Chapter Twenty-Four: A Father Must Be Able to Call Upon His Son

Inside the low house with blue brick tiles, the lighting was dim; the flame on the oil lamp flickered, small as a bean. Zhong Ming sat on a wooden stool, cradling the box of the Stone-Locked Mandarins in his hands, carefully examining it.

The Stone-Locked Mandarins was a box, about the size of a human head, its surface carved with simple reliefs—mandarins playing in water. It was named for this motif. The box had no visible lock, and to the uninitiated, it would seem a mere ornamental stone sculpture.

But the young man knew the cleverness of this artifact well. The "Mandarins" was merely a beautiful moniker; his mother had explained that it was a token of affection, gifted by the ancestor of the Xu family to his grandmother, hence the romantic name. The "Stone-Locked" referred to its purpose: locking away items.

Thinking of the ancestor’s demeanor, the youth couldn’t help but mutter, “Seems my ancestor was a hopeless romantic.”

Turning the box over and scrutinizing it, Zhong Ming soon discovered its secret: a fine crack ran through the mandarin carving, imperceptible unless one felt it with their fingers. After several attempts, he pressed down on the two birds and gently pushed them sideways, revealing a hidden mechanism.

At the center of the mandarin motif, a compartment appeared, with a keyhole shaped to fit the Dragon-Phoenix Key perfectly. The maker had been cunning; the true key was not the tip of the Dragon-Phoenix Key, but rather the joined dragon’s head and phoenix motif. The key had to be inserted upside down to open the box.

The process of opening it was a bit tricky, and the youth gained new respect for the ancestor’s ingenuity. Inserting the Dragon-Phoenix Key and applying a little force, he unlocked the box; with a crisp turning sound, the lid came off.

Due to the nature of the stone box, its interior was not spacious, and its contents surprised the young man. At the very top sat a gold ingot, a silver ingot, and a copper coin.

Beneath the money lay a letter, and below that, two booklets.

After emptying the box, the youth searched inside again, hoping to find a secret compartment, but to his disappointment, there were only these few simple items.

The gold and silver could be set aside; they were old-style official silver from the previous dynasty, unusable now unless melted down. The New Tang had been established, with new laws and new currency. Official silver was a symbol of wealth and status, but anyone foolish enough to spend the old dynasty’s silver would suffer—at best, confiscation and flogging; at worst, imprisonment and execution at the East Gate.

The copper coin, however, was intriguing—more than twice as large as an ordinary coin, neither from the previous dynasty nor from New Tang. On one side, it bore the image of a fierce spirit reaping souls; on the other, a motif of the dead buying life.

Zhong Ming turned the heavy coin over and over, unable to discern its purpose, so he set it aside and picked up the booklets.

Each booklet was distinct. One was made of yellowed parchment, slick to the touch like some kind of animal hide, bearing the title “Three Wind Formations.” The script was bright red, unmistakably not ink, but more like blood.

Upon picking up this booklet, the youth’s heart raced; this must be his family’s secret blade technique, mentioned by Uncle Yang earlier that day—said to rival the spear techniques of the Yang family.

His father, Xu Qian Dao, had once ranked among the legendary figures of the martial world on the Heavenly Gang List, and his uncle was the top of the Earth Leader List—surely this technique was formidable.

He hurried to read, even prodding the oil lamp’s wick with a wooden stick to brighten the room.

The flame leapt higher, illuminating the youth’s face in the glow.

Suppressing his excitement, his hands trembled.

Once the youth opened the booklet, he couldn’t stop; he read it all in one sitting before putting it down.

Whether “Three Wind Formations” was a peerless martial art, the youth could not say. Its descriptions were obscure, only a few thousand words, and he struggled to understand even a fraction. Many terms referred to acupoints and the cultivation of internal energy, concepts utterly foreign to him.

In his past life, Zhong Ming was no physician; how could he grasp the mysteries of acupoints and qi cultivation?

In essence, the book covered two things: the first half explained methods for nurturing and circulating energy; the second half detailed three blade techniques.

The energy cultivation was incomprehensible, but he managed to grasp parts of the blade techniques, not because he was particularly gifted, but because the book included illustrations and clear explanations, making them easier to follow.

The three blade techniques were named: Sweeping Wild Sand, Chaotic Water Moon, and Smoothing Mountain Ridge. Even their names carried intrigue.

Sweeping Wild Sand emphasized weight, its soul the forceful momentum of the blade—nothing could withstand it; mountains parted, stones scattered, victory achieved through sheer strength.

Chaotic Water Moon sought variation, its method the nimble path of the blade—adaptable in all directions, avoiding falsehoods and striking true, triumphing through agility.

