Midway through the Tang Dynasty, the empire resembled a dying lamp battered by the winds of a long night—its flame trembling, its brilliance already fading.Once, that empire had stretched across the world like a golden age cast in bronze, gazing down upon all under heaven with effortless majesty.Now, only ashes remained.Chang'an—the city that had once been the heart of all realms—lay desolate beneath the cold sky.Ruined palace walls stood forlorn in the wind; moss crept over shattered tiles; crimson lacquer peeled from the stone steps, left icy to the touch.
A wind swept across the Guanzhong plains, carrying sand, dust, and the mourning of centuries.
Bronze bells upon the ramparts clanged wildly in the gale—
as though tolling for the dying soul of the Tang.
North of the Yellow River, smoke from war had never once dispersed.
Even the riverlands of the South—those once gentle, water-veined lands—had been ravaged by iron hooves.
Burnt war-boats and pale bones drifted on the water,
ghosts of a bygone prosperity.
Since the An–Shi Rebellion, peace had never returned.
The warlords of the provinces were wolves in human guise.
Commanders of fiefdoms held their armies as private possessions; they claimed to bear the imperial mandate,
yet pillaged villages and butchered innocents at whim.
Their banners bore the words "Pacify the Rebellion",
but their hands were stained with the blood of those they claimed to protect.
Villages lay deserted.
Children cried "Hungry…" into the winter darkness, only for their voices to be devoured by the wind.
And in the capital, the emperor drowned himself in wine and music,
courtiers battled for power,
generals for profit.
On this shattered land, every inch of soil was fought over—
not for the people,
but for the blood-soaked crown on the dragon throne.
By the dynasty's final century, the world had gone utterly mad.
When Huang Chao raised his rebel banners,
a hundred thousand men surged across the Central Plains like a tidal flood.
When those banners appeared at the gates of Chang'an,
the last dignity of the Tang burned to ash.
Emperor Xizong fled in panic; palace maids wept; officials scattered.
Huang Chao ascended the dragon throne,
eyes burning with a wildfire's gleam.
He believed a crown could make him a saint;
he never understood that chaos could not be subdued
by a blade, nor by a throne.
Under his rule, the rivers ran red.
In the flames he lit, the people became smoke.
For fifty-three years,
eight surnames, thirteen emperors,
five dynasties rose and fell.
Regimes changed as swiftly as tides.
Not a single year was spared from blood or fire.
The world became a vast grave,
burying the hopes of countless souls.
Night winds swept over the northern battlefields;
the moon shone like cold iron.
Toppled banners, torn drumskins, and broken halberds
lay silently among the dead.
Ravens circled overhead, pecking at the eyes of fallen soldiers.
Blood mixed with mud in the trenches;
the air reeked of rust.
This—
was the night of the Five Dynasties.
People often say, "Out of chaos rise heroes."
But in this era, most so-called heroes were no more than predators.
Li Keyong, Zhu Wen, Shi Jingtang, Liu Zhiyuan, Guo Wei…
Their glory was built upon mountains of corpses.
Some murdered brothers and fathers;
some sold their nation for personal gain;
some favored treachery;
some indulged in depravity.
Rites collapsed;
fathers stole their sons' wives;
sons seized their fathers' concubines.
Even the golden dragons engraved beneath their thrones
had long since rotted into venomous serpents.
Their dynasties rose,
their dynasties fell,
each devouring the last.
All they left behind
were fields of white bones.
If these men were heroes,
then justice had no place in the world.
They were beasts,
fed on blood and lies.
Yet no darkness is so deep
that it can extinguish every spark of human resolve.
In the chaos,there were still those who refused to bow.
Men who sought not wealth, nor titles,but the brief breath of peace for the common people.
Men who knew Heaven was indifferent—
yet still dared to resist it with their own blood.
And among them,one man's name burned brighter than flame.
The Northern Frontier — Wind Like Blades
In the far north, the wind cut like knives.
On the slopes of Fire-Mountain Ridge, waves of pine roared under the weight of winter; snow blanketed the peaks until the heavens and the earth merged into a single sheet of pale steel.
Suddenly, a lone rider burst through the snow.
His iron armor gleamed with a cold brilliance; the long spear in his hand reflected the moonlight like a silver dragon.
