Chapter Thirteen: The Maiden Shu Ling

Li Zisheng found himself unbearably bored, so while his grandmother was distracted for a moment, he slipped away to his usual haunt—the hillside behind their home. Thanks to the recent snowfall, the entire mountain was draped in shimmering white, but the paths had long since been cleared by villagers gathering firewood. The way was neither slippery nor treacherous, making for a pleasant, steady walk. Breathing in the crisp air and admiring the snow-laden scenery, Li Zisheng finally felt his long-held restlessness lift, exhaling in relief.

At the summit, radiant colors stretched a thousand feet across the sky. The sun had already risen, and its light danced on the snow, casting a gentle, silvery glow all around—a truly enchanting sight.

Wandering atop the mountain, Li Zisheng drank in the freshness left by the snow. Though the first rays of sunlight dazzled his eyes, they carried a sense of promise and meaning. The boredom that had weighed so heavily upon him was washed clean away.

“Viewing Tianshui Village from the rear mountain truly has its own unique flavor,” he thought, his heart brimming with delight. He had been in this flourishing Tang era for some years now; with the New Year and Lantern Festival soon to pass, it would soon be time for him to begin his studies.

“A thousand miles of silver sand bear no trace of travelers; a single bark echoes through the tranquil village.”

The crunch of footsteps on snow suddenly caught his attention.

“Tsk. What is it with ancient people, always disrupting the peace? I come up here early in the morning for some fresh air, and someone else appears—always the same: stealthy at first, then reciting a poem to announce themselves, as if to show off. Well, I suppose I can’t blame them. It’s hard not to be drawn by my irresistible charm.” Thus grumbling to himself, Li Zisheng turned to see who it was.

Standing before him were a strikingly elegant young woman and a girl about his own age, both gazing at him intently. The refined young woman spoke first, “Young master, I just heard the verses you recited. Your poetry is truly delightful! I can hardly believe one so young could be so eloquent. I am sincerely impressed.”

She held a three-foot-long, finely crafted sword in her hand, its blade glinting with cold light. The little girl beside her, though silent, appeared composed and poised, standing with a natural grace.

“Thank you, ladies, for your kind words,” Li Zisheng replied, affecting the poise of someone far older than his seven years. “From your attire, it seems you are not from these parts. May I ask what brings you here?”

The refined young woman laughed lightly, “I did not expect someone so young to be so perceptive. You guessed at once that we are outsiders.” Her companion, the little girl, remained silent.

“She must be a bit slow,” Li Zisheng thought to himself, exasperated. It wasn’t as if he were blind; in this rural village, their luxurious clothing—fur-trimmed robes, brocaded hats—marked them unmistakably as people of high status. Even their jewelry was beyond what a typical landowner’s family could afford.

Still, he refrained from voicing his thoughts and instead bowed modestly. “I dare not accept such praise.”

The elegant woman’s manner was open and forthright. “Young master, the line about the barking dog in your poem was truly inspired. Would you grant me another poem, this time for my newly acquired sword? I would be most grateful.”

“My name is Li Zisheng,” he replied, “No need for honorifics—just call me by my name. It’s simpler that way.”

She smiled. “Very well, Zisheng. I am Zhang Shufeng, and this is my cousin Zhang Shuling. What do you say to my request for a poem?”

Li Zisheng met each of their gazes in turn, then settled his eyes on Zhang Shufeng. “Perhaps you could show me your martial arts first?”

He knew at a glance that these two must be of distinguished background—their dress and bearing set them apart. They possessed both the reserve of scholars and the self-assurance of warriors, a combination that spoke of high birth—certainly beyond anything he could claim.

“You are direct—I like that!” Zhang Shufeng said with a laugh. Without hesitation, she moved like a streak of white, her sword flashing through the air. In the open space atop the rear mountain, the deep snow began to swirl and dance with each sweep of her blade.

Her movements were swift and fluid, sending snowflakes flying in all directions. In the midst of the wintry gusts, watching a maiden perform a sword dance was a sight of rare beauty—no wonder the ancients so loved to witness such displays. The thought amused Li Zisheng, and an involuntary smile tugged at his lips.

“Have you already composed something?” The usually silent Zhang Shuling had, at some point, come to stand beside him.

“Poetry flows from the heavens; genius appears by happy accident. Watching Miss Zhang’s sword dance—so grand and seamless—I am indeed inspired,” he replied without turning. Thus, he did not see the flicker in Zhang Shuling’s eyes at his words.

Hearing him speak, the ever-composed Zhang Shuling’s eyes suddenly shone with light. Observing Li Zisheng’s rapt attention, her heart stirred with emotion.

“Here, take this,” Li Zisheng said, handing her the hand-warmer his grandmother had given him. He then hurried off to snap a small branch from a tree and began to write energetically in the snow.

With a single sword, she stirs the four corners of the land; like dragons soaring and phoenixes flying, her force is unstoppable. Three thousand guests drunk on blossoms fill the hall, but one blade of frosted steel chills a thousand counties.

The war drums shatter the sky, the auspicious air is cold; wind and waves shake the earth, and autumn sweeps the mountains and seas. If only I could witness your sword dance once—who would envy the lords of a myriad households?

By now, Zhang Shufeng had finished her performance and stood watching Li Zisheng’s energetic brushwork in the snow. This was his first time writing in the flourishing Tang era, and while his calligraphy was a bit unsteady, the verses themselves radiated admiration for Zhang Shufeng’s sword dance.

Each time he finished a line, a spark of wonder lit up in the girls’ eyes. By the time he wrote the final line, their gazes had completely changed—utterly unexpected and astonishing.

Zhang Shufeng, initially intending only to tease a young child in the snowy mountains, now found herself truly delighted by the encounter. She had not expected that this seven-year-old would surprise her so thoroughly. Though his handwriting was still immature, the poetic talent displayed was in no way inferior to the young scholars of the Imperial Academy.

Zhang Shuling, already somewhat admiring of Li Zisheng, now felt her appreciation soar. She had witnessed what it meant to be a true prodigy—by comparison, she felt herself lacking, and her gaze returned to calm.

At that very moment, as Zhang Shuling’s eyes regained their tranquility, Li Zisheng noticed something rising above her head—a phenomenon he hadn’t seen for a long time.

Azure clouds of fortune—azure clouds of fortune!