THE DENSE FOREST swayed softly in the breeze, foliage rippling like waves that stretched to the horizon. The woodland here was ancient, the tree trunks as wide as barrels—it would have taken two or three men to ring one completely with their arms. The tightly woven branches and leaves admitted only an occasional sliver of filtered sunlight.
Xiahou Lian darted effortlessly through the brush, so nimble he'd have put even a monkey to shame. He knew exactly which bough to land on, which outstretched limb to grab. He could have been blindfolded and still made his way without a single slip.
Soon, he reached a vast graveyard full of countless tombstones and shattered swords. The markers crowded the forest. Some rested against massive trees, cloaked in bird droppings and fallen leaves; others had cracked in half amid the rotten fruit scattered nearby. Even the markers that were intact lay neglected and forgotten.
This was the Blade Cemetery, the resting place for generations of those Garden assassins whose bodies could be recovered. Their tombstones detailed both the number and names of their victims and the identity of their killers. Beside the graves stood the sabers that served them in life, now weathering the elements alongside their masters in death. Most had rusted beyond recognition and were liable to snap at the lightest touch.
As a child, Xiahou Lian had been terrified of visiting this place. Everyone buried here had been a horrifying demon, a notorious villain whose saber once dripped with blood. He imagined the area swarming with the wrathful ghosts of the interred or the vengeful spirits of their victims. In short, it was a place to avoid.
Later, though, he realized it was nothing more than a neglected graveyard. Most Garden assassins had no family—no parents, no children—and thus no one to visit or tend their grave. The entire cemetery had always been left unmaintained, which somehow made it even more desolate than a nameless grave by the roadside.
Xiahou Lian leapt down from a tree and prostrated himself three times outside the Blade Cemetery.
"Uncles and brothers, heroes and seniors, I am Xiahou Lian, a disciple under the twelfth-generation abbot, Shixin Buddha. I'm setting out on a mission to Huizhou to assassinate an important target, but I lack a proper weapon. Thus, my only choice is to come here to borrow a blade. As the saying goes, 'All who meet in the jianghu are brothers,' and we're all members of the Garden. I hope you can forgive me. I promise to care for the blade diligently: I'll clean it each morning and offer it sacrifices of poultry, fish, and meat every night. Sorry, sorry!"
After offering his respects, Xiahou Lian rose and walked the perimeter of the graveyard. He avoided the graves near the center; the sabers there were too old. It'd be disastrous if his blade snapped in the heat of battle.
At the very edge of the graveyard, he came across a fresh marker. Beside it was a saber with an ebony hilt, its straight blade single-grooved and shimmering faintly. The grave belonged to Tang Lan, who had perished the previous January—not during an assassination, but when enemies had surrounded and slain him. Xiahou Lian had encountered Tang Lan a few times during New Year celebrations; he recalled the man as stern and serious. Certain rumors claimed he was a defector from the Tang Clan who'd entered the Garden after the abbot rescued him.
Xiahou Lian took an instant liking to the blade. He bowed his head before the grave three times and said, "Tang Lan-qianbei, I humbly ask to borrow your blade. I swear to return to sweep your grave and offer sacrifices. Here—I've brought you paper money as well, so don't deprive yourself in the afterlife—pay for some maids or servants. If there's anything you crave, send me a dream, and I'll burn it for you."
After burning the paper money, Xiahou Lian wiped his hands on his clothes, stood, then grabbed the saber's hilt and pulled. The ancient blade was heavy, and it had been stabbed deep into the earth. Carefully tugging it free, Xiahou Lian accidentally triggered a mechanism within the hilt. A needle as fine as an ox hair shot out, grazing his nose before embedding itself in a nearby branch.
Startled, Xiahou Lian let go of the sword and tumbled to the ground in front of Tang Lan's grave. Then he noticed the two characters of Qianji engraved on the blade.
"Qianbei, you may not want to lend me your saber, but there's no need to try to kill me. And I won't back down anyway—I'm taking it whether you like it or not!"
Xiahou Lian sprang to his feet, rubbed his hands together eagerly, then grabbed the hilt and twisted it until he'd discharged every hidden needle. Then he yanked the saber free. He slipped it into the leather bag he'd brought, slung the bag over his shoulder, and started back the way he'd come.