The horse's hooves shattered the crust of ice beneath, sending crystals of snow scattering like shards of broken jade.
He reined in at the crest of the ridge.
His cloak snapped fiercely in the wind.
Yang Gun looked down at the vast land beneath the mountains.
In his dark eyes lay the reflection of a broken world.
The wind flayed his face like a whip, yet he did not move.
There was a silent fury in him—
the sort forged in blood and flame, the resolve of a man who had seen too much suffering.
He had heard the cry of starving children;
he had witnessed the arrogance of warlords.
He knew that if no one stood up,
then no soul under heaven would be saved.
His voice was low, almost lost to the storm:
"In chaos, the wicked must be cut down.
Let blood clear the road."
The wind carried away his words,
yet carved them into his fate.
From that moment onward,
he ceased to be merely a skilled warrior.
He bore not only his family's grief,
but the agony of a nation.
He forged the Fire-Mountain Thirteen Spear Forms—
a style whose shadows twisted like dragons,
whose cold light flashed like lightning,
whose descent struck with thunderous force.
This spear style would one day become the very root of the Yang Family Spear,
a legacy passed down through generations.
With his lone spear, he slew bandits,
drove back foreign invaders,
and guarded the northern frontier.
His name echoed across the plains:
"The Fire-Mountain King."
Yet what truly earned the world's reverence
was not the spear itself—
but the unyielding heart behind it.
Yang Gun walked the snowy wilderness like a solitary flame.
He knew the path ahead was made of thorns;
he knew each step would be stained with blood.
Still, he moved forward,
toward the destiny that would one day blaze across history.
In his blood was fire,
in his bones was iron,
and in the very marrow of his descendants
lay the soul he forged that winter.
Later generations would say:
"The Yang Clan's loyalty endures a hundred lifetimes."
And it all began on that night—
on Fire-Mountain Ridge,
beneath wind and snow—
with a roar that shook the heavens.
The Legacy of Gold-Blade Yang Hui
Dusk descended; torn clouds swept across the sky.
At the foot of Yongning Mountain near Xining,
the stone cliffs glimmered faintly like blue iron beneath the chill wind.
The dying sunlight cast long shadows across an old courtyard—
the former residence of Yang Hui, known as Gold-Blade Yang.
Outside, the pines and cypresses stood solemn and tall,
their shadows overlapping like the silhouettes of blades and spears—
silent guardians of a fading legacy.
Yang Hui was once a fearsome general.
For ten years he held the fortress of Tong Pass,
his nine-ringed broadsword drinking the blood of countless foes.
Among the armies of the Tang, none dared to challenge him;
all across the Three Qins, his name inspired awe.
But heroes age, and dynasties decay.
The last Tang emperor, Xizong, was weak and indulgent.
He trusted eunuchs, feared loyalists,
and allowed warlords to ravage the land.
These warlords plundered the passes,
burned villages,
and left the people in misery.
Yang Hui raised petition after petition, begging the court to act.
But instead of praise, he received suspicion.
When he refused to fight alongside corrupt ministers during a major campaign,
he angered the powerful and was stripped of command—
dismissed, humiliated, and sent home.
That day, Yang Hui stood atop Tong Pass one last time.
He looked out at the surging river below,
and tears streaked down his weathered face.
He struck his blade into the earth and roared:
"I, Yang Hui, have wielded this sword all my life,
slain enemies beyond count—
yet today, I cannot protect even a single city's people!
If the world shall never again see a wise emperor,
then I will never again take up this blade!"
His vow echoed across the mountains like thunder.
Returning to his hometown,
he washed away the dust of war
and lived quietly upon Yongning Mountain.
He rose with the sun and rested at dusk,
finding solace only in the presence of his young son—
Yang Gun, courtesy name Jun'ai.
The child was delicate in appearance,
yet his eyes held an uncommon steadiness.
At five or six, he already bowed courteously, listened without speaking,
and carried himself with a natural dignity.
But in his heart flowed hot blood.
He cared little for books and scrolls;
he loved martial drills and mock battles.
When the village boys played,
he commanded them like a small general,
forming battle lines with loud, childish shouts—
shouts that carried the faint edge of killing intent.
Each time Yang Hui saw this,
he nodded inwardly.
