Chapter Thirteen: A Child Named Qilin at the Frontier

The answer, of course, was that he was still far from it.

The old man, in a moment of youthful frenzy, reins in a yellow horse with his left hand and a blue with his right, adorned in a brocade cap and sable cloak, leading a thousand riders across the rolling hills.

Yet the heroic vision of youth was but a flight of fancy in his mind, doing nothing to bridge the distance between him and the world of martial chivalry. At present, he did not know even a single move; his knowledge of the martial world was gleaned solely from storytellers, and it was doubtful he could even properly write the words "rivers and lakes."

Still, the sense of freedom filled his heart. Immersed in the thrill of galloping on horseback, the young man found himself, almost without realizing it, arriving at the city magistrate’s office.

Thinking back on his ride through the main street, the young man boldly galloped through the city center, drawing both fear and envy from the common folk. He began to understand why the sons of high officials so enjoyed riding.

Ahead, Yang Yanlang had already pulled up his horse, and Sun Longhu quickly dismounted to help Zhong Ming. Mounting had been a struggle, but getting down required no assistance; the youth nimbly leaped from the horse, patted Luoxue’s long face dusted with snow, and murmured, “Thank you for your hard work.”

Luoxue snorted in reply.

Yang Yanlang approached and asked, “How did it feel to ride?”

Excitement shone on the young man’s face. “It felt wonderful!”

Yang Yanlang smiled in satisfaction. “A real man should be ready to roam the world; how can you venture far if you cannot ride? When we’ve finished with the land allotment, come to my stables and choose a fine horse—I’ll gift it to you.”

This was exactly what the young man had hoped for. He immediately bowed, “Thank you, Uncle, in advance!”

“Don’t mention thanks between us,” Yang Yanlang waved his sleeve dismissively. “Let’s hurry and finish our business in the magistrate’s office. It won’t do for the ancestral rites to be delayed.”

With that, Yang Yanlang strode into the office, his personal guards lining up in order, dismounting to stand sentinel at the gate. Sun Longhu and the other bodyguards, their hands on the hilts of their Tang swords, followed the general with heads held high, exuding an air of authority.

The young man, however, was in no rush to enter. Instead, he scrutinized the building.

The magistrate’s office was not the imposing, grand structure he had imagined, but rather dilapidated. The main gate was tall, yet much of its vermilion paint had peeled away, casting it in gloom; even the ornamental nailheads were loose and falling out. The curved roof tiles stretched outward like birds in flight, but many decorative tiles were missing, and even the rooftop beast at the ridge had half its head broken off.

It was plain to see: this was a neglected, battered office, much like the crumbling city walls of this border town, its walls scarred by many wars.

This complex had stood for over a century, evolving from the city lord’s mansion to the current magistrate’s office, passing through the hands of several owners. That it still stood was a feat in itself.

With the founding of New Tang, everything was in disarray. Even the imperial quarters in Luoyang had yet to be repaired, let alone this remote outpost’s magistrate’s office. As long as there was a presentable building, the county magistrate would count his blessings. Renovation was a matter for some distant future.

In truth, Zhong Ming doubted that even if the magistrate had enough silver for repairs, he would use it so. Rumor had it that the arrival of the “Colonel of Fruitful Deeds” was the vanguard of New Tang’s policies, and this magistrate, a holdover from the previous two dynasties, was likely to lose his position. If he didn’t seize the chance to line his pockets now, there might never be another opportunity.

With these thoughts, the young man smirked. However rundown this office was, the monsters and demons within could still devour a man whole.

Not to mention that when the edict banning corpse-eating was issued before the New Year, the magistrate had ordered several constables to round up scapegoats at random. And during last year’s famine, the constables openly raided ordinary homes for grain. No wonder Zhong Ming felt nothing but contempt for these people.

They were like ravenous ghouls, bullying the weak while cowering before the strong—the more honest the common folk, the more they suffered.

For this reason, the young man tried to avoid coming here, even though the magistrate had several times praised his calligraphy. Were it not for the land allotment, a duty he could not delegate, he’d rather haul stones by the city wall than face their ugly countenances.

As he stared at the faded plaque above the gate, a sudden wailing erupted from within. Compelled, he stepped over the threshold and entered the office.

Inside, a circle of servants in coarse brown linen—clearly the retinue of some wealthy family—had gathered. Within the circle stood three well-dressed figures.

The leader was a pale-faced man in a black silk robe, his eyes wide and bloodshot, wielding a sword aimed directly at the magistrate on the dais.

This man dared to brandish a weapon in the main hall, defying the authority of New Tang—testament both to his rage and his audacity.

In this border town, power was tangled and complex. Though the magistrate held the highest official rank, his word did not always carry the most weight. The great families had been entrenched for generations; if chaos broke out, the magistrate might not be able to keep order.

Zhong Ming knew that only Captain Kong, the head constable, was worth his salt—a real hero of the martial world. The rest of the constables and clerks were just loafers.

Behind the man in the black robe stood a young lord, fanning himself with a fan painted with peach blossoms, dressed in a pale robe, his head crowned with a golden coronet, a black flute at his waist, and a warm jade pendant at his sash. Such attire was not for the common man; only a scion of a great house could wear it.

