The old man, observing the child's sticky, clingy nature, wondered how long the two of them would continue their fuss. He picked up the rice sack, turned, and left with a look of utter dejection, as if saying "out of sight, out of mind."
When he returned, the courtyard was filled with smoke and fire, thick smoke billowing from a corner. Song Zhiqie, having washed her face, was kneeling on the ground, coughing from the smoke, and constantly throwing leaves into the fire.
The old man's forehead veins bulged, and he felt his decades of patience on the verge of breaking down. He slammed the bowl and chopsticks down on the stone table and scolded, "Song Huiya, aren't you going to do anything about your apprentice? Is she trying to burn this house down?"
Song Zhiqie turned around, clutching a stack of fallen leaves she had just collected. Her face was contorted with rage, and she sobbed through her tears, "I'm burning some paper money for my benefactor."
The old man was speechless at the sight of the master and apprentice. He pointed at her and said, "Is that paper money?!"
Song Zhiqie said pitifully, "I don't have any real paper money. It's just a token of my affection, why be so particular?"
With a look of deep sorrow, she threw all the leaves into the fire, pressed herself against the ground, and wailed at the top of her lungs, "Brother, may you rest in peace. I'm so sorry for this life, but in the next life, Little Sparrow will definitely repay you..."
Song Huiya stomped out the fire, grabbed her clothes, and urged her to go eat first.
Song Zhiqie's forehead was bruised and red from the bump, and her eyes were sore and swollen. For the first time, she had no appetite for the food on the table. After a couple of bites, she listlessly asked, "Master, what exactly is the Jianghu?"
"Jianghu?" Song Huiya couldn't recall many good impressions of it. Without much thought, she said flippantly, "The Jianghu is a group of wicked people who keep their heads on, waiting to one day pluck them off and give them to heroes to make a name for themselves."
Before Song Zhiqie could even process what she'd said, the old man scoffed, "Arrogant tone, looking down on the Jianghu?"
He placed his chopsticks flat on the rim of his bowl, his gaze dark and aggressive, "You've met a few people who seek fame and fortune, and you think you understand the Jianghu? If it weren't for this Jianghu, the Great Liang would have perished long ago during those turbulent decades. You wouldn't be here spouting nonsense."
Song Zhiqie found his words too harsh and slammed her chopsticks down, ready to respond. Song Huiya raised her hand and pressed her down, smiling calmly, "Then may I ask, senior, what is the Jianghu like that you have seen?"
The old man gritted his teeth in anger, "Why should I bother looking for that so-called Jianghu? Looking back twenty years, where in Daliang wasn't a sea of suffering? After the Battle of Hanshan, the entire court became spineless. When the Hu troops stormed into the city, their swords and spears were pressed against the necks of the people. The soldiers of Daliang didn't even dare to breathe too heavily, for fear of angering them and implicating even more people. It is no exaggeration to say that the people suffered terribly! It was countless young talents from all the major and minor sects of Jianghu who, after completing their studies, descended the mountain, concealed their identities, and went forth one after another to assassinate, suppress bandits, and kill thieves, thus paving a bloody path for this world."
Twenty years is too long for Song Zhiqie, and the old man's narration is completely different from the current world. It sounds unfamiliar to her, like a bizarre story, and she can't imagine any of the scenes from that time.
She half-lies on the table, speechless, and says, "Are you serious?"
The old man glances at Song Huiya and asks, "Why do you call yourself 'No-Leave Mountain'?"
Song Huiya opens her mouth, wanting to say she doesn't know, but then suddenly recalls a sentence written on the title page of her book, and whispers it: "No-Leave Mountain, no-Leave People, no-Leave Life and Death, no-Leave Name."
The handwriting of that line of small characters is different from Song Huiya's; she doesn't know whose handwriting it is.
"That's right, that's how you earned the name 'No-Leave Mountain' through bloodshed. When the great building is about to collapse, once disciples have completed their studies and entered the world, we will not try to stop them. From a prestigious sect with a century of history, we have fought our way down to where only a handful of you remain. If you want to know what the martial world is, take your disciple to Mount Buliu and see for yourself. The mountain is covered with nameless graves!"
