Chapter One: Before the Winds Rose

In the third year of the Kaiyuan era of the Great Tang, twenty years had passed since Xu Jingye had raised arms in rebellion against the dynasty. After enduring the ravages of war, the city of Yangzhou had once again returned to tranquility. The city walls still bore the scars and remnants of past flames, yet within the city itself, life flourished in a haze of decadence—songs, dances, and revelry filled the air.

Dusk was falling when, from the ancient and weathered city gates, an old man and a young man walked out together. The elder, just past sixty, was dressed immaculately and moved with measured, steady steps—not fast, but with the urgency of a meteor chasing the moon. The younger man, not yet thirty, wore simple, close-fitting clothing and had a clean, crisp look about him. Even with a heavy bundle strapped to his back, he moved with the energy of youth, following closely behind.

After they hurried along for some time, ensuring no one else was near, the old man turned back with a smile. “It’s been nearly ten years since we last entered Yangzhou, and the city is even more prosperous than before. Who would have thought that Li Dan would have such a worthy son? Li Longji in his youth hid his brilliance and endured in silence, then joined forces with Princess Taiping to slay Empress Wei and seize power. With his claws and fangs sharpened, he struck with thunderous force, eliminating Princess Taiping and taking control for himself. Now, he governs the empire with unmatched skill—his mind and methods are as formidable as Li Shimin’s ever were.”

Li Longji’s greatest strength lay in his ability to ride the tides of power, twice borrowing the momentum of others to destroy mighty foes, bending and stretching as needed, cold-blooded and ruthless. Even the golden age of the Kaiyuan reign was built upon the foundation so painstakingly laid by Empress Wu Zetian.

The young man’s face showed indignation. “If not for borrowing the Grand Marshal’s sword, how could Li Longji ever have bested Princess Taiping?”

“My sword is not so sharp as you think,” the old man replied, his expression melancholic. “But the one who wields it is a genius without equal. It’s a pity—Pei Wen, I had hoped to entrust him to Ao’er.” As he spoke, the old man’s mind conjured up the image of a youth from over a decade ago, his eyes cold and solitary, cradling a sword.

The young man, too, was overcome with sorrow. “Pei Wen should have been the freest, the most powerful swordmaster under heaven. Now, he’s become nothing more than a hound for the Tang court—it’s a tragedy.”

This all stemmed from an agreement the old man had made with the young Li Longji years earlier: he gave him a man and a sword. At the time, Li Longji was still the crown prince and promised to help clear the name of the Xu family and restore the title of the late Duke of England, Xu Maogong (Li Ji).

“Freedom? What does it mean to be free? It’s pitiful enough for an ordinary man to have his fate decided by others, but even those who claim the world, calling themselves sovereign, are not truly free. Freedom was never meant for this era.” The old man recalled his old friends, Luo Binwang and Wei Siwen. The three of them, when young, had sworn to rid the world of the demon empress Wu, restore order, and reestablish the proper rites. Looking back, all those vows now seemed as insubstantial as a dream.

The two of them moved quickly, and as they spoke, they had already returned to their hidden dwelling.

No one would have imagined that, in the heart of a desolate plain, there existed a hidden village.

Though it was late autumn and half the sun still hung in the western sky, snowflakes were falling in great, fluttering drifts.

A place that ought to have been a peaceful paradise was now stained with blood—a hell on earth.

Pei Wen, dressed in white, cradled a small, silent child in his left arm, while his right hand still gripped a long sword, blood dripping from the blade. Even the swirling snow seemed to shy away from him, falling gently elsewhere.

“Lord Jingye, it has been many years.” The once frail youth had grown into a towering figure, the sword in his hand exuding an icy aura.

Xu Jingye nodded, anger and grief rising within him until they became invisible but overwhelming. “I am humbled to receive the honor of the Sword Saint of Tang.”

