Chapter One: Azure Lotus

“Hyah! Hyah!”

In the shroud of night, the thunder of hooves echoed along the desolate mountain path.

Clang! Clang!

Two sharp sounds sliced through the air, and on the wooden boards of the carriage, two slender silver darts embedded themselves deeply.

“Hyah!”

The driver, startled, lashed the whip harder. Blood streaks marred the horse’s back, and with each crack, the tortured beast bolted faster, driven mad by pain.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Several glimmers flashed under the moonlight. One struck the driver, while another shot straight into the carriage.

Wails erupted, the cries of a child, uncertain whether the hidden weapon had found its mark.

Bathed in moonlight, shadows surged—a dozen black-clad figures raced through the night, their blades gleaming with chilling light.

“Don’t cry, Fuyu, don’t cry.” Inside the carriage, a beautiful woman clutched the swaddled boy tightly. Her serene features were now twisted with terror and anxiety.

“Madam, the horse can’t go any further,” the driver said weakly.

The horse, foaming at the mouth, had reached its limit. The carriage slowed, the pursuers closing in.

With a crash, the horse collapsed, dead from exhaustion. The momentum sent the carriage spinning, the canopy shattered, dust rising in the night.

Ping!

Two flashes of silver darted into the dark forest. The driver, ignoring his wounds, drew his sword and knocked the darts aside before they could strike the broken carriage.

Under the moonlight, the black-clad assailants formed a tight encirclement around the wreckage.

The driver was spent, his sword planted in the earth, half his body leaning on it just to remain upright. Blood loss from mortal wounds meant little more could bleed out; even the smallest movement demanded immense effort.

A hand reached for the swaddled infant, just thrown from the carriage.

“Kill them all. Leave no one alive.”

The leader of the black-clad men spoke sparingly, his gaze devoid of emotion. These were death-bound warriors.

“Hmph.”

With a cold snort, the driver slowly raised his sword, exhaling deeply.

“Kill!”

A surge of azure light burst from the sword, sweeping outward. Hundreds of sword energies rushed the death warriors.

On the mountainside, flashes of blue light appeared, mingling with the ceaseless cries of the infant.

Suddenly, an enormous blue lotus exploded on the slope, making the mountain tremble violently.

…………………………………………………………………..

No one knew how much time passed before the night’s battle finally grew quiet.

In the darkness, a middle-aged Taoist stood beside the scattered carriage, bending to pick up the swaddled infant. His slender fingers loosened the wrap, and his brows furrowed.

“Jiuzhu, is this the ending you foretold?”

“Your fate is truly unfortunate,” he murmured, gazing at the child with pity.

……………..

……………..

In the southern borderlands of the Great Tang, there was a small village called Fragrant Rice. Outside the village ran a creek, beside which stood a slanting thatched hut. Children’s voices reciting texts often rang out.

Villagers had long forgotten when the middle-aged Taoist first arrived, carrying a newborn. The simple folk helped build the modest hut. The Taoist became the village teacher, instructing children of all ages.

On the wall hung two swords: the larger was covered in dust, untouched for years; the smaller shone, spotless.

Upon the not-so-large desk piled ancient books, worn yet meticulously maintained, reflecting the owner’s deep affection for them.

Past noon, the day’s lessons ended. Children bid the Taoist farewell in small groups, their faces alight with reverence. This respect seemed etched into their bones.

Only one child lingered, still reciting difficult texts with focused intensity, never bored, oddly mature for his age.

His name was Li Fu, the child whom the Taoist had found. From his earliest memories, Li Fu was surrounded by books.

The first things he recognized were these yellowed tomes. Once he learned to speak, he began to read under the teacher’s guidance, and soon he memorized the words.

Confucian, Taoist, Legalist, military treatises, statecraft—he recited them all.

Recite, understand, practice—until he could quote them backwards and forwards. This was Li Fu’s life.

Out of boredom, Li Fu once counted the books—nine thousand, nine hundred in all. At dawn, he recited; at dusk, he recited. Spring passed, winter came, always with a book in his hands.

But from the age of six, the teacher no longer required him to recite daily; instead, he was told to practice swordsmanship.

His slender arms struggled to lift the three-foot blade, but he obeyed. To him, the teacher was his only kin, and whatever the teacher asked, Li Fu tried his best to accomplish.

Year after year, mornings spent with books, afternoons with the green mountain.

At twelve, the teacher ceased to demand recitation—Li Fu had memorized all the books. He was given a strange ancient text, difficult to comprehend.

Li Fu once asked why he must memorize so much.

The teacher gazed at him for a long time, then replied, “Remember, someday it will be useful.”

The answer puzzled and disappointed him, but Li Fu was not an ordinary child. From earliest days he lived among texts, gaining much knowledge, so he did not press the matter further. The companionship of books made his nature calm and free.

Days passed, seasons changed; soon Li Fu reached the age of binding his hair.

As the year’s end approached, according to Tang custom, the fifteenth day of the first month marked a boy’s coming of age.

That day, a white egret arrived. The southern Tang climate was mild, so egrets were common even in winter. The bird brought a letter and half a jade disc.

The teacher stared at the jade for a long while, wordless, then handed both to Li Fu.

Li Fu took them, puzzled. The letter invited the teacher’s pupil to attend the annual Lantern Festival examination in the Eastern Capital. The meaning of the half jade disc was unknown.

And so the tranquil life was disrupted.

“Fu’er, you must go.”

“Go where?”

“To the Eastern Capital.”

“Why must I go?”

“Because it is time.”

“What does ‘time’ mean?”

“You do not belong here.”

“But I was born and raised here. I love every brick and stone, the creek, the green hills, the fragrant rice, and the wine brewed from its blossoms.”

“Don’t you want to know your origins?”

“I do... and I don’t.”

“Go, visit the Eastern Capital. If you dislike it, return.”

Eastern Capital. Li Fu gazed at the letter, lost in thought...

The next day, he packed his belongings, received two jars of Fragrant Rice wine from the teacher, and left.

Fifteen years old—or rather, not yet, for the year’s end had not arrived—this fourteen-year-old youth departed the village where he had spent all his life.