"A son of the Yang Clan, indeed."
He thought often:
"My bloodline must not end with me.
When this boy grows, I must teach him that a warrior's bone is forged of blade and loyalty."
Seven Years Later — A Child's Heart Awakens
Days and months slipped by like flowing water.
In the blink of an eye, Yang Gun had grown into a boy of seven.
This particular evening, the western wind had stilled,
and dusk settled slowly across the slopes of Yongning Mountain.
Yang Hui sat on a stone bench in the courtyard,
his weathered hand resting upon the hilt of his broadsword as he brooded in silence.
Autumn leaves littered the ground.
Watching them fall one by one,
he suddenly felt time pressing upon him—
a weight both familiar and quietly sorrowful.
The long-dormant fire in his chest
quivered faintly.
He called to his son.
His voice was gentle, yet carried gravity:
"My son…
would you like to learn the martial arts?"
Yang Gun froze for a heartbeat,
then his eyes blazed with light.
He had longed for this moment,
yet never dared ask.
Now, the world he dreamed of suddenly opened its gates.
His small palms slapped excitedly against his thighs.
"Father! I do!
I want to learn everything—
all eighteen weapons!
I will master each one until none can surpass me!"
Yang Hui looked at the boy—
at that fierce spark of determination—
and a long-suppressed smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Ambitious child.
But remember:
to learn many is not as good as mastering one.
A true general does not chase fancy tricks."
He drew the famed nine-ring broadsword slowly from its sheath.
The blade flashed—
a cold, living arc of light.
Even the fallen leaves at his feet stirred in the rush of air.
The nine rings upon the spine of the blade chimed sharply,
a sound like dragons crying in a distant sky.
Yang Gun stared, breath held.
In that instant, it felt as though something in his blood
caught fire.
But within that fire
lay a hidden shadow of rebellion.
"Father's blade is magnificent…
but if I spend my whole life copying him,
am I not just another reflection?"
he thought.
"A true hero must carve his own path—
stand taller, shine brighter.
I will forge a skill greater than Father's,
and let the world know the name Yang Gun."
From that day on,
father and son practiced together.
Yang Hui trained with uncompromising rigor.
Every movement had to be repeated a thousand times.
The blade must rise like wind,
fall like thunder.
Under the blazing sun,
their shadows danced like two monuments in motion.
Under the moon,
the courtyard rang with the crisp clang of metal,
the blade carving arcs of silver in the dark.
The Boy Who Would Not Yield
Yongning Mountain's wind always carried
the scent of pine resin and cold steel.
Within the rear garden's practice yard,
the autumn leaves blanketed the earth.
There, a barefoot boy stood balanced among rows of wooden stakes,
a short practice blade in his hands,
its edge gleaming faintly in the afternoon sun.
The boy was Yang Gun.
Though young,
his palms were calloused and cracked,
bearing the marks of hundreds of days of practice.
Now, sweat dripped from his chin,
his breath ragged.
His form began to falter.
His frustrations boiled over.
He muttered under his breath:
"The same few moves…
day after day…
what is the point?"
A stubborn flame ignited in his eyes.
"If there is a stronger martial art in this world,
I must learn it!
Even if I have to chase it to the ends of the earth!"
His voice was soft,
but one person heard him.
The Quiet Old Man
By the wall leaned an old man in a grey short jacket,
a bamboo broom resting loosely in his hands.
His beard was half white,
his eyes quiet,
his presence so mild that he often blended into the scenery.
This was Old Wang,
the humble groundskeeper who had served the Yang family for three years.
He rose earlier than anyone,
slept later than anyone,
and rarely spoke.
Yet at that moment,
something flickered deep in his gaze.
He set aside the broom
and walked slowly toward the boy.
His voice was low and calm:
"Young Master…
what were those words you just said?"
Yang Gun scowled,
waving him away like a bothersome bird.
"Go sweep the courtyard.
Don't meddle in my practice."
But Old Wang did not grow angry.
Instead, he smiled gently.
"If you didn't wish to practice,
I would never force you.
But tell me—why did you stop?"
The question landed sharply.
Yang Gun hesitated.
Seeing no one else around,
he exhaled and lowered his voice.
"Don't laugh at me.
