The early morning sun had barely warmed the cobblestones of East Market Street, yet the air was already thick with chatter. The city seemed to breathe a single name.
"Did you hear? Yue Ying took down fifty armed guards with nothing but a wooden broom!"
"Fifty? Tch! My cousin swears it was Hundred, and the broom never even scattered!"
A fishmonger slammed down a basket of fresh carp, his eyes wide with the solemnity of a witness to history. "You fools don't understand. The broom wasn't ordinary—it was infused with the spirit of justice itself. I heard the bristles pointed toward the guilty like a compass!"
A cluster of children gathered nearby, giggling as they waved stick-swords, reenacting the latest street-ballad about the mysterious hero. One boy, standing on an overturned crate, puffed out his chest and declared,
"I am Yue Ying, shadow of the just! Fear me, villains!"
His 'opponent'—a girl with her hair tied in twin buns—collapsed dramatically into a pile of cabbage leaves, moaning,
"Forgive me, hero! Spare my wicked soul!"
From teahouses to the courtyards, the tales swelled in absurdity. Some swore Yue Ying could leap across rooftops in a single bound; others claimed he could vanish into thin air, leaving only the scent of plum blossoms. At least three traveling poets were making a fortune reciting ballads of his deeds, and one ambitious playwright had announced an upcoming opera titled The Moonlight Blade.
Even the scholars at the Imperial Academy had not escaped the fever. A group of young men in ink-stained robes argued over whether Yue Ying's sword technique was descended from the legendary Hidden River School or was an entirely new style born of divine inspiration.
In the palace, the rumors had grown so loud they slipped past marble gates and gold screens.
Second Prince Li Mingzhao paced in his study, fanning himself with a lacquered fan. "This Yue Ying—if half the tales are true, he's a man worth meeting. Imagine the glory of securing his allegiance!"
The Fourth Prince, leaning lazily against a carved pillar, smirked. "Allegiance? I just want his autograph. Can you imagine the look on Father's face if I handed him a scroll signed by the city's darling outlaw?"
Even the gentle Fifth Prince, who rarely showed interest in such worldly affairs, admitted, "I heard Yue Ying rescued a merchant's daughter without asking for a single coin. If he is truly as noble as they say… I would like to meet him."
In the streets below the palace, Yue Ying's name was written on paper lanterns, carved into bamboo flutes, even baked into sweet buns shaped like a masked face. Vendors sold cheap masks of black silk so children could pretend to be him. The people's hero had become a living myth.
No one knew that at this very moment, in the quiet shadows of the palace laundry courtyard, Yue Ying—known to them only as Hua Lian—was wringing out a pile of plain white robes, her head bowed to hide the faintest of smiles.
The city roared for a hero.
She was right there, folding towels.
The marketplace of Luoyang was never quiet, but that afternoon, it was especially loud. The sun shone golden upon rows of stalls, painting the fresh vegetables, silk rolls, and candied hawthorn sticks in a warm glow. But the noise wasn't from the bargaining merchants — it was from storytellers competing to see who could paint Yue Ying in the grandest light.
At one corner, an elderly man with a beard like tangled cotton sat cross-legged, banging a wooden clapper against a drum. Children gathered around him in a tight circle, their faces glowing with awe.
"And then," the old man roared dramatically, "Yue Ying leapt from the top of the Governor's Mansion — three hundred feet into the air — dodging arrows faster than lightning! He landed on one toe, silent as falling snow, and flick! … sliced the villain's belt so cleanly that his trousers fell before the crowd!"
The children exploded into laughter, rolling on the dirt as the storyteller puffed up his chest.
Not far away, another storyteller — younger, with a loud booming voice — refused to be outdone.
"Bah! Three hundred feet? Foolish old man! Yue Ying jumped from the top of Heaven's Gate Tower itself! The guards swore they saw him disappear into the clouds and reappear behind the enemy without a single footstep. They say his sword can cut through steel, bone… even a man's shadow!"
The crowd gasped, and one gullible boy clutched his own shadow as if it might be stolen.
Poets stood nearby, reciting freshly composed verses while clutching ink-stained scrolls:
"A ghost in the moonlight,
A wolf among sheep's fold,
He strikes with great judgment,
And leaves with nothing but the cold."
Bards strummed lutes, turning his exploits into songs so catchy that even fishmongers hummed along while gutting their catch. Housewives quoted his supposed sayings to scold their husbands:
"Yue Ying says a true man never lies! So tell me — where were you really last night?"
Even vendors selling fried buns were cashing in, renaming their snacks "Hero Buns" and claiming that Yue Ying himself had eaten twelve in a single sitting before defeating ten thugs.
Inside the teahouse overlooking the square, noblemen and commoners alike argued heatedly.
One man swore he saw Yue Ying leap across the city walls with a single bound.
Another insisted he fought off a hundred armed soldiers with his eyes closed.
A drunken farmer claimed Yue Ying once stopped a runaway ox-cart by sheer glare.
By now, Yue Ying was less of a man and more of a myth.
Even the palace wasn't free from his name.
In the servants' quarters, a group of young maids sat mending robes, chattering excitedly.
"I heard he's seven feet tall," one whispered.
"Seven? My cousin's brother swears he saw him — said Yue Ying's so handsome that flowers bloom when he smiles!"
"Hah! You've never even seen him. For all you know, he could be ugly as a toad."
"Ugly? You shut your mouth — that's treason!"
One shy maid hugged a stack of linens to her chest and sighed dreamily.
"If I ever met him… I'd faint."
From the corner, another maid snorted.
"You faint when you see the royal chef carrying roast duck."
The room erupted into laughter.
And then there was Prince Li Renshu, the empire's most playful and impulsive royal.
Ever since hearing the stories, he'd become obsessed with the idea of meeting Yue Ying. He spoke of nothing else, cornering every guard and merchant for rumors.
" Hua lian, what do you think of Yue Ying? What's your opinion?" Renshu asked
Hua lian kept silent with head bowed and a blank expression.
"I must have his autograph," he declared one morning at breakfast. "Do you know what it means to own a hero's handwriting? Priceless! I'll frame it beside my poetry collection!"
His brothers rolled their eyes.
Prince Li Mingzhao muttered,
"You are not serious!"
But Li Renshu was undeterred. He began sending servants to "accidentally" bump into Yue Ying in the streets. He even commissioned a silk handkerchief embroidered with gold threads: To my most esteemed hero — please sign here.
Of course, none of them ever found Yue Ying.
By evening, the streets were still buzzing. Lanterns lit up like fireflies, the scent of roast chestnuts drifting through the air. In every shadowed alley, in every crowded shop, someone was whispering his name.
Some feared him.
Some adored him.
But all agreed on one thing — Yue Ying was no ordinary man.
And far away, hidden under a cloak and mask, the real Yue Ying — Hua Lian herself — passed by unnoticed, hearing her own legend twisted beyond recognition.
A small, wry smile tugged at her lips.
If only they knew the truth…