I—I was wrong! I wasn’t talking about you, hero! You’re the smartest! I’m ignorant and rude—I’d never dare—”
“No,” Song Huiya interrupted firmly. “You’re right.”
“…”
“Little Que’er,” she said softly, “you’ve lived barely as long as others’ fingernails, yet you understand more than most who’ve lived their whole lives.”
“Th-thank you?” the little beggar stammered.
Song Huiya suddenly laughed—light, intermittent, strangely carefree.
The beggar felt uneasy.
“You… you really don’t know Song Huiya?”
Song Huiya’s laughter faded. She gripped her sword and said with conviction,
“If I knew her, I’d be the one to kill her.”
The beggar couldn’t help but grin.
“Yes, yes, you’re a great hero! If you met Song Huiya, you’d strike her down and make her kneel for mercy! You’d say—‘Hero, please forgive me, I’ll never do evil again! I’ll give all my silver to starving beggars and serve you till your dying day!’”
She clasped her hands dramatically, acting it out with relish, before darting outside to squat by the door.
Song Huiya didn’t even move—just glanced at her with disdain.
After a while, the cold drove the beggar back in.
“Hero, you’re really not angry?”
“You’re not secretly planning to kill me later, right?”
“Tsk.” Song Huiya exhaled. “Say that again, and I’ll beat you.”
“Okay!” The beggar laughed with relief.
…How could someone be so strange?
Once she realized the swordsman truly wouldn’t harm her, the beggar relaxed, curling up in a dry corner, trying to reclaim her dream. But the chill seeped in again; her feet were like ice.
After tossing restlessly, she whispered,
“Hero? Hero——!”
Song Huiya didn’t respond.
“Hero, please don’t be angry,” she continued timidly. “Have you ever eaten human flesh?”
“No,” Song Huiya replied. “Have you?”
“No,” the beggar said quickly. “But once, during a terrible snow, refugees fled from the north. An old beggar told me—barbarians invaded, cooked people in great pots on the streets. Children first. They made others eat the remains. He escaped, but went mad, ran into the night, and froze to death.”
Song Huiya listened quietly, then asked,
“Have you eaten pork?”
“No. I don’t like meat.” The beggar pinched her arm and grinned faintly. “Look at me—so dirty! If anyone ate me, they’d have to wash me first.”
Silence lingered. Then Song Huiya asked,
“Trying to scare me?”
“No! You’re too brave for that,” she said quickly. “I was just talking.”
“Are you afraid of barbarians?”
“Yes.”
In her mind, cannibals were the demons of nightmares.
“I’m not,” Song Huiya murmured. Her voice, though hoarse, carried a strange warmth. “Hearing you talk about them makes me want to kill them all.”
The beggar fell silent.
After a while, thinking Song Huiya asleep, she began to shift her legs—until a quiet voice spoke,
“You’re clever.”
She froze. Song Huiya continued,
“But not clever enough. Curiosity is dangerous.”
The beggar’s body went cold.
“I’m not smart! I don’t know anything! I don’t even know who you are!”
“Who did you go out to look for today?”
“No one!”
“Good.” Song Huiya’s tone softened, almost regretful. “There are those who admire me, those who hate me, and those who fear me. All gathered here… I only fear your fate may not withstand it.”
The little beggar slumped, forcing a stiff smile.
“They’re looking for Song Huiya, not me.”
“Then remember this,” Song Huiya said. “You’re still young. Try to stay alive.”
The beggar hugged her knees tightly, eyes downcast.
“Come here,” Song Huiya said.
The beggar hesitated. Only when she repeated it did he inch closer, kneeling with his head and ears covered, waiting for the blow.
Instead, something soft brushed his shoulders—a robe smelling faintly of blood. Warmth enclosed him as a low whisper followed,
“Go to sleep.”
Song Huiya’s body burned with feverish heat. From her initial fear, the little beggar slowly melted into that warmth—as though meeting sunlight for the first time after a lifetime of cold. Sleep took her swiftly.
The night deepened, heavy with dew.
Outside, the dirt road stretched empty under a pale moon. The young swordsman and his companion trudged along wearily. When they reached the only inn still lit along the roadside, they stopped and knocked.
A sleepy waiter stumbled to the door.
“Two knights, looking for a room?”
The strong man ignored him, searching barrels and corners with grim purpose.
The young swordsman leaned lazily against the doorframe, half-awake.
“We’re looking for someone,” he said quietly.
Previous/Next
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