Father's blade is strong, yes…
but I don't want to follow only his path.
Surely there must be greater skills in this world!
If I can learn something stronger—
I will prove myself."
Old Wang's eyes softened.
A faint light glimmered beneath the surface.
"Ambition…
and spirit."
He nodded.
"You remind me of myself in my youth."
His tone suddenly shifted,
becoming quiet and profound.
"If the world ever finds peace again…
and if I teach you a true spear art—
one worthy of aiding a wise king—
you could bring honor to your family for a hundred lifetimes."
Yang Gun stared, stunned.
"You…
know martial arts?"
Old Wang laughed,
a deep, mellow sound
carrying a hint of hidden meaning.
"The eighteen weapons…
your old servant knows them all.
I merely choose not to show them in peaceful times."
Yang Gun snorted, half skeptical.
"You?
You, an old man sweeping floors?
Claiming to be invincible?
That's ridiculous."
Old Wang still did not anger.
His smile thinned slightly.
"Whether I speak truth or nonsense,
look carefully—and judge for yourself."
He strode to the weapons rack,
picked up a heavy iron spear—
much heavier than an average one.
With a light flick of his wrist,
the spear tip hummed sharply,
sending a chill through the air.
The Spear Awakens
Then, suddenly—
his entire posture transformed.
The wind responded first;
dust rose in swirling eddies.
The spear moved.
It was as if a dragon had awakened.
A thrust like a serpent leaving its cave.
A sweep like a flood crashing through a valley.
A spiral twist like a water dragon coiling in the deep.
"Python Emerges from the Den!"
"River Dragon Turns the Tide!"
"Black Dragon Sweeps Its Tail!"
"Reverse-Hand Beam Strike!"
Each technique was fast beyond belief.
Each movement was honed to terrifying precision.
The gusts from the spear carved streaks in the dust,
lifting dried leaves into a whirlwind.
The air trembled with the sharp whine of metal cutting wind—
almost like the roar of a dragon echoing across the valley.
When he finally stopped,
the yard fell silent once more.
Only the faint vibration lingering on the spear tip
hinted at the storm that had just passed.
Yang Gun's eyes were wide,
his entire body frozen in awe.
Then—
"Good! Good spearwork!"
He burst into applause,
the admiration bursting uncontrollably from his young chest.
He rushed forward,
grabbing the old man's hand with bright, fervent eyes.
"Old man, your spearwork is amazing!
Please teach me!
I'll ask Father to hire you properly—
I'll ask him to give you a high salary!"
Old Wang shook his head with a rueful smile.
"Child…
if I had cared for wealth,
I would have accepted titles and lands years ago."
His smile carried a trace of sorrow.
"I will teach you—
not for money,
but because your heart burns with the will to rise."
Yang Gun blinked, still gripping the old man's sleeve.
But Old Wang gently freed his arm,
his voice suddenly quiet and solemn:
"But listen well, young master."
He leaned slightly closer,
his eyes deep as winter pools.
"What I teach you… must never reach your father's ears."
Yang Gun stiffened.
"Why?"
Old Wang exhaled slowly—
a sigh heavy with memories.
"There are matters in this world, child,
that cannot be spoken lightly."
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Your father is a loyal general of the Tang.
I… carry my own past,
my own debts and entanglements.
Our paths should never have crossed openly."
He straightened his back,
the last red of dusk reflecting off his white-flecked beard.
"If he learns I teach you,
fate may drag him into my troubles.
I cannot allow that."
Seeing his grave expression,
Yang Gun felt an instinctive seriousness settle in his chest.
He lowered his head.
"Very well. I won't tell him.
No matter what happens."
Old Wang's expression softened.
For a moment, he looked almost moved.
"Good child."
A Master Without Ceremony
Yang Gun took one step back,
eyes bright, and made a deep bow.
"Teacher, please accept my salute!"
Old Wang immediately lifted a hand.
"No.
Formality lies in the heart, not in the posture."
His tone was calm, yet powerful.
"If you truly grasp this spear art,
you will be my disciple in spirit.
A bow adds nothing."
Then, pointing at the weapon rack, he said:
"Before learning techniques,
you must first understand principles."
The Nine Shorts and Nine Longs
Old Wang lifted the iron spear,
its weight seeming to vanish in his grip.
