Nanxi nodded.
“Then you especially shouldn’t go.” The old beggar shifted her body, leaning tighter against the trunk.
“These Hu soldiers of Great Zhou don’t see Xia people as human. In their eyes, we’re just two-legged livestock, worth less than sheep on the grasslands. Sheep can produce wool and milk; we Xia people are only fit to be like their oxen and horses.”
She paused, caught her breath, and continued.
“You think these refugees are all from southern Liang? Not entirely. Many among them were originally Xia farmers of Great Zhou. Last year, the northern pastures suffered a white disaster; the Hu nobles’ cattle and sheep froze to death in droves. What to do?”
“Increase taxes—thirty percent more livestock tax, fifty percent more pasture tax. Where do Xia households get cattle and sheep? Can’t pay, so demolish homes, seize people, rob sons.”
The old beggar said this, reaching into her bosom to pull out a half-piece of blackish flatbread, breaking off a small bit and slowly chewing it in her mouth.
“And southern Liang?” Nanxi suddenly asked.
The old beggar’s chewing paused.
She raised her head, looking at Nanxi; for the first time, her turbid eyes held some other emotion—like mockery, like sorrow.
“Southern Liang? The emperor lords of southern Liang boast of being the orthodox Hua Xia, but in their eyes, the people aren’t even worth weeds. Weeds can feed horses; the people? Just numbers on tax rolls.”
She counted on her withered fingers, one by one.
“Southern floods drowned three prefectures and sixteen counties; the court’s relief silver, skimmed layer by layer, reaches the victims as just a few handfuls of moldy rice. Western droughts, red earth for thousands of li, people starving enough to eat dirt, but the imperial grain tax can’t be short a single tael—can’t pay, conscripted to the army, sent north as cannon fodder.”
“Eastern sea pirates rampant, the navy dares not sail out, so orders ‘not a plank to the sea,’ cutting off fishermen’s livelihoods, driving how many to jump into the sea?”
The old beggar’s voice wasn’t high, but each word and sentence cut like a dull knife on flesh.
“Young master, look at these refugees.” She pointed to the dense crowd.
“Why do they leave their homes? Not because Great Zhou is so good, but because in southern Liang, they truly can’t live anymore. But Great Zhou has no livelihood either.”
She sighed, that breath long and heavy, as if exhaling the last bit of warmth from her lungs.
“This world has long rotted through. Southern Liang’s emperor only cares for her own pleasures; the noble clans suck blood from the people. Great Zhou’s Hu people treat us Xia as livestock. Where’s the livelihood? There isn’t any.”
Nanxi listened in silence.
The youth certainly knew these things, but his worry wasn’t livelihood—it was seeking stability.
But in this chaotic world, where was stability?
The wind blew across the wasteland, whipping up dry dust that pelted the face with faint stings.
In the distance at the gate, soldiers’ scoldings and refugees’ cries still came intermittently.
The youth’s hand on the sword hilt finally loosened.
Forcing through was indeed, as the old beggar said, courting death.
Qi-breaking crossbows specialized in countering martial artists’ true qi; the black shadows behind the wall’s merlons were probably more than one.
Even if he could kill his way in with the shadow sword’s edge, then what?
Great Zhou’s territory had layers of checkpoints; once exposed, endless pursuit.
He wasn’t here to play hero; he was here to find someone.
“Thank you.” Nanxi said to the old beggar.
The old beggar waved her hand, broke off another small piece of flatbread into her mouth, and no longer looked at him.
Nanxi turned the horse’s head, slowly leaving the crowd before the pass.
Those refugees’ gazes still followed him, but the hope in their eyes had extinguished, returning to numb gray.
He stopped by an abandoned earthen hut about two li from the pass.
The hut had long collapsed halfway, leaving only half a wall, barely blocking the wind.
Nanxi tied the horse behind the wall, then sat cross-legged, closing his eyes to regulate his breath.
He needed to wait until night.
The sun sank bit by bit; when the last trace of afterglow vanished at the horizon, the wasteland’s temperature plummeted.
The soil and rocks scorching hot by day now rapidly dissipated heat.
Cold wind blew from the north, carrying the grasslands’ unique, biting tang.
The refugees gathered outside the pass, lighting sparse bonfires.
The firelight was weak, illuminating faces of exhaustion and despair.
They huddled together, warming with each other’s body heat, like a flock of shivering sheep in the cold night.
Nanxi opened his eyes.
Night had fully fallen, no moon, only sparse stars sprinkling faint light.
Torches on the pass walls lit up, swaying in the night wind, stretching the guards’ shadows long, casting them on the earthen-yellow walls like looming ghosts.
He untied the reins, patted the chestnut horse’s neck, and said lowly.
“Wait for me here.”
The horse snorted loudly, rubbing its head against his palm.
Nanxi turned, stealthily approaching the pass.
He didn’t take the official road but used the night and terrain for cover, nearing from the side’s wild grass.
During daytime observation, he had noted that though the hills on both sides were bald, they still had plenty of jagged boulders and gullies for hiding.
The closer to the wall, the stronger the sense of strict vigilance.
Patrol footsteps came intermittently from the wall top; the clink of armor was especially clear in the quiet night.
