The lamps in the hall flickered wildly, throwing long shadows across the rosewood table—three silhouettes, one old, two young. Yang Hui sat in the main seat, his expression as cold as forged steel; Yang Gun stood stiffly nearby; the old servant who had always bowed and lowered his voice now shed every trace of humility.
"Master," the old man slowly raised his head. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay the weight of years. "I can hide it no longer. If I do not speak today—if I do not tell the truth—I will not be worthy of the kindness you and your son have shown me."
Yang Hui's gaze sharpened.
"Good. This is no place to speak. Follow me to the main hall."
The three entered the central hall. Outside, the night wind stirred the bamboo; shadows swayed like ghosts across the white wall. In the firelight, the old servant's expression turned composed—no longer the obedient steward he had pretended to be.
"Sit," Yang Hui said, voice steady but heavy. "You've served my family for years. I only knew you as Wang Laohai. Today you revealed true skill. Clearly, your past is not simple. Tell me—who are you? Why hide yourself in my home? Why teach my son the spear?"
The old man nodded.
"My true name…"
He exhaled softly.
"…is Xia Shuyan."
The hall froze.
"Xia Shuyan?!" Yang Hui's hand trembled. Hot tea spilled across his knuckles, yet he didn't even flinch. "Then the man from that night—the raid on Tong Pass… was you?!"
Xia Shuyan closed his eyes and nodded.
His mind drifted back ten years—to smoke, to fire, to a night drenched in steel and blood.
Tong Pass had once been the throat of the empire. Yang Hui, the famed "Golden Saber," served as its commander, his blade feared across the frontier. Xia Shuyan had been a general of the late Tang—a master of the "Flower Spear," known throughout the land alongside his brother, Xia Shuqí, the "Divine Spear."
And yet the empire rotted.
Corruption grew; good men were cast aside; soldiers starved; the people suffered.
When the great famine swept Shanxi and Hedong, tens of thousands died on the roads. Xia Shuyan could endure no more.
One night, over dim wine in a hidden tavern, he and several old comrades sat in grim silence.
"Imperial court? Lords? Ministers?" one man spat. "All parasites. If we don't save the people, who will?"
Another slammed the table.
"If we truly wish to help, we must seize the stores at Tong Pass. Only then can we feed the starving!"
Their eyes fell on Xia Shuyan.
He gently stroked the shaft of his spear.
"My spear was forged to protect lives, not watch them perish. If the world has no wise ruler… then we must do what heaven refuses to do."
That night, a storm began.
Tong Pass—towering walls, iron gates, thousands of armed soldiers.
Yet in the dead of night, the gates opened.
A shadowed figure in a black cloak and silver spear rode at the head of the charge.
"Xia Shuyan of the Flower Spear takes the vault—for the people of the realm!"
Steel clashed. Torches burst. Soldiers scattered. In half an hour, the treasury fell. Gold, silver, grain—everything was loaded onto carts and sent to the starving lands.
But something strange happened.
No reinforcements came.
No alarm bells rang.
And when Xia Shuyan rode out, the iron gates of Tong Pass remained open—quiet, still, almost… welcoming.
On the tower above, a lone lantern swayed.
Beneath it stood Yang Hui.
Even across the distance, Xia Shuyan saw it clearly.
The Golden Saber had not resisted.
He had allowed the raid.
He had allowed the people to live.
A year later, the grain and silver Xia Shuyan hid in the mountains saved tens of thousands. The people praised him as a hero.
But the emperor raged.
A decree fell from the heavens: Yang Hui was stripped of rank—accused of "negligence."
When the news reached him, Yang Hui simply smiled, removed his saber, and said:
"To save a province of starving souls… is worth losing a title."
Xia Shuyan never forgot that.
So he fled west, shed his name, and entered Yang Hui's home not as a warrior—but as a mere servant.
All to repay a single act of righteousness.
And now the truth lay bare.
Yang Hui rose from his seat, eyes red. He clasped Xia Shuyan's hands.
"So it was you… I had suspected, but never dared confirm. That night I only thought—if fate allows, let me meet the Flower Spear General once before I die. I never imagined you'd been at my side all these years."
Xia Shuyan bowed deeply.
"Master Yang, the world scorns you, but I know your righteousness. You sacrificed your future to save the people. I owe you my life."