With the spear tip, he drew lines on the earth.
"In the ancient age of the Warring States,
after Sun Wu and Sun Bin,
all weapons were divided into the 'Nine Shorts' and the 'Nine Longs.'"
He wrote as he spoke:
"Knife, sword, cudgel, axe, whip, mace, hammer, staff, pestle—these are the Nine Shorts.
Spear, halberd, pole, greataxe, trident, rake, hook, lance, ringed-spear—these are the Nine Longs."
He tapped the spear lightly.
"But long does not guarantee victory.
Short does not guarantee defeat.
Weapons are dead;
the one who wields them is alive."
Yang Gun listened breathlessly.
His father had never spoken with such breadth.
Old Wang continued:
"The spear art I carry is true lineage,
enhanced through decades of roaming the North.
It combines six ancient schools of spearwork.
It is called—
the Six-Harmony Spear."
"Six Harmonies:
Heaven, Earth, Man, Force, Intent, and Heart."
His gaze sharpened,
and his voice thrummed like iron:
"When these six meet—
the spear has no equal under heaven."
He raised the weapon.
His stance shifted.
"This spear contains
four 'Spring–Autumn Forms,'
twelve 'Celestial Energies,'
twenty-four 'Seasonal Variations,'
and the hidden methods of 'Three Joints and Eight Circles'—
the Seven Captures and Eight Breaks.
Once mastered, it is wind,
it is thunder,
it is the shadow of a dragon rising."
Then—
with a single shift of his feet,
he thrust, withdrew, twisted, and pulled.
Wind exploded around him.
"Watch carefully."
"One segment—
two advances—
three blocks—
four coils—
five shifts—
six straight strikes."
The air hummed.
Yang Gun felt as though the world itself
pivoted around that spear.
Old Wang stopped and held the spear upright.
His breathing was steady.
"Most who learn the spear commit three fatal errors:
their stance is crooked,
their strike hesitates,
their three alignments fail."
He straightened the shaft.
"When holding the spear,
three points must align:
the spear tip,
your nose tip,
your leading foot.
If the heart is straight,
the spear is straight."
Yang Gun swallowed.
He felt as though the gates of another world
were opening before him.
Three Years of Shadows
From that dawn onward,
the secret apprenticeship began.
By day, Yang Gun dutifully practiced bladework under his father's watchful eye.
When darkness fell
or before the first rooster cried,
he slipped into the garden,
where Old Wang waited among the bamboo.
Under the moon, the iron spear cut arcs of silver light.
Under the morning mist, it split the air with a low roar.
Neither spoke much.
They didn't need to.
Their movements spoke for them—
one teaching, one absorbing like dry earth drinking rain.
Three years passed silently.
The child of seven
became a lean, sharp-eyed youth of ten.
His arms strengthened,
his stance steadied,
his gaze sharpened with a faint, frost-like confidence.
The spear in his hands now danced like a living creature—
sometimes a dragon,
sometimes a serpent,
sometimes a streak of lightning.
No one suspected a thing.
Old Wang remained the quiet, unremarkable groundskeeper.
No one saw the battle scars beneath his sleeves
or the calluses on his palms
earned through a lifetime of blood.
But secrets never stay hidden forever.
The Morning the Truth Broke Open
One misty morning,
the sun barely cresting the mountaintop,
Yang Gun grew impatient while practicing bladework.
Irritated,
he tossed aside the training knife
and took up the spear.
He performed three quick flicks—
the Cloud-Breaking Triple Lift
of the Six-Harmony Spear.
The sunlight caught the tip.
It glowed like a shard of ice
cutting through fog.
At that precise moment,
someone walked past the outer wall of the garden.
Yang Hui stopped dead in his tracks.
He knew that move.
He had seen it only once—
on a battlefield,
wielded by a man whose spearwork
was said to dominate all the northern plains:
the Northern Tyrant of the Six-Harmony Spear…
a master surnamed Xia.
His heart tightened violently.
"Gun'er…
who taught you that move?"
He did not shout.
He did not step forward.
He turned away silently—
but his entire expression had changed.
That evening,
he sent trusted servants to make discreet inquiries.
By nightfall,
someone whispered fearfully:
"Master…
the young lord often practices spearwork with Old Wang
in the rear garden."