Firelight occasionally flashed from the arrow towers—guards inspecting.
Nanxi lay prone in a dirt gully, holding his breath.
His heartbeat was steady, breath restrained to nearly nothing.
The shadow sword’s cultivation had brought his control of his own qi to an extremely fine degree; as long as he didn’t actively expose himself, ordinary soldiers could never detect him at such close range.
He was waiting for a gap.
After about the time for an incense stick, the patrol on the wall’s east had just passed, the west not yet returned.
The firelight on the arrow tower also happened to turn the other way.
Now.
Nanxi moved, like a wisp of smoke in the night, silently darting to the wall base.
He didn’t choose to leap directly onto the wall—that was too conspicuous.
His target was a shadow under the wall, piled with discarded building materials and debris.
The instant he neared the wall, his toes tapped the surface, body borrowing force to rise three zhang; his hands precisely gripped the brick seams.
The movement was light and agile like an ape, without a sound.
He listened intently.
On the wall, footsteps grew distant—the patrol had moved away.
Nanxi’s fingers exerted force, waist twisting; his whole body flipped onto the wall, then crouched low, hiding in the merlon’s shadow.
The view from the wall was much broader.
Inside was Great Zhou’s border town, low earthen huts scattered messily, a few main roads lit by lanterns, sporadic patrol soldiers passing.
Outside was the dense refugee camp, faint firelights dotted like will-o’-the-wisps in the wilderness.
He didn’t linger, swiftly moving along the wall’s shadows toward the inside.
Descending the wall was much easier than ascending.
He found a secluded corner, gripped the wall top, body dangling; estimating the height, he let go and dropped.
On landing, knees bent slightly to absorb the impact, without much noise.
His feet stepped on Great Zhou’s soil.
The air here was utterly different from southern Liang.
It permeated with livestock dung, tanned leather, and some spice mixed—rough and unfamiliar.
The building styles were simpler and cruder, lacking southern Liang’s common flying eaves and upturned corners.
Nanxi adjusted his clothes, head down, striding quickly into a small alley.
He needed to first understand this border town’s situation, find a place to rest, then inquire about news of the northern route.
The alley was very dark, no lights.
The earthen huts on both sides had doors and windows tightly shut; occasionally, snores or whispers came from within.
Nanxi’s steps were light, like a cat’s.
He reached the alley mouth, about to turn onto the main road, when suddenly he heard a clamor ahead.
It was a man’s crying shouts, mixed with women’s sneering laughs and scoldings.
Nanxi’s steps paused; he hid in the alley mouth’s shadow, looking out.
On the main road, several Great Zhou soldiers surrounded a Xia man.
The man was about twenty, thin clothes torn and disheveled, struggling desperately.
One soldier gripped his hair, another tried to strip his pants.
“Damn it, pretending to be chaste! Being fancied by this old lady is your Xia dog’s good fortune!”
“Let me go! Please, let go…”
The man’s pleading was interrupted by a slap.
Nanxi watched quietly.
His face held no expression, but his gaze grew colder bit by bit, like a deep pool freezing.
He recalled the old beggar’s words.
“In their eyes, we’re just two-legged livestock.”
The soldier had already pressed the man to the ground; the surrounding comrades laughed uproariously, some whistling.
The shadow-like sword silently appeared in his hand.
The blade was icy cool, chill transmitting through the cloth to his fingertips, spreading to his arm, then to his heart.
The youth knew that acting now would bring trouble, expose his tracks, make his northern journey even harder.
But he also knew these soldiers deserved death.
Just as his fingertips were about to exert force, the shadow sword about to unsheathe.
“Hey! You lot!”
A rough scolding came from the other end of the street.
The soldiers’ actions stiffened; they turned to look.
A woman in centurion leather armor strode over, face grim.
“On duty, playing with a man? Want the military rod, huh!”
The soldier gripping the man’s hair let go resentfully, smiling obsequiously.
“Boss, just playing; this Xia dog…”
“Scram!” The centurion kicked her leg.
“Don’t scram, and I’ll throw you all to the wolves!”
The soldiers dared not say more, grumbling as they dispersed.
The Xia man crawled up from the ground, scrambling into a dark alley, not daring to look back.
The centurion stood in place, looking where the man vanished, and spat.
“Bad luck.”
She cursed and turned to leave.
The street returned to silence.
Nanxi released his grip on the sword.
The chill from the hilt seemed to have seeped into his bones.
He stepped out of the alley, onto the main road, heading toward the relatively brighter lights in the city.
The night was still long.
And this border town was merely Great Zhou’s first threshold.
The true north lay farther away, with broader grasslands, harsher winds and snows, and deeper discrimination and hatred flowing in the blood.
Nanxi raised his head, looking at the northern pitch-black sky.
The stars were faint, as if veiled in gauze.
He suddenly recalled Lin’an City’s cloying smoke, recalled the lie he told when Pei Xiuyu said “I don’t like places that are too sweet.”
He didn’t like places that were too sweet.
But this north—even the bitterness was so naked, so bloody.
He exhaled lightly; white mist rapidly dissipated in the cold night.
Then, he strode forward, continuing toward that faint lamplight in the city.
The chestnut horse still waited outside the city.
His master might still be waiting for him in the town.