Li Zhexian led his Chasing Wind Horse,
and stopped before a shabby little storytelling stall on the corner of the street.
Under the rickety shelter stood a few long benches,
with only a handful of scattered listeners sitting in silence.
The storyteller had grown even older.
His once-blue robe had been washed to a faded white,
hanging loosely on his frail frame—
as though a single gust of wind might blow him away.
Only his eyes still burned brightly in the dim yellow dusk,
like the last glowing ember in a dying coal.
Clap—!
The clapper board struck the one-legged table.
His voice was hoarse, but every word hit the ground like iron:
"Esteemed listeners, lend an ear to today's story—
'Sword Wine Righteously Slays the Golden Generation, the Pope's Blood Stains the Spirit Hall!'"
"It is said that day, Li Zhexian came in robes whiter than snow,
with a Qinglian Sword three feet long hanging at his waist…"
The cadence was that of an old hand of the trade —
slick and steady, yet carrying a fierce edge beneath it.
Whether he had truly witnessed the events himself,
or had simply told the story a thousand times,
the details were vivid,
and the killing intent sharp enough to chill the bones.
Li Zhexian listened quietly.
A hundred emotions welled in his chest.
The bittersweet joy of meeting a familiar voice in a faraway land—
and the stirring of old memories,
long buried, now revived through the story.
His throat tightened;
he could barely swallow.
Now he understood.
Now he understood.
It was this old friend,
who had spread word of his "death",
helping to lessen the Spirit Hall's suspicion and pursuit.
So it was the storyteller of Heaven Dou City.
Looking at that deeply lined, weathered face,
Li Zhexian could easily imagine
how many years this old man had kept retelling the same story.
He drew a long breath—
his voice trembling ever so slightly.
He had endured the cutting winds of the Extreme North for a year and a half,
clinging on for the sake of the girl sleeping beneath the Lake of Life.
Even so—
he had to admit:
the northern wind and snow were damnably cold to the bone.
But this storyteller before him…
Li Zhexian could not fathom it.
What strength, what conviction,
kept this frail old man wandering all the way to this desolate border town,
and stubbornly continuing to tell his story?
Behind the old man stood
a dark-skinned middle-aged man in a tattered Spirit Master robe.
While the storyteller rasped and shouted till his voice cracked,
the man silently poured tea beside him.
The few listeners under the stall
spent more time staring at that torn Spirit Master robe
than listening to the story itself —
for here, that robe drew more eyes than any legend could.
This Twilight Town was never meant to be a place for storytelling.
People came and went; few ever stayed to listen.
Under the stall roof, there were always only a few scattered figures.
And yet, the old man stood firm behind his one-legged elm table,
slapping his half-frayed clapper with careful precision.
Clap—!
The clapper struck again,
its echo rippling through the empty air.
"And thus, dear listeners—"
—"The Holy Mountain once held a crown, but blood stained the old banner; wind and snow bury the hero's bone, leaving only laughter and stories for the jianghu!"
When his voice faded,
the air turned cold enough to freeze breath.
After a long silence,
a few lazy claps broke out—two, maybe three.
The audience on the benches yawned, got up, and muttered as they left:
"Tch, what kind of nonsense is that?"
"Li Zhexian? That mangy dog hunted across the continent by the Spirit Hall?
You say he struck down the Pope? Dream on!"
"Hmph! He's lucky this backwater doesn't worship the Spirit Hall—
if he told that story in a big city,
they'd have beaten him to death with sticks!"
"…Sigh."
The storyteller hunched his shoulders, letting out a long breath.
The Spirit Master from Heaven Dou silently packed their meager belongings.
Such sneers and spittle—
they had endured for nearly two years now.
"Tomorrow," the old man rasped,
"tomorrow will be our last day telling stories here in Twilight Town.
There are still a few who haven't heard it through."
"…Alright."
The Spirit Master murmured in reply.
The dusk deepened.
The lantern hanging outside the tea stall swayed,
casting a faint, yellow light.
A cough rattled in the old man's throat.
His eyes drifted toward the small copper dish on the corner of the table—
inside lay only three coins.
He gave a dry chuckle.
Two of those coins,
he himself had dropped in earlier,
just to make the place look less pitiful.
He pulled his threadbare sleeves tighter,
about to pack up and leave—
when suddenly,
he noticed someone standing just beyond the stall.