Yang Hui felt the ground shake under him.
The old groundskeeper?
Impossible…
unless…"
Before dawn,
he hid himself behind the garden wall.
He waited.
A Duel That Shook a Father's Soul
The morning fog clung to bamboo leaves.
Inside the yard, under a canopy of pale mist,
Old Wang and Yang Gun stood facing each other,
each holding a spear.
Their expressions were focused, calm, deadly serious.
Old Wang's first strike was smooth as flowing water.
Yang Gun responded with surprising sharpness—
his stance low, his spear swaying like the spine of a serpent.
Then the duel ignited.
Spear wind howled.
Leaves blasted into the air.
Wooden stakes snapped under the shockwaves.
The mist itself seemed to be shredded by the force of their movements.
Yang Hui watched, stunned,
heart pounding like a war drum.
This was no servant.
This was a master.
And the technique—
there was no doubt.
"The Six-Harmony Spear…
the Xia family's forbidden art."
He whispered despite himself:
"Good spearwork!"
Both combatants froze.
Yang Gun turned pale.
The spear trembled in his grasp.
"F–Father…"
Old Wang reacted instantly—
he lowered his spear and bowed deeply.
"Master…
the young lord was practicing,
and I… meddled foolishly.
Please forgive this old servant.
I will leave at once."
He turned to go—
But Yang Hui seized his wrist.
His grip was iron.
His voice was low and cold:
"Old Wang…
tell me the truth.
Have you been teaching my son
in secret?"
Silence stretched.
At last, Old Wang closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them,
his voice was steady.
"Yes."
Yang Hui's eyes blazed.
"Then tell me—
how does a man sweeping my courtyard
know the Xia family's sovereign spear art?"
Old Wang's breath caught.
His gaze flickered.
Yang Gun stepped forward in panic.
"Teacher, tell him!
He won't harm you!"
But Old Wang lifted a hand to stop him.
He lowered the spear slowly—
as though laying down a burden carried for half a lifetime.
Then he raised his head.
His eyes were no longer the mild eyes of an old servant.
They were sharp.
Deep.
Scarred.
A warrior's eyes.
"Since matters have reached this point…
there is no reason to hide it any longer."
He straightened,
his posture suddenly taller,
his aura vastly different.
His next words fell like stones into still water:
"I…
am not Old Wang."
A heavy silence filled the courtyard.
Even the wind paused among the bamboo.
A secret buried for years
had finally come to light.
The bamboo leaves rustled faintly,
as though the mountain itself leaned in to listen.
Across from Yang Hui,
the old servant no longer appeared frail or bent.
His back straightened;
his weathered face seemed carved from stone.
His eyes—
for the first time—
revealed the cold, honed edge
of someone who had lived a lifetime by the spear.
He bowed slowly.
"My true name," he said,
each syllable deliberate,
"is Xia Houyi."
Yang Hui's breath caught.
A name like thunder.
A name once feared from the desert passes to the northern grasslands.
The Xia Clan—
masters of the ancient Six-Harmony Spear,
one of the deadliest lineages of the frontier.
Yang Hui's voice trembled despite himself.
"You… are that Xia Houyi?
The one who held Tiger's Gorge by himself?
The one who fought thirty battles in the north?"
Old Wang—
no, Xia Houyi—
closed his eyes briefly.
"I was."
The wind passed.
The bamboo shifted.
Yang Hui felt memories surge—
the dust-choked plains,
the screams of warhorses,
the clash of steel under a blood-red sky.
Thirteen years ago…
He had seen a solitary spear rise and fall on a battlefield
like a silver tidal wave,
cutting through enemies by the dozens.
Everyone called him:
"The Six-Harmony Wolf."
A beast with a spear.
A hero stained in blood.
But that legend had disappeared overnight.
Yang Hui whispered:
"You vanished… everyone said you died in the northern rebellion."
Xia Houyi's voice grew low.
"…I should have."
He lifted a hand,
touching his own chest lightly.
"That night, the Xia Clan was framed.
Enemies from court and frontier alike
conspired to annihilate us.
My brothers died.
My sons died.
My people… scattered like ashes in the wind."
His voice cracked,
but only slightly—
like a blade with scars,
not weakness.
