Chapter 61: The So-Called Jianghu

Jianghu was a very chaotic thing.

The common people’s definitions of it were varied.

The registered farmers in the fields listened to storytellers slapping the table, and in their minds, they sketched out human relations, grudges and affections.

In the hearts of those men who had never stepped out of the countryside, jianghu was chivalrous knights in fresh clothes and furious horses, wanderers who killed every ten steps, involuntary schemes in the mortal world, and carefree banter with peerless beauties.

And freedom.

It was a kind of infinitely idealized freedom where one didn’t pay taxes, didn’t serve corvée, and could act on grudges at will.

But the real jianghu wasn’t like that.

Those who sat in jianghu were never some sages pointing out the country, but a group of people not accepted by the normal order of this world.

It didn’t have the grandeur written in books; it lacked people with knowledge and thoughts.

People like Shuang Feixue, who had read a few volumes of classics, could pass the imperial exams, and saw through the situation, were few and far between among the myriad ruffians.

Empty martial skills with empty heads—that was the true color of most jianghu people.

The so-called sects with thousand-year legacies, once you tore off that layer of gorgeous signboards, inside were just gangs that sounded a bit better.

They didn’t talk about great righteousness, nor did they have so many far-sighted schemes; affections and grudges were even more laughable.

Today, kill for two pieces of bread; tomorrow, sell your life for a few taels of silver.

Freedom, in the face of an empty stomach, was the most ridiculous empty phrase in this world.

Of course, all things had exceptions, and these exceptions were basically linked to their history and beliefs.

The Daoist sect, the Buddhist sect, the Mohists.

These were the three great mountains that towered in the mouths of jianghu people.

Said to be three families, but truly counting, there were only two.

The Mohists were forcibly crammed in by jianghu people; the original school never acknowledged themselves as jianghu folk.

The Mohists had rules, even strict to the point of rigid regulations, built on universal love, non-aggression, and mechanical creations—it was an academic school.

They truly had discipline and disdained to associate with ruffian bandits.

The Daoist sect and Buddhist sect were much simpler; their foundations were just built by wandering Daoist nuns and Buddhist nuns in times of war and chaos.

In prosperous times, these things that weren’t good people to begin with, once they gained power, committed evils even more adeptly than ordinary ruffians.

On this land of Great Liang, these so-called “renunciates” lending usury, bullying women and dominating men were commonplace.

If they gained influence in a locale, becoming local tyrants, casually killing and arson, forcibly seizing civilian fields was the norm.

After all, the emperor and court of southern Liang had long rotted to the roots, stinking unbearably.

A decisive warlord ruling this world might even manage it better than this bunch of wastes.

At least a warlord could truly wield a knife to kill, while the current Liang emperor, not being completely puppeted by the noble clans under her, was already considered ancestral merit.

Under such a muddleheaded court’s governance, plus the ancient religious tax exemptions, the Daoist sect and Buddhist sect gorged on the blood and sweat of the people until their mouths overflowed with oil.

Until more than a decade ago, that world-shaking purge of martial sects.

When the blade of power truly fell, these jianghu people who usually boasted of being superior and were even more useless than Liang’s regular army finally revealed their original maggot forms.

After that bloodbath, Liang kingdom’s treasury finally reached a true peak.

Because the people’s fat and cream scraped from the masses over centuries by those jianghu people finally fell intact into the royal family’s hands.

It was laughable; those Liang soldiers who always collapsed against foreign tribes actually defeated these jianghu people this time—perhaps because the emperor could finally pay their wages.

As for the other portion of money? Naturally in the hands of local officials; the emperor didn’t have the guts to scrape from her subordinates, after all, she really would be killed.

Back to the official road, back to Leng Yanling’s side.

This sect leader of the Daoist sect sat on a tall horse, her spine straight as a rod, but in Shuang Feixue’s eyes, she was nothing but a deluded person.

Everything she did was merely serving a man-eating sect; to feed the sect, she had to acquiesce to those dark dealings.

She had no justice; this point, Shuang Feixue had seen clearly long ago.

Shuang Feixue herself couldn’t claim much justice, but she couldn’t accept that the place where she grew up had to scrape the people’s fat and cream, so she chose to escape, fleeing far away after bringing a series of troubles to the sect.

The wind of Duanchang Plain was gradually left behind, replaced by the heavy and oppressive city walls of Bianliang.

Shuang Feixue led the horse; the carriage wheels rolled over the hard stone road, emitting muffled sounds.

Feng Anlan lifted a corner of the carriage curtain, looking at that huge city gate arch, her eyes revealing a trace of nearly numb desolation.

“Senior Shuang, we’ve arrived.”

Feng Anlan said softly.

Shuang Feixue didn’t turn back, merely nodding slightly.

The guards at the city gate wore loose armor, idly inspecting the entering commoners, occasionally reaching into the parcels of young women to rummage and fish for benefits—this foul decay was precisely the current state of Great Liang.

“Enter the city.”

Shuang Feixue coldly spat out three words.

As the carriage submerged into that dim city arch, Bianliang’s breath of rot intertwined with prosperity assaulted the face.

At the same time, not far behind at a bend in the official road, Leng Yanling reined in her horse.

Ji Zimo behind her was about to speak and ask, but was stopped by Leng Yanling’s raised hand.

Leng Yanling’s gaze was deep as a pool; she didn’t choose to enter the city side by side, because she knew that once she, the sect leader, appeared with great fanfare, it would instantly shatter the fragile political balance within Bianliang City.

“Master, aren’t we following?”

Ji Zimo asked in a low voice.

“No rush.” Leng Yanling stared at the carriage disappearing into the city gate arch, the corner of her lips curling into a cold arc.

“Feixue’s stubborn temper brought along someone she shouldn’t have. Now, how many pairs of eyes in the city are watching that Ninth Highness? We have to watch from behind, see who can’t hold back and jumps out first. When they’re at their wits’ end, that’s the best time for our Daoist sect to ‘save the day.'”

Leng Yanling didn’t care about Feng Anlan’s life or death; what she cared about was Shuang Feixue, and how to use this down-and-out imperial princess to beg a privilege for the sect in the court.

In this chaotic world, only by grasping true power could the sect avoid gnawing grassroots in the barren mountains.

She was seeking an opportunity to act, one that could both subdue Shuang Feixue and sell the royal family a “great favor.”

She didn’t trust that State Preceptor; she had her own calculations.

“But, Martial Aunt’s current body…”

Ji Zimo was somewhat worried.

“That’s her own doing.” Leng Yanling turned her head expressionlessly.

“Let’s go, enter the city from the west side gate, first go meet a few of my old acquaintances.”

And in the distance, the youth who had just left Lin’an City, because of some matters, changed his destination.