The mountain loomed vast and majestic, its summit grazing the sky. At its base sat Qiye Garden's village, where farmers toiled and children practiced with sabers. Assassins descending the mountain occasionally stopped there for supplies. A winding path led to the Garden's temple, nestled halfway up the mountain. The assassins' huts were scattered around the temple, and at night, their lamps dotted the mountainside like stars in the dark sky—beneath every pinprick of light was a saber-wielding killer. Yet most of the time, the mountainside was deserted, the abbot and Xiahou Lian its only inhabitants. The temple itself stood unlit and silent. Xiahou Lian would roam the empty mountain like a lone crow until he found a spot with a clear view of the night sky. There, he'd gaze at the star-filled heavens until fatigue overtook him, falling asleep beneath the sky till he was woken by the morning sun.
The temple sat quietly in the twilight, its dark, weathered tiles glinting with a faint golden glow. It was the middle of the year, when most of the assassins were out on missions. A few might have already fallen in some remote, unseen place. Among the ancient trees, the temple stood in isolation, like a doddering old man unable to speak. Half the building had collapsed, exposing crudely hewn ebony beams; it was even possible to make out the faint scorch marks of long-ago flames.
Xiahou Lian had been the culprit behind that fire. As a child, he'd been playing with firecrackers, and one flew into a haystack in front of the temple. The abbot had been out begging for alms, and by the time he returned, half the temple had already burned to the ground. As punishment, Xiahou Lian had been suspended beneath the temple gate to be buffeted by the night winds. From that day on, he'd never touched another firecracker.
On his way back, Xiahou Lian snagged a pheasant. After scaling the mountain path, he passed through the temple gate and wove through a thorny thicket to finally reach his home. It was a simple hut cobbled together from bamboo stalks. There was no space for guests: The main room was split into two halves, one for Xiahou Pei and the other for Xiahou Lian. A small side room served as storage space, and the kitchen was in an outdoor shed.
Xiahou Pei was still in bed, so Xiahou Lian plucked and cleaned the pheasant, then put it in a pot. That pot was an old companion of his—he'd been cooking with it since he was eight.
Xiahou Lian's mother had raised him like a stray cat or dog; it was a wonder he'd grown up safe and sound. The happiest days of his life were before he'd turned eight, when Xiahou Pei had worried about leaving him alone and thus brought him along whenever she went down the mountain. She left him in the care of innkeepers while she carried out assassinations and returned by the time he woke up, often carrying roasted sweet potatoes that they would eat together, squatting by the threshold. The potato would be too hot for Xiahou Lian's tender tongue, so he'd need to blow on it repeatedly before he could eat. Xiahou Pei, though, was unfazed by the heat. She'd pretend to blow on the potato for him only to take an enormous bite, devouring half of it in one go. Xiahou Lian would burst into tears as Xiahou Pei collapsed, laughing. Then, as if she were doing a magic trick, she'd pull a second sweet potato from behind her back and hand it to him.
That wasn't the only prank Xiahou Pei played on him. She loved to scare little Xiahou Lian. She filled his head with all sorts of nonsense from a young age: that drinking tea would dye him black, that drinking alcohol would make him stupid, and that not rinsing soap off would cause painful sores. She warned him that if one of his lost teeth didn't grow back right away, the rest would fall out. Xiahou Lian spent most of his childhood fretting and anxious. He often had nightmares of losing all his teeth. But that was in the past. After he'd turned eight, Xiahou Pei never took him down the mountain again.
The aroma of cooking pheasant roused Xiahou Pei. Her hair was untied, dark locks streaming down her back like ink. She shuffled over to the pot in wooden clogs, then reached in and tore off a drumstick.
"You're sad with a saber, but you're not bad in the kitchen. I'll talk to that doddering fool and see if we can get you a job as a cook in the village."
"Get lost!"
Xiahou Lian quickly stir-fried two more dishes and set out a small jug of wine, and Xiahou Pei ate her fill. Once the meal was over, her son seized his chance to broach the topic on his mind.
"Mom, I want to—"
Xiahou Pei didn't wait for him to finish. With a wave of her hand, she interrupted, "Forget it. Don't so much as think about it."