"I fled.
Three arrows in my back,
one spear wound through my ribs,
half a battlefield chasing me."
He breathed in,
the sound harsh with memory.
"I killed until my spear snapped in half.
I killed until the snow turned black.
And when I could no longer stand…
I crawled."
Yang Gun's small fists tightened,
his young chest aching though he did not understand all of it.
Yang Hui stared at the man—
this survivor—
with something between awe and pain.
"Then why come here?"
Xia Houyi gazed toward the sky,
where the first morning light was spilling over the ridge.
"Because before the Xia Clan fell…
your father saved me."
Yang Hui froze.
He had forgotten.
Years ago, on a distant campaign,
he had rescued a half-dead spear master
from a burning border outpost.
He never knew the man's name.
He never asked.
He never expected—
"It was you…"
Xia Houyi nodded.
"I owed you my life.
I had no clan left, no purpose left.
So I came here and swept your courtyard,
repaying one life with my service."
Yang Hui felt his throat tighten.
In the bamboo mist,
Xia Houyi turned slightly,
looking at Yang Gun with a gentleness far different from moments ago.
"Until one day,
I saw your son practicing with a wooden spear."
He smiled faintly.
"Clumsy.
But the fire in his eyes…
was the fire of a warrior."
Yang Gun flushed.
Xia Houyi continued:
"I could not help myself.
I picked up a spear.
The moment the weapon touched my hand,
my blood woke."
He stared at the ground.
"I had promised myself never to teach again.
Never to involve another in the Xia Clan's fate."
He closed his hand tightly,
as though gripping an invisible spear.
"But when the boy saluted me that day,
I felt as though heaven itself asked me:
'Will your spear die with you?'"
He exhaled shakily.
"Thus…
I broke my vow."
A Father's Fury and Fear
Yang Hui's face shifted rapidly—
shock, recognition, grief, then anger.
"You should have told me!"
Xia Houyi bowed deeply.
"I feared dragging you into danger.
Your righteousness once spared my life;
how could I repay you with calamity?"
Yang Hui's voice boomed across the courtyard:
"But teaching my son a spear so fierce it carries blood-debts—
that is not danger?"
Yang Gun paled.
Xia Houyi did not defend himself.
Instead, he knelt.
Slowly.
Respectfully.
Without shame.
"If punishment is due,
I will accept it."
Yang Hui trembled.
His fists clenched.
Punish him?
This man had repaid a debt through humility
no hero could match.
He wanted to rage—
but the fire could not find breath.
Instead, he asked the question
that weighed like an anvil:
"Why teach him your spear?
Why give my son the Six Harmonies—
a path soaked in blood?"
Xia Houyi finally raised his head.
His eyes glimmered with something profound.
"Because… the world is about to collapse again."
Yang Hui's breath stopped.
Xia Houyi continued:
"Warlords sharpen their swords.
Foreign tribes gather at the borders.
The court rots from within."
He looked at Yang Gun.
"When chaos returns…
who will protect him?
Who will protect your name?
Who will protect the innocent?"
Yang Hui said nothing.
Xia Houyi finished softly:
"I taught him not to kill—
but to survive."
The Beginning of a Greater Fate
Silence hung like frost.
Finally, Yang Hui spoke:
"Houyi."
Xia Houyi bowed.
"From this day forth…
you may continue teaching him."
Yang Gun's eyes widened with joy.
Xia Houyi lowered his head in gratitude.
But Yang Hui added,
voice firm as iron:
"However—
I will learn as well."
Both froze.
Yang Hui stood tall,
the morning sun striking his armor-like posture.
"If my son must walk a path of spears…
then I must walk it before him."
Xia Houyi stared—
and slowly,
a fierce smile warmed the scars on his face.
"Very well."
The bamboo trembled.
The sunlight broke through.
Three shadows stretched long across the courtyard—
the past,
the present,
and the future.
On that morning,
the fate of the Yang Clan
shifted like a mountain stirring.
A dragon's first breath
rose quietly into the sky.
The sun pushed higher, scattering gold across the bamboo grove.
The morning mist thinned, revealing the courtyard as though a veil had been lifted.
Xia Houyi stood silent for a moment,
his gaze sweeping from father to son.