Smoothing Mountain Ridge combined the strengths of the previous two—lightness with weight, changeable nimbleness paired with the power to shatter stone, its intent balanced and unified, mastering both real and illusory, winning through intent, with no weaknesses.

The youth’s heart surged; he hefted the Yama’s Resonant Blade and went to the courtyard to practice.

But after only a quarter of an hour, he returned, shaking his head with a wry smile.

The techniques seemed easy in writing, but when he actually tried them, problems abounded.

First, his body was frail; the heavy blade felt more like a weight, making proper movements impossible.

Second, the book stated that while form was important, it must be paired with energy cultivation to unleash its power; he could not achieve even a fraction of the intended effect.

Difficult, indeed!

Nothing is accomplished overnight, especially the tempered skills of the martial world.

After a brief, sweaty practice—made worse by the thunderous snores of Liang Heizi next door, which unsettled him—he gave up, dragging his exhausted body back to his room.

Reflecting, he decided that rushing would be counterproductive; he would need proper instruction, perhaps from Sun Longhu or Yang Yanlang, both martial experts in his eyes.

He hung the heavy ring-handled blade on the wall; laying it flat would take too much space.

Back in his room, his enthusiasm for practicing waned. The other booklet contained his father Xu Qian Dao’s blade insights, filled with even more obscure terms; he skimmed a few pages and set it aside for later study.

Only the letter remained, and he hesitated for a long while before opening it.

On the envelope: “To my son, Zhong Ming, to be opened personally.”

After all, he was merely a soul borrowing this body, a foreign surname living under an assumed identity. The letter was clearly meant for the original Zhong Ming, left by Xu Qian Dao. Should he read it?

Those few words pierced the youth’s heart; after much hesitation, he decided to open it.

Since he’d inherited the son’s body, he must accept the responsibilities—reading the letter was only right.

Inside, over a hundred flowing words. Xu Qian Dao, though a martial man, wrote with an unattractive hand, but the strokes carried a fierce spirit, making the script sharp as if carved by a blade, with a unique charm.

They say you know a man by his writing; Xu Qian Dao was evidently a man of pronounced edge.

Bringing the letter close to the oil lamp, the youth read with reverence.

It said:

“My son Zhong Ming, if you are reading this letter, your father is surely no longer by your side. I do not know when or where you will open this, but remember your father’s words well.

The items in the box—the silver is for saving your life. If you find yourself in dire straits, use the silver ingot to get by.

The gold ingot is for establishing your future—do not aim too high; the gold can buy good land or open a shop, but never squander it carelessly.

The family blade manual must be passed down to future generations; never let it fall into outsiders’ hands. If you live in a peaceful era, I do not wish for you to learn martial arts, nor to become involved in the bloodshed of the martial world.

But if times are troubled, you may learn it for self-defense.

Remember: even if you master the technique, do not use it to seek glory or violence. Unless your life is in danger, do not reveal your skills.

I have spent months writing, leaving behind years of blade insights—these may guide your training.

The copper coin in the box is a life-saving item; never show it lightly. If your life is threatened, take this coin to the Salvation Hall in the city to buy your life.

Remember, remember: the coin can save your life, but only once—never show it lightly.

Your father cannot watch you grow into a pillar of strength; my heart aches, and I feel guilty towards you and your mother.

I hope you will care for your mother well—not seeking fame and fortune, only wishing for safety and peace.

One last thing: if you have offspring, change their surname to Xu, returning to our ancestral roots.

Xu Feng, left behind.”

After reading the letter, the youth felt a heaviness in his chest, unable to breathe for a long time.

When he finally came to his senses, he quietly burned the letter in the oil lamp, placing it in the hearth until it was consumed.

Once Xu Feng, who lived incognito, now renowned as the Giant Blade Yama Xu Qian Dao—just how many secrets did this father hold? The youth would have to discover them himself.

In a daze, a thought formed in his heart: if fate allowed, he would someday carry the Yama’s Resonant Blade and journey to the Northwest’s Fengtian City, seeking out his legendary father in person.

After burning the letter, he returned the booklets and money to the Stone-Locked Mandarins, leaving only the mysterious life-saving coin, threading it onto a cord and hanging it around his neck alongside the Dragon-Phoenix Key.

He had once owned a brocade box, picked up from a wealthy household, with a lock specially made by the town’s locksmith, paired with the Phoenix Song Key.

Now, with the Stone-Locked Mandarins, the brocade box was obsolete; he tossed it in a corner and placed the gold ingot inside the stone box, finally hiding it in the secret compartment beneath his bed.

By the time he finished all this, the moon was high, the world silent.

Lying in bed, the youth tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the snores of Liang Heizi next door echoing, his mind replaying the strange events of the day.

After much restlessness, sleep finally overcame him, granting him deep slumber.

A day of marvels had ended, and the youth’s tomorrow promised even greater wonders.