The old man chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded eerie, like a sob. His shoulders trembled, filled with bitterness.
"The martial world has a long history of inheritance, so many unique skills and talented descendants, why are they now scattered and lacking in succession? They all died in those years. Your master and grandmaster are among them!"
As he spoke of the present, a deep sorrow and indignation surfaced on his face. His fingers gripped the edge of the stone table, each word dripping with bitter resentment: "Emerging in chaotic times, retiring after achieving success. Living without returning home, dying without a name—that's what the martial world is all about! What are these clowns now? Crouching low, twisted and unruly. They're not even worthy of being called jackals, let alone possessing the blood of wild beasts. Back then, they weren't even worthy of carrying their shoes!"
He wanted to ask, "Song Huiya, your master left you No-Retention Mountain, and now, where is No-Retention Mountain?"
But he didn't ask, because he knew Song Huiya had already done very well. He was just too unwilling.
Too unwilling.
Song Zhiqie held the bowl in her hands; the rice was almost cold. She looked at the two people sitting on either side of her, as still as rocks, wondering if she should still eat.
Song Huiya's expression was somber; she sat there blankly, as if entangled in endless reverie. Her former arrogance and disdain had vanished, replaced by a bitter, unspoken sorrow. Finally, she simply said, "Is that so? Then why is it that nowadays, no one is willing to step forward and speak of morality?"
The meal tasted like cardboard.
Song Zhiqie dared not cause trouble, and after finishing her meal, she took the initiative to clear the dishes, walked away from the two of them, and went to the backyard to practice calligraphy quietly.
Song Huiya sat by the window, took out the book she had abandoned, and absentmindedly flipped through it several times. She opened her eyes and gazed thoughtfully at the clouds that rose and fell on the mountaintop.
Light and shadow shifted, wind and clouds dispersed. She also moved, silently walked to the old man sharpening his sword, and handed him a black iron sword.
"Senior, could you sharpen my sword for me?"
The old man raised his head, met her clear eyes for a moment, then seemed to awaken from a dream. His eyebrows twitched, he wiped his hands clean, and solemnly took the longsword.
He drew the blade; the iron edge gleamed coldly, its sharpness intimidating, though it hadn't been drawn in a long time and was somewhat rusty.
A clang rang out as the stone clashed with the blade, producing a clear, resonant sound. Tiny splashes of water, tinged with blood-red rust, flew out.
The old man pressed his fingers against the iron blade, lowered his upper body, and suddenly spoke: "I call myself Qian Erliang (Two Ounces of Money), and people in the martial world also call me Bei Tu Dao (Northern Butcher's Blade). But I don't really like either of those names."
"Bei Tu Dao? That sounds like a prestigious name." Song Huiya sat cross-legged opposite him, chatting leisurely and comfortably. "Old man, seeing that you've almost retired from the martial world, how come you've gotten involved with a troublesome person like me again?"
"You asked me earlier what happened during our third meeting." The old man stared intently at the gleam of the sword in his hand, head bowed, and said, "You paid for my life."
Song Huiya asked curiously, "How much did I pay?"
The old man's chest tightened, his voice gaining a deep, resonant quality, and he clearly uttered two words: "Two taels."
"Is that really so?" Song Huiya exclaimed in surprise, leaning forward and sighing wistfully, "Is a life so worthless?"
Old Qian paused for a moment, his tone faintly tinged with a hint of sorrow, and said, "Very valuable. It's just that the world is too cheap; it won't fetch much."
Song Huiya nodded listlessly, "Indeed, everything I've seen and heard is nothing good."
Old Qian stopped what he was doing, holding the iron sword in his left hand and examining the blade in the bright sunlight.
Song Huiya consulted with him, "Senior, if you have nothing to do on weekdays, instead of sharpening your sword, could you teach my apprentice?"
Old Qian took a cloth and carefully wiped the blade, then chuckled, "That's your apprentice, why should I teach her?"