Then he nodded once—slowly, heavily.
"Since heaven has woven our fates together…
I will no longer hold back."
Yang Gun's heart leapt.
He gripped his spear so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Yang Hui stepped closer, expression solemn.
"Gun'er," he said quietly,
"from today onward, you will not merely practice the spear.
You will inherit it."
The boy straightened, breath catching in his throat.
Xia Houyi lifted his iron spear.
With a soft hum, the tip pointed toward the sky.
"The spear is the spine of a warrior," he said.
"It demands a straight heart,
an unbroken will,
and a courage that does not bend."
He drew a long circle in the air.
The sunlight caught on the spearhead,
casting ripples of silver across the tiles.
"From this day, I will teach you the true Six-Harmony Spear—
not the child's forms,
but the foundation of its killing intent."
Yang Hui's brow tightened.
"He is still young."
"Which is precisely why," Xia Houyi replied,
"he must begin now.
A spear grows with its wielder.
Its root must be planted early."
Yang Hui exhaled,
the weight of fatherhood pressing heavily in his chest.
He nodded.
Three Shadows, One Path
Thus began a new chapter within the stone walls of Yongning Mountain.
Each morning, before the frost melted,
three figures stood beneath the bamboo:
• one scarred master with a spear forged in blood,
• one steadfast father whose loyalty had shaken dynasties,
• one young boy whose eyes burned brighter each day.
Xia Houyi demonstrated movements with the calm intensity of iron.
Yang Hui practiced with the precision of a veteran general,
his sweat soaking into the frozen ground.
Yang Gun imitated both—
absorbing every correction,
every stance,
every breath.
The spear shadows swayed together—
sometimes slow as drifting clouds,
sometimes sharp as lightning tearing open the sky.
Under Xia Houyi's guidance,
the boy learned the hidden pulse of the spear:
the rise and fall of its intent,
the gathering and release of force,
the silent shift of weight that determined life or death.
When his hands blistered,
he clenched harder.
When his arms trembled,
he grit his teeth.
When the spear grew too heavy,
he held it until his legs shook.
Xia Houyi watched, saying nothing—
but a rare warmth softened his weathered face.
"This child," he thought,
"will surpass both his father and me."
A Fire Kindled in a Quiet Corner of the World
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
The snow thawed; bamboo sprouted fresh green.
By the time Yang Gun turned eleven,
he could already perform all twelve "Celestial Energies" of the Six Harmonies,
and half the "Seasonal Variations."
One evening, after practice,
Xia Houyi stood at the garden gate,
hands folded behind his back.
Yang Hui approached him.
"Houyi," he said softly,
"when you first entered my gate,
I never imagined you carried such a fate on your shoulders."
Xia Houyi smiled,
the lines at his eyes deepening.
"Nor did I imagine… I would find a legacy here."
Yang Hui looked toward the courtyard
where Yang Gun still practiced,
each movement earnest, steady, precise.
He murmured:
"A boy's path should be bright."
Xia Houyi shook his head gently.
"In times like these,
a bright path is not granted by the heavens.
It is carved with one's own spear."
Yang Hui fell silent.
The dusk wind stirred.
The fragrance of pine drifted through the air.
Xia Houyi continued:
"This child will one day bear a burden larger than he knows."
A faint tremor flickered in Yang Hui's gaze.
"Fate?"
"No," Xia Houyi answered.
"Responsibility."
They stood side by side,
watching the boy's small silhouette
as it thrust and withdrew in the dying sunlight.
The First Embers of Yang Clan Glory
That night, the villagers passing by the Yang residence
heard the rhythmic beating of spear against air—
steady, relentless,
like a drum announcing the rise of a distant army.
Few knew that in the quiet courtyard,
beneath the bamboo shadows,
the first ember of a great lineage was being kindled.
The spear that would one day shake the world
was still small,
still thin,
still held in the hands of a boy—
but its spirit had awakened.
And so, in a forgotten corner at the edge of nations,
a fire was lit.
It would burn for generations.
It would survive dynasties.
It would carve its name into the bones of history.
It began with a master in hiding,
a father who refused to bow to chaos,
and a boy who gripped a spear with both hands
and refused to let go.
The Yang Clan's destiny
had taken its first step.