"I haven't even said anything!"
"I know what you're going to say." Xiahou Pei picked her teeth. "You want me to help you save that little shaoye."
"Just as I expected, my mother and I are of one mind," Xiahou Lian said, flattering her as he poured her more wine.
"Forget it. He doesn't want to leave."
"That was just a momentary lapse of judgement. Mother, you don't get it—he's a natural scholar. Dai-xiansheng—that Dai Shengyan, you've heard of him, right?—called him 'talented.' Dai-xiansheng said his essays rivaled those of Han Yu and Liu Zongyuan and that his poetry is comparable to that of Li Bai and Du Fu."
In fact, that was how Dai Shengyan had praised the renowned scholar Li Dongyan, but Xiahou Lian appropriated the accolades for Shen Jue, hoping to sway his mother.
Xiahou Pei remained unmoved.
"I'll ask Qiu-shifu to go with me," Xiahou Lian said, putting down his chopsticks.
Xiahou Pei snorted. "You think Qiu-laodi will agree?"
Xiahou Lian had no reply.
"If you've got the guts, go by yourself. What man relies on his seniors to pave the way for him?"
Xiahou Lian fell silent for a moment, then turned his head away. "You didn't pave anything. You never cared about me at all. If Qiu-shifu hadn't taken me with him, I'd have starved to death here."
When Xiahou Lian was eight, Xiahou Pei had left him alone on the mountain, completely helpless. He sat in the hut bawling until he was too weak to make a sound. Fortunately, Qiu Ye had been returning to the mountain and found Xiahou Lian. He carried him back to his house and gave him food and water, saving Xiahou Lian's life.
Xiahou Pei looked a little sheepish. "I could make a living when I was eight, so I thought you could, too. I even taught you how to cook and everything before I left. And didn't you turn out pretty well in the end?"
"My brother too." Xiahou Lian lowered his head, fidgeting with his fingers. "If not for the Mahoraga, I wouldn't even know I had a twin."
Xiahou Pei was silent for a long time. Xiahou Lian glanced up to see her gripping her wine cup, seemingly lost in thought. Lowering his gaze once more, Xiahou Lian pursed his lips. "I found out he's at the summit of Heimianfo. I'm going to find him."
South of Mount Niubizi lay a massive cliff. The rock sheared as if split by an axe, but rather than being a pencil-straight drop, the cliff resembled a towering Buddha with hands pressed together in prayer. The rocks and earth of the mountain were dark, and so the Buddha was the same color. The assassins called it Heimianfo—the Black-Faced Buddha.
Xiahou Lian had only seen Heimianfo from afar. He'd thought about climbing it for fun, but it was far too steep and impossible to scale. He had no idea how his brother and the abbot got up or down.
"You'll see him if you look at your reflection in the water," quipped Xiahou Pei.
Xiahou Lian slammed the table. This damn woman had never thought about looking for his brother. "Mother! How can you say that? Aren't you afraid that he'll resent you?!"
"He probably won't," Xiahou Pei replied. "Shixin's turned him into a fool. He only knows how to wield a blade, doesn't even know how to speak."
When Xiahou Lian didn't reply, Xiahou Pei turned away, her untouched wine cup still clutched in her hand. Her hair fell across her face, obscuring her expression. As she finally continued, she sounded like she'd aged years in an instant.
"What good will seeing him do? Sometimes a mistake is just a mistake, Xiao-Lian. No matter how much you struggle or suffer, you can't undo it."
"I…I didn't say you made a mistake. It's just a little cold," Xiahou Lian muttered, scratching his head awkwardly.
"I did. Giving birth to you two was my mistake."
Xiahou Lian froze.
"Didn't you say I've never cared about you?" Xiahou Pei got to her feet, then dug for a stack of documents and tossed them into his arms. "I'll take you on your mission, kid."
"Huh? Really?"
"I'll stand guard at the door. You go in and face him. Win or lose, I won't intervene or peek in. I'll only do one thing: eliminate anyone who tries to come in."
"What if I lose, and he comes out instead?"
"Simple." Xiahou Pei's lips curled into a cold smile, arrogant and wild. "I'll die with you."