Chapter Seventeen: The Black Sword and the White Serpent

The inn servant carried two strings of coins to the old woman, saying, “Please accept my condolences, madam. The manager sent me to bring you these two strings of coins…” Before he could finish, the old woman said in a low, mournful voice, “What use are two strings of coins? With so many of you, that’s not enough to buy a coffin.” The servant was startled, realizing something was amiss. He spun around to dash back and shouted, “Manager, there’s something strange about the old woman—ah!” His cry was cut short as a serpentine sword pierced his heart from behind. The old woman kicked his twitching corpse aside, tore off the white scarf from her head, revealing a mane of silver hair. Her hair was completely white, yet her face was as youthful and beautiful as a maiden of sixteen, the contrast both stunning and bizarre.

In that moment, Xiang Lianfu recalled a story his master once told him about the martial world and exclaimed in horror, “Could you be White Snake Yan Fengjiao? Weren’t you supposed to be dead?” Yan Fengjiao laughed, “Ha! So someone still remembers the White Snake after all these years in seclusion. You dared desecrate our Sacred Crane Lord, and should die a thousand deaths. Still, I’ll show you mercy and end you swiftly, sparing you endless suffering.” Her manner was charming and her voice soft and sweet, but her words sent chills down the spine.

Xiang Lianfu knew things would not end well today. Drawing his mountain-cleaving saber, he shouted, “Brothers, stand together! Kill this demoness!” and charged ahead.

The armed guards, trained in formation, were not like ordinary wanderers who fought chaotically. At the sound of whistles, they took up their positions, the escorts forming a tight defense around the wagon.

Yan Fengjiao moved like a wraith, swift as a shadow. In a flash, several guards had already fallen to her sword. The serpentine blade curved and forked at the tip like a snake’s tongue—it could stab, slice, hook, or cleave, adapting fluidly and unpredictably.

Xiang Lianfu, seasoned in martial arts and the ways of the world, quickly discerned her sword style. Though her sword was fast, it lacked power. He pressed her hard, saber blow upon blow, forcing Yan Fengjiao to the center of their formation. She switched her sword to her left hand, her right palm swept forth with a gust of foul-smelling wind. Xiang Lianfu quickly held his breath and retreated a few steps, but two more guards, caught off guard, were struck by her palm. Where it landed, their flesh immediately withered as if drained.

Xiang Lianfu cried, “Netherworld Blood Fiend Palm! Be careful, everyone! Xu Dali, go to Youzhou at once and fetch reinforcements!”

Xu Dali was a secular disciple of the Shaolin Sect. Since the Thirteen Shaolin Monks rescued the Tang Emperor at the end of the Sui Dynasty, Shaolin had enjoyed imperial favor. Lay disciples were often recruited by the ministries of war and justice. After Wu Zhou’s establishment, though the dynasty changed, the administration still followed Tang traditions. Xu’s senior, Jiang Hongning, had joined the army after completing his training, fought on the frontier for years, and now commanded thousands as the military governor in Youzhou.

Xu Dali knew Xiang Lianfu was decisive and bold. If their enemies were ordinary bandits, the guards alone would suffice—there’d be no need to summon the army from Youzhou. Clearly, their foes tonight were no common adversaries. Without a word, Xu spurred his horse and rode off.

Yan Fengjiao laughed, “You’re clever, Xiang, to know how dire this is and send for help. But distant water can’t quench a nearby fire. Resign yourself to fate!”

As Xu Dali galloped past the mourning tent, the coffin lid suddenly exploded upward with a crash, hurling toward him. Xu, trained in Shaolin’s iron body and especially skilled in Eagle Claw technique, caught the lid with both hands and tore it apart. Amid the flying splinters, a figure leapt from the coffin, sword flashing like silver lightning, instantly enveloping Xu Dali in a web of deadly strikes.

Xu ducked into his stirrups to evade, then tapped his horse’s belly with his toe. The horse soared, crashing toward the attacker, while Xu used the momentum to leap several yards aside. Before he landed, blood rained down—the horse had been slashed to pieces by a flurry of sword strikes.

Facing him now was a gaunt, black-clad Daoist holding a strange sword—entirely black, absorbing all light, as though even sunlight could not reflect from its surface. The Daoist stood calmly, having just emerged from the coffin to ambush them.

Xu Dali stared for a moment, not recognizing the man. He shouted, “Who are you? Why does a man of the cloth keep company with this demoness?”

The black-clad Daoist replied coldly, “Ghost Sword Han Qinghua.”

From the other side, Yan Fengjiao called sweetly, “Dear Hua, finish off that big oaf and come help me. I can hardly manage alone!” Her voice was soft and coquettish. Xiang Lianfu’s heart wavered, and in that moment’s distraction, he stumbled into danger, only regaining his senses with a furious shout, “Witch! Still trying to ensnare me with your charms!”

Yan Fengjiao shot him a coy glance and giggled, “Xiang, must you be so fierce?” Even as she spoke, her sword did not slow. A guard, distracted by her voice, hesitated for an instant and was killed on the spot.

Ghost Sword Han Qinghua said nothing, leaping at Xu Dali with a deadly thrust. Xu unleashed his Eagle Claw technique, fingers splayed—one hand reaching for Han’s face, the other for his sword wrist.

