Chapter Fifty: Three Years

After a short while, Zhou Qian hurried back to the dining hall, holding several small flowers in his hand. Everyone exchanged puzzled glances—

"Could the last ingredient be flowers? But there are so many varieties in the world..." Zhang Fu murmured.

Zhou Qian carefully plucked the petals, sliced them with a knife, mixed them with the finest honey, and stirred them into the porridge. Immediately, the translucent appearance was tinged with a hint of white.

"Master Yi, will you taste it again?" Zhou Qian asked, full of anticipation.

"Such a familiar look!" Yi, his hands trembling, scooped a spoonful and tasted it.

Yi closed his eyes, savoring the flavor, then devoured the bowl in gulps, almost swallowing it whole, utterly unlike his usual calm demeanor. The actions of Yi, the world’s foremost chef, spoke for themselves.

Zhou Qian chuckled softly, Old Hei laughed heartily, Chang Yi wept and laughed at once, and even Master Li Puyuan, who rarely smiled, had his lips turned upward. The laughter of the crowd blended together like a joyful symphony.

"Is this flower from the Falling Goose Slope? How did you know?" Zhang Fu asked through his laughter.

"I just knew," Zhou Qian replied with a mysterious smile, offering no explanation.

The next day, Yi’s funeral was held. Though the company was saddened, there was no grief, for even in death Yi’s lips wore a smile. What reason did the living have to mourn? To live joyfully and die without regret—such a person deserves only respect, not sorrow.

Three days after the doors were closed in mourning, Quiet Fragrance Pavilion reopened as usual, but the master was now Yi’s fourth disciple, Li Puyuan. The regular gourmets were puzzled—why was the famed Little Kitchen God or the Little Kitchen Immortal not given charge? The staff explained that Little Kitchen God Zhang Fu had departed to travel the world, seeking out countless dishes and cuisines, much like Master Yi once did. As for the whereabouts of the Little Kitchen Immortal, no one in Quiet Fragrance Pavilion claimed to know; Old Hei sometimes sighed, lamenting that such culinary talent was wasted on wandering the martial world.

A month later—

In Fanyang Town, a storyteller in a tavern recounted, with lively gestures, how two hundred and twenty-nine mountain bandits from nearby Wild Tiger Slope had been utterly wiped out three days prior.

"Gentlemen, you all know these mountain bandits—they’ve plagued Fanyang for generations. When the garrison troops come, the Poison Dragon Fortress bandits hide deep in the forests. The army turns the mountains upside down and still can’t find them. Once the army leaves, the bandits grow bolder again. Even the experts from the Six Gates have tried several times with no success. Who would have thought the Little Sword Immortal would slay them all single-handedly? What a feat!"

"I’ve heard of the Little Sword Immortal, one of the young talents of the martial world, but over two hundred men defeated by a single person? How did the Little Sword Immortal find the bandits’ hideout?" a middle-aged man dressed as a fur merchant asked skeptically.

"You, sir, know nothing!" the storyteller snapped, clapping his hands in annoyance. "Do you think I’d deceive you? My nephew works at the magistrate’s office—do you doubt my information?"

"Please, elder, tell us! Please!" the fur merchant said apologetically. "Bring a bottle of Daughter Red for the elder, charge it to me!"

The storyteller nodded in satisfaction and, grinning, addressed the tavern crowd: "Look at how generous this guest is—shouldn’t the rest of you do likewise?" Amid a chorus of boos, he continued unperturbed—

"How did he find the bandits’ den? That’s the skill of the Little Sword Immortal. Those Poison Dragon Fortress bandits are fierce as demons, but they’re still human. They must eat, drink, and relieve themselves. Though cunning, they switch dens every few weeks or months, but grain must still be transported up the mountain, and stolen goods need buyers. That’s the only clue."

The crowd understood, and the old storyteller continued: "It wouldn’t be true if no one noticed this. But all the grain stores and wealthy households within a hundred miles have been searched four or five times, causing trouble and expense, but to no avail. Do you know why?"

The storyteller grew mysterious, raising his glass and sipping, leaving the audience’s curiosity heightened, their minds cursing him silently.

"You may listen here, but don’t spread it!" he whispered, glancing around. "The grain isn’t civilian—it’s military!"

Everyone gasped.

