The nun of Tianshan had once been but a woman of the mortal world. Yet fate entwined her with the Dharma King Aros, and when he chose the path of renunciation over worldly love, she too turned her back on mortal bonds. Disheartened, she ascended the snowy peaks of Tianshan, where she founded the Monastery of Water and Moon, dwelling ever after with oil lamps and shadows, devoting herself to the Way.
But Heaven toys with men's hearts. Years later, on a journey through Chang'an, her heart was stirred once more. Passing along the crowded streets, she came upon a young girl, ragged and starving, cowering in fear. The nun's compassion was kindled; she took the child into her care, intending to raise her in Tianshan.
On the journey back, they fell upon a scene of misery. Bandits had beset a band of refugees, preying upon those fleeing war. The nun stepped forward, her plain robes billowing, her voice calm yet resolute:"I am the Nun of Tianshan. These folk are but innocents fleeing battle. Release them, and be gone."
Her words were steady, carrying an authority that brooked no defiance. Yet the brigands, long steeped in blood, only laughed. Their leader was a massive brute, scarred and thick-necked, known across the lands as the Steel-Saber Demon King, Liu Yong. He had slain countless merchants and peasants, his saber forever red. He sneered, eyes glittering with greed:
"Ha! So the famed Nun of Tianshan stands before me at last! Do you not know the world has changed? The Tang and the rebel Yan clash at Chentao, the Tang retreat in defeat, and more refugees flood the roads by the day. These peasants—each one carries their family's treasure. If we do not take it now, when shall we?"
The Demon King's laughter boomed across the snow. For him, chaos was fortune: while the world burned, the brigands thrived, free from the hand of law. Raising his great saber, his face hardened with cruelty:"Nun of Tianshan, leave now and live, or stay and die beneath my blade!"
The wind howled. Fear pressed like a storm upon the refugees, who huddled trembling behind the nun's frail form. Though they knew little of her, her solitary stand had given them a glimmer of hope—but could such hope survive before these wolves of the mountains?
At that time, the Tang armies had suffered grievous losses. The poet Du Fu penned his mournful verses, The Lament of Chentao and The Lament of Qingban, to mark the slaughter:
In the tenth month, ten thousand noble youths,Their blood turned Chentao's marsh to crimson.No battle cries, only silence vast,Forty thousand loyal dead in a single day…
And again:
Our army holds Qingban east of the gate,Horses drink from Taibai's frozen springs.Yellow-haired riders loose arrows west,Smoke darkens skies, white bones cover fields…
It was in such an age of grief that salvation came.
Two riders approached at speed, snow flaring beneath their hooves. Wu Tong and Li Qian had arrived. From afar Wu Tong's voice rang out:"What is this gathering? So many blades on this mountain road—bandits, perhaps?"
His tone was light, even mocking, yet his eyes swept the field with keen appraisal.
The second-in-command of the brigands, Ding Qiang—the Hawk King—snarled:"Bandits, you say? Boy, do you intend to interfere? Speak your purpose!" His gaze was sharp as a hawk's talon, murder flashing within.
Li Qian only smiled coldly:"And is this road yours? The world belongs to Heaven, not to thieves. Who are you to claim it?"
The Demon King Liu Yong's eyes narrowed. With a signal, the mob surged forward, sabers flashing in the snow. The air turned bitter and murderous.
But Wu Tong showed no fear. He slid from his horse with a calm hand upon its flank, sending it trotting toward Li Qian. Standing tall, he laughed:"So if we do not pay your toll, you would take our lives instead? Very well—let us see."
The Hawk King's eyes narrowed. Though arrogant, he felt unease at Wu Tong's composure. He demanded,"Name yourself, boy! Let us hear which fool dares meddle in our affairs."
Wu Tong's smile broadened. His voice rang clear as he declared:"I am Wu Tong, Master of the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness."
The name fell like thunder. The bandits murmured in dread. Wu Tong's reputation already echoed throughout the jianghu—his hall was famed for aiding the weak, punishing the wicked, and commanding respect among heroes. The Hawk King's face stiffened, his eyes flicking toward Liu Yong, awaiting his decision.
The Demon King's brow furrowed. At last he spoke, his voice still proud but shaded with caution:"So it is the Wu Tong of renown. I am Liu Yong, called the Steel-Saber Demon King. Tell me, is this matter truly yours to meddle in?"
Wu Tong clasped his fists politely, though his words cut like steel:"As master of the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness, I cannot watch innocents slaughtered. These refugees have suffered enough. Show mercy, Liu Da-ye. Spare them, and perhaps earn yourself some measure of virtue."
The field grew tense. All eyes fixed upon Liu Yong, waiting to see if he would yield—or if blades would clash.
The Demon King's heart quailed. Wu Tong was famed for strength and cunning; if he drew his blade, even Liu Yong might fall. But how could he release such prey without loss of face? His voice growled low:"You speak of letting them go—then what shall my men eat? What shall they drink?"
Wu Tong's eyes turned cold."In that case, Steel-Saber Demon King, you leave me no choice but to show you the edge of my Dragon-Crouching Blade!"
He raised the weapon in challenge. At its name, the bandits flinched—the Dragon-Crouching Blade, said to be peerless beneath Heaven. Liu Yong glanced at his lieutenant, then forced a laugh:"So be it! If blades must be drawn, let us call it a contest of skill. Should you best me, the peasants may go free."
Wu Tong's voice softened slightly, though firm as ever:"Your saber is famed in the jianghu. Then let us compare blades. How say you?"
The Hawk King Ding Qiang sneered:"I have heard the Dragon-Crouching Blade Art is without equal. Then let us both face you at once!"
Wu Tong laughed freely:"Why not? If through contest we may resolve this strife, then it shall be well worth the clash."
He planted his feet, his voice ringing clear:"Gentlemen—strike!"
The crowd hushed. Ding Qiang and Liu Yong exchanged a glance. Together they drew their massive sabers, qi surging. Their twin blades cut the air, raising a storm that roared across the snowfield. With a simultaneous leap they descended, blades slashing straight for Wu Tong's throat.
Wu Tong stood motionless, calm as stone. At the last instant his eyes flared with light. With a ringing shua! his right hand drew the Dragon-Crouching Blade in a single stroke, left hand steady on the scabbard.
It was a strike simple and pure—yet its angle, its inner force, its blinding speed—none in the jianghu could equal.
Steel clashed on steel. Blades rang like thunder. Sparks flew into the winter sky, and the sound of their sabers echoed across the mountains like war drums, the echoes rolling for miles.