He sheathed the sword and tossed it into Song Huiya's arms, asking, "Why did you take this apprentice as your disciple?"
Song Huiya looked at the inscription on the sword and said, "Teaching my apprentice how to be a person is also a way of asking myself what kind of person I am."
Old Qian said, "Now you know?"
Song Huiya smiled brightly, "A meddlesome, vulgar person."
"Hmm... much better than before." Old Qian continued sharpening his sword, "Before, when you encountered trouble, you never wanted to get involved, you would only say, 'Then why don't you just die?', which made your master so angry that he broke several sticks in his hand and forbade you from going down the mountain at will."
Song Huiya was about to make up a few more things when a commotion of chickens and dogs came from the backyard.
Old Qian's face darkened. He immediately picked up his knife and stormed toward the backyard.
Immediately following was Song Zhiqie's clumsy attempt at explanation: "Grandpa, nobody's talking to me! I just wanted to have a chat with this chicken! Animals have spirits! Oh dear—"
Song Huiya chuckled helplessly, leaning on her long sword as she rose, grabbed a straw hat, and strolled toward the courtyard across the street.
The woman had already swept away the fallen leaves; the water vat in the yard was empty, and several empty plates sat on the table.
Inside the house, she took the child out of the bamboo basket, laid him flat on the bed, unbuttoned his clothes, and began wiping his limbs with a damp cloth.
"Mother will wipe your body," the woman said, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking tenderly at the child, holding his hand, and softly soothing him. "My son is a clean person, isn't he? Be good. You'll get up to eat after a short sleep."
She dared not use too much force, and unable to remove the black spots on the corpse, she could only scrub repeatedly as if possessed.
Song Huiya stood at the doorway, watched for a while, and cruelly exposed, "He's dead."
The woman ignored her, perhaps her vision was too blurry to see clearly. She raised her son's hand higher, bringing it close to her eyes, meticulously cleaning every last nail.
Song Huiya leaned against the doorframe, saying to herself, "If you want to live like this, then pretend I was never here today. But if you truly want justice for this world, I can take you up the mountain."
Before she finished speaking, the woman suddenly turned around, knelt down before her, and cried out hoarsely, "I want to go up the mountain!"
Having said this, she could no longer deceive herself; her spirit suddenly collapsed, and she slumped to the ground, unable to even lift her head.
She crawled forward on her knees, trying to grab Song Huiya's clothes, but her hand only touched empty air, brushing against a flash of white light.
"Please, heroine, I want to go up the mountain. I truly don't understand. My family is honest and upright, we never bully the kind or do evil, how could we be ruined and killed just because of a slap?" The woman clutched her chest, her heart aching with pain. "Today I went up the mountain, and they said my husband is dead too! My husband is dead too! He only lent me a few taels of silver for my son's medical treatment. My son didn't survive, and he's dead too. But I can't even see his body."
Song Huiya squatted down, listened attentively to her, and said slowly, "Let me make this clear to you first. I can stand up for you, but I can't guarantee your safety. If you come up the mountain with me today, tomorrow, the day after, you might die somewhere I can't see."
The woman said excitedly, "I'm not afraid! When has Duan Yanmen ever given me a way out? He's a big shot, a big shot as towering as a mountain. We live at the bottom of the mountain, we don't even deserve to know who he is. But are we just supposed to be treated like stray dogs on the roadside? Is this how people on the mountain behave? Is that it?"
"If you ask me, I'll say no. But they aren't me," Song Huiya said gently. "So what justice do you want? Do you want to kill him?"
The woman was momentarily confused. After a moment's thought, she shook her head and said, "No, I don't want him to die. I want him to kneel and kowtow three times and pay respects at my son's and husband's graves. I want him to admit his mistake!"
"Alright," Song Huiya agreed. She picked up a bamboo hat, put it on her head, helped the woman up, and asked, "How should I address you?"
The woman was still incredulous, leaning half her weight on her, and answered in a daze, "Second Madam."
"Good. Second Madam." Song Huiya released her hand, her tone gentle yet firm. "Stand firm. Let's go."
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