"Since the founding of our dynasty, we’ve used troop rotations—southern troops sent north, eastern troops sent west—to prevent generals from amassing power and to keep the armies battle-ready. Our Fanyang Town is a transit point for military provisions. Now do you understand?"

A chorus of sharp intakes: "Could soldiers be colluding with bandits?" "Scoundrels, indeed!" "If we’re not careful, they’ll become another Red Lotus Sect!" "Bandits sweep like a comb, soldiers scour like a rake—a saying proven true!"

"Quiet, everyone! Do you know the Poison Dragon Fortress bandits aren’t locals? They’re former soldiers punished and escaped, led by the Golden-haired Tiger King, a hundred-man slayer from the southern frontier. These men know military tactics, so it’s no wonder the garrison failed three or four times."

"If they were ordinary bandits, I might believe it, but soldiers versed in formations and hardened in battle—could the Little Sword Immortal really defeat them alone? Isn’t this exaggerated rumor?" a young man in martial attire protested.

"Hmph! What do you know, frog in a well?" the storyteller scoffed. "Do you know that Zhou Qian, the Little Sword Immortal, has already mastered seventy or eighty percent of his master’s skills? His sword is impermeable, its light dazzling. According to my nephew at the magistrate’s office, the wounds on the bandits were all an inch wide, in the throat and heart—can such swordsmanship not be called miraculous? Moreover, the duel with the current master of the Golden Sword Wang Fortress was already famous—years ago, Old Zhou won in less than fifty moves, and the current master’s sword skills surpass his predecessor. It’s said Zhou used only seventy moves to win. What do you say?"

"This... Surely it’s just rumor?" the young man stammered.

"Why hasn’t the Wang family refuted it, then? Young man, the martial world isn’t as simple as you imagine!" the storyteller scolded.

"Actually, it’s not as legendary as the rumors say. Sword duels are about victory, not life or death. Master Wang is a gentleman—if his sword falters, he admits defeat. If it were to the death, who knows the outcome," a hooded man in a dark corner interjected.

"Hmph! You talk as if you’ve witnessed the duel! Is the Golden Sword Wang Fortress open to just anyone?" the storyteller sneered. The older a person, the more they flaunt their experience—especially in the martial world, with its endless peculiar rules.

The man raised his head and met the storyteller’s gaze. The old man felt a chill crawl up his spine, as if a sword was pressed to his throat. This was the gaze of someone steeped in killing, decisive and formidable—a look he’d seen only in a handful of masters.

Fortunately, the man seemed to reveal it unintentionally, unable to control it freely; in an instant, his eyes returned to normal. He paid for his wine and slowly left the tavern.

"Friend, is that the Ghost Master Sword at your waist?" the storyteller asked, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. The Ghost Master Sword, three feet four inches long, forged of fine cold iron, once the sword of the imperial preceptor—a blade infamous for carnage, now lost to history.

"Yes," the man replied calmly.

"Why not the Jueguang Sword?" the old man probed.

"Jueguang is destroyed," the man answered after a pause.

After he left, the old man didn’t recover for a long while, finally forcing a bitter smile and telling the crowd, "You’ve all missed the real protagonist—"

In the third month of the year Dinghai, robbers plagued Weizhou; Zhou Qian went and slew seventy-six, bringing peace to Weizhou.

In the seventh month of Dinghai, an earthquake struck Chang’an, collapsing the dungeons; countless death row prisoners escaped. Six Gates constables couldn’t catch them and called for martial world experts. Zhou Qian hunted down twenty-three: eleven skilled in blades and swords, five great thieves, three bandits, and four corrupt officials.

In the eleventh month of Dinghai, masters from the Kingdom of Kucha in the Western Regions challenged the Central Plains, defeating eleven sects in succession. Zhou Qian opposed them, and thus the name Little Sword Immortal spread throughout the Western Regions.

In the fourth month of the year Wuxu, the Lord of the Black Pavilion, Xiang Tianxiao, plotted to assassinate the Sichuan hero, Sword of Diancang Wu, and the Master of the Tang Clan, setting the Heavenly Mechanism Scheme. Zhou Qian, by chance, rescued Wu’s grandson, Wu Ji, surviving deadly trials, and finally exposed the plot to the world. He battled Xiang Tianxiao beside Crescent Lake for a day and night, ultimately breaking his golden armor and slaying him.

In the eighth month of Wuxu...

Time flowed ceaselessly—three years had passed.