At some point,
a young man in black had appeared.
His straw hat was pulled low,
shadowing half his face;
only a sharp brow and a thin scar trailing from its edge were visible.
A neat ponytail at his back,
and an air that warned strangers to stay away.
The storyteller, a man who had lived off the streets of the jianghu,
had an eye trained to read people at a glance.
And with one look, his heart gave a sudden jolt—
the young swordsmen of old stories,
those who lived and died by vengeance and honor,
had this very bearing, this very face.
The young man in black walked straight toward him.
The Heaven Dou Spirit Masterbeside the old man instinctively stepped forward,
shielding him, eyes tense with caution.
But the youth only bent down silently,
helping them pack up the stall without a word.
The Spirit Master's tense shoulders relaxed a little.
"Old sir," the youth said at last,
"your story was… true to the heart."
"Oh?"
For the first time in a long while,
the wrinkles on the old man's face eased,
and a faint warmth lit his expression.
"For those words, young man,
this old one will buy you a bowl of noodles—
would you do me the honor?"
Li Zhexian paused for a breath,
then nodded.
"Thank you… I'd be honored."
...
The greasy square table wobbled beneath three bowls of plain noodles—
broth thin as water,
with only a few lonely drops of oil and a scatter of green onions floating on top.
The storyteller lifted his coarse porcelain bowl in both hands,
his rough fingers rubbing the rim.
The faint warmth rising from the broth misted his dry eyes,
making them sting.
He looked across the table at the young man before him,
and sighed softly—
his voice mingled with the steam of the noodles,
unclear whether he spoke to Li Zhexian or to himself.
"Old as I am,
I've been telling the story of Lord Sword Wine
for over a year and a half now…"
"You're the first, in half a month,
to call it true."
He slurped a mouthful of broth before continuing,
his voice hoarse but steady:
"The Spirit Hall's power blots out the sky.
An old man like me can't make a dent in that."
"But still, I think—
if I can do even a little,
then it's something."
"If in the stories that wander the Jianghu someday,
there can be two true words, two kind words,
about Lord Sword Wine—
then all this… will not have been for nothing."
"Oh, Lord Sword Wine—"
he added with a faint smile,
"that's the man from my stories…"
He paused.
And for a moment,
his cloudy eyes glimmered with light.
"Each time Lord Sword Wine finished listening to me,
he would toss me a gold coin—just like that."
"The gleam of it…
I'll never forget it my whole life."
Li Zhexian's fingers tightened around his chopsticks,
the knuckles whitening.
His gaze dropped,
the shadow of his hat hiding his face.
Only his movements slowed,
each lift of noodles heavier than before.
The old man kept speaking softly, unaware.
Li Zhexian suddenly said,
"Old sir—could you hand me the chili oil?"
The Spirit Master rose to fetch it.
The storyteller turned his head out of habit.
In that instant—
Li Zhexian still kept his head bowed over his bowl.
The tip of his chopsticks tapped lightly against the rim—once.
No sound, no flash.
Yet two faint traces of sword intent flickered unseen across the table.
Before anyone noticed,
two spiritual herbs, glimmering faintly with energy, appeared suspended above the storytellers and Spirit Master's bowls.
Threads of sword qi finer than hair wove around them—
and in the blink of an eye,
the herbs were ground to dust,
falling evenly into the two bowls of thin noodle soup.
Li Zhexian had taken only what he needed from those herbs—
he had long since returned the Ice and Fire Yin Yang Well to Dugu Bo,
and taught the old poison master how to use it properly.
With luck, that eccentric old man might one day reach the threshold of the Heaven's Spine Martial Tournament.
...
The crescent moon sank low,
cold seeping through the seams of his robes.
When the noodles were finished,
Li Zhexian rose to leave.
After walking a dozen steps,
he paused,
turning his face slightly—
the shadow of the straw hat veiled his expression.
His voice was quiet,
yet it cut clearly through the bleak wind:
"Old sir…
when next we meet—
let us share a drink."
The wind moaned through the alley.
The storyteller, half-deaf from years of shouting,
seemed not to have heard clearly.
He called to the Spirit Master to pack their things,
his hand brushing the edge of the crippled table—
and his fingers struck something cold and hard.
He looked down.
A gold coin lay there,
gleaming softly in the pale moonlight.
The light dazzled his eyes.