Yang Hui laughed through tears.
"And now you teach my son! What greater honor for the Yang family?"
He turned sharply.
"Gun'er! Why do you still kneel there like a fool? Bow to your master!"
Yang Gun dropped to his knees—hard.
"Sifu! Please accept your disciple!"
He kowtowed three times, each strike of his forehead sharp and clear.
Xia Shuyan lifted him gently.
"Rise, child. You have your father's blade and my spear. Fear nothing—walk your path boldly."
That night the Yang household feasted. Two warriors—one of saber, one of spear—drank beneath flickering lamps. Their laughter washed away years of silence.
From that night forward, the Flower Spear lived again.
But time is merciless.
Autumn crept into Yongning Mountain; leaves fell like fading memories.
In the back courtyard, the scent of herbs drifted through the cold air. On a worn wooden bed, Xia Shuyan lay thin and pale. His breath grew lighter each day.
"Disciple," he whispered.
"Come closer…"
Yang Gun rushed to his side, clutching the frail hand that once split armies.
"Sifu, save your strength—Father has sent for the best physician—"
"No. My time has run its course."
His smile was calm.
"Listen to me. The 'Six Harmonies Spear' has a hundred and twenty-eight forms. I taught you one hundred. The last twenty-eight… only my elder brother knows. Find him. His name is Xia Shuqi. He lives in the outer villages of Luoyang."
Yang Gun bit his lip hard.
"Sifu, I'll go at once—just rest, we can talk later—"
"No."
Xia Shuyan's fingers tightened weakly.
"You must promise me. This spear is not for fame nor glory… but to protect the people. Promise me, and my soul will rest."
"I promise!"
Xia Shuyan smiled faintly.
"Good. A man must live like a dragon… not a worm."
That was his final lesson.
Three days later, the Flower Spear General passed away.
Yang Gun wept before his grave until his voice broke.
His vow became his north star:
I will master the final twenty-eight forms. And I will live the way Sifu wished.
But his father refused to let him leave.
"The world is chaos," Yang Hui roared. "You go out and die, who will I have left?"
That night, Yang Gun wrote a short farewell.
He left by moonlight—armor on his back, spear at his side, determination burning like flame.
The journey broke him.
Cold winds. Mud roads. Sleepless nights.
He crossed the Yellow River half-dead and finally reached Xia Shuqi's village—
Only to find it destroyed.
Bandits had wiped it out.
Xia Shuqi had disappeared.
Yang Gun stared at the ruins for a long time, his heart sinking like stone.
But he did not turn back.
He rode south.
His money ran out. His strength failed.
One night in a tiny inn outside Luoyang, fever swallowed him whole.
He collapsed.
The innkeeper, Li, and his wife tended to him like a dying son—feeding him, lending him money, bringing physicians.
A whole month passed.
And Yang Gun finally understood:
His illness was eating them alive.
So he offered up his armor.
"Sell this. Pay what I owe."
Li sighed.
"This thing? It's old and battered. Who'd buy it?"
"Someone who knows treasure," Yang Gun murmured. "To such a person, it's worth a thousand gold."
Li carried it to the market.
No one cared.
Then hooves thundered.
A squad of riders entered the square, dust swirling around them. At their head rode a tall, imposing man—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, with a neatly kept beard and presence like a drawn blade.
His gaze fell on the armor.
He dismounted instantly.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice deep and commanding.
Li stammered out the whole story.
The man listened in silence, then said:
"Fetch two hundred taels of silver."
Li blinked.
"Then you'll… buy it?"
"No."
The man shook his head.
"This armor is a warrior's life. Selling it cuts his fate in half. I cannot take it."
"Then—?"
"Use the money to pay his debts. Feed him. Heal him. When he can stand, ask him where he intends to go and come tell me. But you must not speak my name."
Then he mounted his horse and vanished into the dust.
Li returned to the inn and told everything.
Yang Gun gripped the bedframe, his voice hoarse:
"That man… who was he?!"
"I—I can't say—"
Yang Gun drew his sword, fury blazing.
"Tell me!"
Li trembled, then whispered the name.
Yang Gun froze.
Thunder seemed to crack through his chest.
It was him.
The man who would change his destiny.
The man whose path would eventually cross blades, loyalty, and fate with his own.
And from that moment—
Fate began to turn.