The young man's eyes were wide with rage. “You scoundrel! Have you forgotten who saved your life when you were on the brink? Who taught you all your skills? And yet you commit such an atrocity—I, Liang Chaoran, can never forgive you!”

Pei Wen sighed. “General Liang, if I were you, I would not make such hollow vows before a peak I could never hope to surpass.”

Such was the pride of the Sword Saint of Tang.

With that, Pei Wen knelt and bowed three times to Xu Jingye. “The grace of saving my life, of raising me, of teaching me the sword—I will never forget. I am here to repay that debt.”

That was the last remnant of softness in the heart of the Sword Saint of Tang.

Xu Jingye laughed until tears came to his eyes, then asked, “My grandson—my grandson, he’s still alive?”

“I was able to save only this one child.” Pei Wen lifted the bundle, and the baby within let out two bright, cheerful laughs, unafraid of the murderous atmosphere.

Though usually taciturn, Liang Chaoran was far from slow-witted. Hearing this, he understood most of the truth. No doubt the Tang court had discovered their hiding place, and Pei Wen had been sent personally to save the Grand Marshal’s grandson, Xu Jia’ao.

Xu Jingye untied the bundle Liang Chaoran had carried back and produced a large jar of wine. He drained it in one long draught and smashed the jar. “I should have followed my two friends to the grave more than twenty years ago when our army was defeated. Luo Binwang devised a plan for me to escape death, letting me linger on in this world. I have long since grown weary of it.”

“Liang Chaoran, hear my command!” In that moment, Xu Jingye once again became the spirited Grand Marshal of Yangzhou, the Duke of England. His orders carried the weight of an empire.

Liang Chaoran knelt and saluted. “At your command!”

“From now on, you are to take the name Yu Chaoran, and my grandson Xu Jia’ao will also take the surname Yu—‘Yu,’ for surviving disaster. You will be father and son. Unless absolutely necessary, do not tell him who his grandfather was.”

“At your command!”

Xu Jingye looked at Pei Wen with deep gratitude. “If you do not return with my head, Li Longji will not spare your life. You have saved my grandson; you owe nothing more to the Xu family.”

With those words, he severed his own head without hesitation.

Yu Chaoran fell to the ground, weeping bitterly. From an awkward soldier afraid to draw his sword on the battlefield, he had come this far. Xu Jingye meant more to him than the sky above. Were it not for the duty of raising the young master, he would have followed him to the grave.

“Here we part, as the heroes did at Yan Dan. In days gone by, the men are gone, but the waters still run cold…”

Singing softly, Pei Wen sighed and vanished into the distance.

On the soft grass, the child stared blankly at the sky. It was the most beautiful sight he had seen since coming into this world.

———

Yu Lang finished reading the first chapter and didn’t even notice that the half-eaten burger in his hand had grown cold. Xu Jia’ao? The protagonist of this novel shared the exact name as his late father, Yu Jia’ao? This book was beyond strange.

The word “father” was nothing more than a distant, extravagant symbol for the orphan Yu Lang.

But the origins of this book were even stranger.

Three years ago, after watching a movie together, Yu Lang’s girlfriend, Ning Xue, had vanished without a trace. He had searched the entire city like a madman, scouring every nook of his memory, but found nothing. Though he had just turned twenty-five this year, Yu Lang knew this would be a lifelong regret.

That very evening, while browsing a bookstore, Yu Lang thought he caught sight of Ning Xue’s face through the shelves. He rushed around in a panic, but there was no one there—only this book, “Lend Me Half a Lifetime of the Glorious Tang,” left on the floor.

His suspicions only grew. On the way home, Yu Lang couldn’t help but open to the second chapter.

By moonlight, Yu Lang read aloud the line at the start of the section:

“Let me sell myself for wine and sleep, drunk, through three hundred years of the flourishing Tang!”

He looked up. The buildings collapsed, the stars turned upside down, the world faded away.

The protagonist dies. The story ends—struck through.