Though Chen Ping'an still harbored doubts about A'Liang, he could not deny the man's undeniable charm. A'Liang was a peculiar soul—a man who owned a donkey he never rode, who delighted in bickering with the boy Li Huai, and who schemed tirelessly to trick Lin Shouyi into drinking, insisting that the finest pleasures under heaven amounted to no more than fine wine and beautiful women. He would circle Chen Ping'an as the boy practiced his footwork, praising the routine as one that, once mastered, would render the practitioner unstoppable—blows would rain down like a storm, though one must remember, when wandering the martial world, to strike not the face, lest tempers flare and honor be tarnished. Far better, he said, to win others over with virtue, or better yet, with a handsome face.
He boasted endlessly to Zhu He of his peerless swordsmanship, claiming that once he gripped his blade, even he himself trembled—let alone his opponents. Zhu He would only grin and nod in good humor, but his daughter Zhu Lu wasn't buying it. She demanded a demonstration with the bamboo sword he carried, stating she'd concede defeat if he could chop down a tree as thick as a bowl's rim. A'Liang only laughed, saying the stars weren't aligned for swordplay that day. Though he had long since reached the immortal realm where all things could be made into swords, the act of drawing a blade was a matter of mood, not mere impulse. What kind of master had no quirks, after all? Only in grand moments—howling wind, drifting snow, or driving rain—did he feel inspired. He claimed that in a downpour, his swordplay was so swift, not a single drop would touch him.
Zhu Lu spat on the ground and stormed off. A'Liang wasn't offended; he chuckled to Zhu He, "Old Zhu, your daughter's got quite the temper. But if she can't find a husband in the future, don't worry—I'll take the burden off your hands and call you Father-in-law."
From that day on, Zhu He ceased his attempts to curry favor with this self-proclaimed master and let A'Liang drink alone, brooding in silence.
A few days later, as fate would have it, light rain began to fall as they approached the Iron Talisman River. Zhu Lu seized the chance and halted A'Liang, who was trudging ahead with his donkey. He looked bewildered, "Huh? What's going on, missy? Oh, right—the whole sword-in-the-rain thing. Haha, I remember. But girl, could you not look at me like I'm a conman? You're too young to understand the rules of those who dwell beyond the mundane world. The rain's too light—if I used even a blade of grass as a sword, I'd be doing it a disservice. No, no—I'd be disgracing my superior swordsmanship. Wait for a real downpour. Then I'll cleave this Iron Talisman River in two, and even if you're weeping, begging me to take you as a disciple, I might still say no."
Without a word, Zhu He dragged his daughter away.
The misty rain didn't delay their journey. A'Liang adjusted his bamboo hat, sighed deeply, and led his white donkey at the front. In that moment, his back looked lonely, even forlorn.
Then, two days later, the heavens opened with a torrential downpour.
A'Liang bellowed, "What are you looking at? Do I have flowers on my face? Go find cover! What if my little Baoping catches a cold? You care more about watching swordplay than a child freezing to death? Where's your compassion?!"
As everyone huddled beneath a towering tree, they all stared daggers at A'Liang. Li Huai sneered, imitating his mother's scolding tone, "Good thing there's only rain and no lightning today—otherwise it would've struck you first, oh great sword immortal." Zhu Lu scoffed. Even the aloof Lin Shouyi rolled his eyes. Zhu He had long since lost all patience for this so-called master from the Wind and Snow Temple and munched on dry rations in silence. After many subtle tests along the journey, he concluded that while A'Liang might indeed be a cultivator from the military's ancestral court, he couldn't possibly be a sword immortal of any real caliber. If he were, Zhu He mused, he'd gladly call A'Liang "Father-in-law" himself.
Since leaving the smithy, Li Baoping had grown quieter, speaking far less than before. She stayed close to her little uncle Chen Ping'an and refused to let Zhu He or Zhu Lu carry her basket. Chen Ping'an continued practicing his "Sword Furnace" stance, which no longer drew surprise from anyone.
Uncomfortable under their scrutiny, A'Liang turned his back to them, took off his silver wine gourd, and drank in silence.
As the rain eased, A'Liang suddenly stood, claiming he would find a good branch and finally display his superior swordsmanship. But seeing the doubtful expressions around him, he quickly added that if he couldn't find the right piece of wood, there was nothing to be done—finding the right sword was like finding a good wife. It wasn't easy.
No one responded. They just watched the man with the crooked bamboo hat trudge up the slope. The ground was slick, and A'Liang nearly slipped. To cover it up, he struck a few martial poses as if warming up for his grand performance. Just as he disappeared from view, the skies opened once again without warning, unleashing a violent storm.
Chen Ping'an opened his eyes and looked at the donkey standing not far away under the tree. After a moment's thought, he stood and said, "I'll go find A'Liang."
Zhu He also rose, "I'll come with you. This weather can be dangerous."
Chen Ping'an shook his head. "No need. I've been caught in weather like this countless times while gathering herbs and burning charcoal in the mountains. I'll be fine. Besides, someone needs to stay and watch over things here. Only then can I go without worry."
Zhu He considered it, then nodded. "Be careful, Chen Ping'an."
Chen Ping'an patted Li Baoping's head gently. "I'll be right back."
Elsewhere, Magistrate Wu Yuan was running himself ragged—he had to oversee construction of the eastern yamen and negotiate the location of the Wenchang Pavilion and the Martial Sage Temple. Of the ten old families, six had already left the town, and the remaining eight were split in allegiance. Deputy Minister of Rites, Dong Hu, had seized public attention with his monument project at the Archway Tower, outshining Wu Yuan.
The native power brokers of Fortune Street and Peach Leaf Alley now watched Wu Yuan with glee, but he still had to visit each household himself, lips parched, throat scorched, and utterly exhausted. Upon returning to his office, he collapsed into his chair, tugged at his collar, and stared at the ceiling with a grim expression.
Beside him stood a clerk from a noble background who had accompanied Wu Yuan through all the rejections and evasions of the day. Though no doors were slammed outright, no real commitments were made either. The old families pushed the matter back and forth—some said to ask the Liu family, some pointed to the Wei family. Then the Lius and the Weis insisted it was a matter of ancestral legacy and must be discussed collectively. Otherwise, tongues would wag across the town.
Though the clerk was fuming, he'd been raised around the court and knew better than to lash out. Governing was never easy—being the local magistrate, even harder. So he signaled the others in the room not to add to the pressure and give Wu Yuan a moment's peace.
Suddenly, Wu Yuan chuckled bitterly. "I'm fine. Just… craving a bit of capital wine right now."
The aristocratic clerk sat down at last and sighed. "What a shame the Li family moved to the capital. Otherwise, we could've asked Master Li Hong to mediate. A few quiet words can make a world of difference. Our family's on good terms with the Li clan—if they spoke up, the local branch would have to comply."
Wu Yuan scowled. "Fool. Your family's connections aren't yours. Every time you use one, your standing in the clan drops a notch. These things… must not be spent lightly."