Han twisted his wrist, a flash of silver sweeping at Xu’s legs. Xu leapt, swooping down like a hawk. Han sidestepped with a cold laugh. In a rapid exchange, they traded over a dozen blows. Xu, growing anxious, seized an opening when Han thrust at him—he flicked the sword aside with his left hand and grabbed at Han’s chest with his right. Han did not dodge, but met him palm to palm. The instant their hands met, Xu felt an icy chill snake from his palm up his arm; his right hand withered and shrank, as if the flesh were sucked dry. “So you practice this vile art too!” he cried.

Han’s sword, ghostly and silent, slashed at Xu. Xu felt a cold flash at his throat, hot blood gushed forth, and he collapsed, dead.

Ghost Sword Han Qinghua, having slain Xu Dali, turned his sword on the remaining guards. Han was famed as one of the Four Great Swordsmen of the age—how could mere escorts withstand him? In moments, all were slain, save Xiang Lianfu.

Xiang Lianfu, wounded yet defiant, fought on desperately.

Yan Fengjiao said, “Xiang, we don’t wish to kill you. We only need you to deliver a message to Zhu Shitian: have the Sacred Armor ready. In three months, my husband and I will visit the South and collect it. If your master wishes to join our Sacred Crane Sect, we’ll petition the leader—Zhu Shitian should have no trouble becoming a hall master.”

Xiang Lianfu shouted angrily, “Just to deliver a message, you slaughtered all my brothers!”

Yan Fengjiao replied, “If we spared them, would your master listen? Besides, too many people needn’t know of this.” As she spoke, she flicked a black streak at him. Xiang Lianfu caught it, but Han Qinghua sprang on him from behind, chopping him on the neck. Xiang Lianfu fell unconscious.

When he awoke, bodies lay scattered everywhere. Even the wagon drivers had been slain by the White Snake and Ghost Sword, who had vanished with the plundered wagons.

Zhu Shitian pointed to the Sacred Crane token on the table with a bitter smile. “That was the token Xiang Lianfu had in his hand. By my reckoning, today is the day.”

With a crash, Sect Master Xu Qianfan of the Kongtong Sect dropped his teacup, his face pale. He muttered, “Senior Brother Han is still alive? It’s been twenty years. We all thought he was dead, yet he has returned with that White Snake demoness.”

Everyone turned to Xu Qianfan, who sighed. “Senior Brother Han’s past is well known to the elders here. But the younger ones only know he was one of the Four Great Swordsmen, not why he vanished from the martial world. It’s best if Mr. Du tells the story. As it concerns the tragedy of my Kongtong Sect, it would be improper for me to speak.”

Du Xunqi, the widely respected chronicler of the martial world, stood and saluted Xu Qianfan, then bowed to the assembly. “This matter is internal to the Kongtong Sect, and it would be inappropriate for outsiders to speak. But as it concerns Han Qinghua and Yan Fengjiao, concealing it could bring disaster. Fortunately, Sect Master Xu understands the greater good and has asked me to explain. I will do so, holding nothing back.”

Xu Qianfan replied, “No need for formality, Mr. Du. Though Han Qinghua was my senior brother, now that he has joined with the White Snake and killed innocents, colluding with evil cults of the North, he is now the enemy of all righteous martial artists in the South. You may speak freely.”

Du Xunqi said, “Thank you, Sect Master. Han Qinghua’s story is a tragic one. Orphaned at a young age, he survived by begging from town to town. At seven or eight, he was kidnapped by human traffickers, passed from hand to hand, and suffered greatly. Later, he was bought by a troupe of snake charmers, forced to perform daily with venomous snakes wrapped around him to elicit pity and earn coins. At night, he was locked in an iron cage with wild dogs, and if he disobeyed, he was hung up and beaten. The reason Han Qinghua has no fingernails is that, as a child, he scratched one of the villains’ faces and they sliced off his nails with a knife, leaving his fingers forever bare.”

At this, Du scanned the room. Many present, who had moments ago been furious at Han Qinghua’s ruthlessness, now found themselves moved by the account of his suffering. Xu Qianfan, who had long known his senior’s story, still found his eyes moist with tears.

ps: I work during the day, take my children to and from school in the mornings and evenings, and care for my parents. Only in the quiet of late night do I find time to write. For a year, writing “The Legend of the Glorious Tang,” I have seldom slept before one in the morning. I dare not claim every word is a pearl, but every line is written with heart’s blood. What takes a reader a few minutes may take me hours of thought and revision. It is not easy. I hope readers will support and recommend my work, so my efforts are not in vain. My heartfelt thanks to all.

This novel is a slow burn—the story unfolds gradually, becoming more engrossing as it progresses, with intrigue and struggle both overt and hidden. The seeds sown early on will become clear as the plot advances. This book presents not only the chivalric tales of the martial world but also the hidden schemes and power plays of the court. The narrative follows historical events, with characters such as Li Chongyuan, Li Chongjun, Li Duozuo, Tian Yangming, and Xue Chongjian—real historical figures whose fates follow the records. Thus, “The Legend of the Glorious Tang” is not only a martial epic but also a historical narrative. All manner of Tang court secrets will be revealed in the pages. I trust you will not be disappointed. After this novel is complete, I will present “The Mourning of Tang” as thanks for your support.