New Tang decreed that men came of age at eighteen, to be marked by the capping ceremony. The children of poor families never saw such rites; only those from noble families were eligible.

Even among those, there were differences in the quality of the coronet—commoners wore copper or wooden caps, but only those with deep family roots could afford a golden one.

As for the qilin jade pendant at his waist, that was a mark of supreme status.

In the previous dynasty, a great minister and poet had written: “Willing to linger by West Lake for months, hoping to meet the young qilin of Qiantang.” This referred to awaiting the appearance of a prodigious talent at the Qiantang River poetry gathering. That prodigy did not disappoint, eventually becoming the renowned prime minister of the current age.

The tale of the poet’s first encounter with the future prime minister became a cherished anecdote. Some said the poet had an eye for talent, a true judge of heroes; others said the prime minister, celebrated as the greatest under heaven, was himself the qilin child.

Thus, a qilin jade pendant was not something any noble youth could wear—only scions of illustrious, powerful houses, famed for their wealth and reputation.

As it happened, the young man recognized this lord.

He was none other than Tian Xingjian, the young master of the Tian family.

Heaven moves with strength; a gentleman should strive relentlessly. Upon first hearing Tian’s name, Zhong Ming had grasped its meaning.

With such a family, the qilin pendant was certainly appropriate.

His grandfather was none other than the current prime minister, Tian Yizheng, the very qilin child himself. This young lord had been remarkably precocious, reading the Book of Songs at five, composing poetry at seven, and at thirteen matching verses with his grandfather—who once praised him: “My grandson’s talent far surpasses mine; he truly deserves the title of little qilin.”

Yet, for reasons unknown, this “little qilin,” who should have begun his official career in Luoyang, was sent back to his borderland home two years ago, assuming the role of young head of the Tian family.

Some said he had lost his grandfather’s favor and was thus relegated to the frontier.

And as rumor had it, the young master had abandoned himself to pleasure in these borderlands, consorting with idle scholars, drinking and carousing nightly at Hongfang Pavilion.

Had Zhong Ming not met him during a grain purchase the previous year, he too would have believed these stories.

But he had glimpsed the young lord’s wisdom and cunning; things were not as simple as the rumors suggested. This “little qilin,” or rather the qilin child of Luoyang, was surely plotting something great.

If even the young master of the Tian family had turned up today, something significant must be afoot in the magistrate’s hall.

The pale-faced man in black confronted the magistrate with his sword and thundered, “Lord He, you must give me an answer today! My son died a terrible death in the ruined temple west of the city, yet you dismiss the matter as official business and brush off the Wu family. Do we mean nothing to you?”

At his words, the woman behind him, Mrs. Wu, sitting on the ground, broke into loud sobs, clutching the corpse of Wu, the constable, crying, “My poor child!” A perfect match of husband and wife in grief.

Seeing this, the young man understood: the Wu family had come to demand justice.

The Wu family had once been one of the great clans of the border town, practicing martial arts for generations, with a certain reputation. In the past, if Zhong Ming had run into them seeking revenge, he would have run for his life.

If he didn’t? The magistrate and the Wu family would have scoured the borderlands to cut him down.

But times had changed. With the general’s support, the young man felt emboldened. He merely paused to consider the situation before straightening up and heading into the hall.

By now, Yang Yanlang had reached the dais and quickly grasped the reason for the commotion.

The young man sidled up to him and whispered, “Uncle, how should we handle this?”

“Say nothing. Leave this to me,” Yang Yanlang replied, waving him back and striding forward. He called out, “Magistrate He, why do you allow armed men to cause a scene in your hall?”

Magistrate He was a plump little man with beady, shifty eyes—one wondered how such a person ever became a magistrate. Seeing the general, his pallid face broke into relief, and he cried, “Colonel, you’re here! This is all because you sent…” He trailed off; after all, it was Yang Yanlang who had sent Wu’s body, but he dared not say so in public.

When Magistrate He gave no answer, Yang Yanlang did not waste words. He waved his hand sharply. “Scaly Guard, arrest this ruffian who dares threaten a magistrate with a weapon. Throw him in the dungeon and set a date for trial!”

From the moment the general arrived, the Wu patriarch had been sizing him up, but he was not expecting such decisiveness—the general had him thrown in jail without even a hearing.

Terrified, the Wu patriarch shouted, “My lord, I have been wronged! I—”

“Enough! To draw a weapon and storm the hall is to show contempt for New Tang’s law and attempt to harm a court official. Take him away!”

Yang Yanlang was a man of the battlefield, intolerant of delay. On the field, any breach of discipline met with immediate execution. Were it not that Wu’s son had died at Zhong Ming’s hand, Yang Yanlang might already have beheaded the man.

The Scaly Guard had no interest in the Wu patriarch’s pleas. Sun Longhu flashed his eyes, unsheathed his sword, and, with three guards behind him, closed in.

Yet the Wu patriarch was not timid; with a sweep of his blade, he forced Sun Longhu and the guards back, roaring, “I am the head of the Wu family, one of the three great clans of this border town. Who dares lay a hand on me?”