Ying Zheng came quietly and left just as quietly. How much this might alter the course of things, Li Haimo couldn't say—he could only do his utmost and leave the rest to fate.
"Husband, why place such stock in Young Master Zheng?" Xiao Meng asked curiously. She knew well the weight of this choice: for his sake, Xiao Yao Zi had passed the sect leadership to Li Haimo, recalled all Human Sect disciples from the anti-Qin fray, and withdrawn from worldly conflicts. Yet Li Haimo had turned to serve Qin—and pledged himself to the least empowered of its heirs.
Li Haimo stroked her hair with fond affection. "Gilding the lily pales beside aid in the dead of winter. King Ying Zheng of Qin is no ordinary soul. He bides his time in the shadows now, but when he ascends to true command of the realm, Qin will surge eastward, forging the great unification of All-Under-Heaven."
They lingered a few more days on Taiyi Mountain before announcing their seclusion—a quiet slip away from the peak. After all, with the mountain sealed by decree, the leaders of the Heavenly and Human Sects reappearing in the mortal dust would smack of hypocrisy. Thus, they left even Qiu Li Xue Ji behind in the sect, taking only the Jian Jia and Bai Lu swords. These hailed from the Classic of Poetry's Three Hundred Swords—not so renowned that every soul would spot them at a glance. The Ling Xu remained tucked in its sword case, unveiled only in need.
"Senior Brother, where to now?" Xiao Meng asked once they'd descended. For one who'd never strayed from the mountain, the world below brimmed with unknowns.
"You pick a direction—any but west. We'll follow it to the horizon," Li Haimo replied. He had no fixed aim. First, years of wandering: to roam the rivers and ranges north and south. Only then to Little Sage Village in Sanghai, to unravel the enigmas of his Daoist Scripture. He knew the Yellow Stone lay in Chu Nangong's hands, but it was theirs by right—fortune if gained, no loss if denied.
"Then let's head to Xianyang first!" Xiao Meng decided. From the mountain, she'd heard endless tales: Xianyang, Qin's capital, rivaled only Linzi as the Seven States' jewel of prosperity.
"Very well—to Xianyang it is," Li Haimo agreed with a grin.
Fate had other plans. Both novices to the lowlands, they meandered with playful detours and larks, only to stumble upon a town and learn they'd veered wide of Xianyang—landing instead in the old Qin capital of Li Yang. A short trek more, and Hangu Pass loomed ahead.
"Laozi rode his green ox out of Hangu Pass, heralded by purple vapors stretching three thousand li eastward. Shall we hunt a green ox of our own to test the legend?" Li Haimo wove a crown of wildflowers and perched it on the girl's brow, chuckling.
"No! They'd reek to high heaven," Xiao Meng rejected with a wrinkle of her nose. These days, Li Haimo had introduced her to a menagerie unknown on the peak: oxen, swine, the humble barnyard fowl. The most comical mishap came when they passed a village and she spied a grand goose—its stately waddle evoking some immortal air—and asked eagerly what manner of creature it was.
The next instant, man and girl fled pell-mell through the lanes, pursued by the furious honker. Any who's known rural life recalls the triad of terrors: the vigilant goose guarding hearth and home, the hunting hound on the prowl, the cock's dawn reveille. Childhood nightmares for every village lad. The dogs stayed chained, at least—but geese and roosters roamed free, harrying all in reach.
That evening, Li Haimo stewed a grand pot of goose in iron—purchased fair from the villagers. At first, they balked, but coin enough smoothed all qualms; they even pressed extra spices upon the pair and shared some ancestral recipe passed down generations untold.
Li Haimo demurred. Geese offered endless delights: half in the hearty iron pot, half roasted crisp; the rest as French-style foie gras and chilled offal salad. Heir to the empire of epicures, how could he settle for one mere stew?
And so, wherever they wandered, the land lay stripped bare. Floral feasts of slaughter and savor: fire kindled, viands wrought.
A lamb, all endearing fluff one heartbeat—whole-roasted spit the next. A rabbit, winsome as sin—braised head in red sauce moments later.
In sum, any beast that caught Xiao Meng's eye met its end on Li Haimo's blade, reborn as some delicacy from her lips.
Beasts, daring to vie with me for Xiao Meng's gaze? Off to the wheel of rebirth with you, Li Haimo mused darkly. Think your lack of humanity spares you? Even flora falls: the edible to the plate, the inedible to garlands, sunhats, or dogtail rings. Life? No quarter. Reincarnate swiftly.
"Senior Brother, at this rate, I'll grow round as a drum," Xiao Meng grumbled.
"Impossible. I'd only ache to see you thin," Li Haimo laughed. Martial souls like theirs defied the paunch.
Having marveled at the world's mightiest barrier, they inquired locally on Laozi's exodus from Hangu, then sought the site. Naught remained but a scroll of the Tao Te Ching and a shrine to Earth Mother raised by nearby folk. A stick of incense to her, and they pressed onward.
In towns or hamlets, they sought inns; absent those, wind for roof, dew for dew. No commoners they—highway robbery suited them ill, but pity the famed Jian Jia: reduced to kitchen cleaver, barbecue spit, or wood-splitting wedge. At times, it even sparked as tinder. Among storied blades, its dignity lay in tatters.
They strolled and paused at whim. Funds low? A stint as mock bandits: masked at the crossroads, a booming "This road mine opened, these trees mine planted—from here to pass, leave toll behind!" The compliant paid for peace; the stubborn earned a thrashing, then paid for peace. Targets ever the plump-pursed; takings modest.
Such charlatans plagued their path too, but crude lot: martial dregs without even a proper boast. A quick inquisition, then: crippled or slain, burial their own affair.
At vistas of rare beauty, they'd linger weeks or moons, till the view palled—or the local fauna fled their pots—prompting fresh departure.
Thus, whispers spread through the jianghu: a duo of sword-wanderers. None divined their style, nor glimpsed their blades clear enough for fame. Nicknames eluded them. The man favored azure robes; the girl, azure-white. Traits too vague for flair. Restless rovers, they shunned any fixed haunt—ground for a toponymic title? None. In the end, "The Azure-Clad Guests" sufficed. One moniker for two, inseparable as shadow to flame: spot one, the other lurked no farther than thirty paces.
From Hangu they spilled into Han lands, threaded Wei, traversed Zhao, glimpsed Yan—three full years' amble before loping toward Qi's Sanghai and Little Sage Village. Of the Seven States, only Chu they'd skipped.
They'd savored Wei's haughty swagger, Han's sybaritic excess, Zhao's lithe palm-dancers twirling like swallows in flight. Yan marked the finale. Among the royal houses, the sole heirs to Zhou's bloodline.
What singular joys did Yan hold? Precious few. No echo of later eras' Kyoto—no bubbling hotpots or lacquered ducks. Among the Seven, Yan scarce registered, outshone even by Han's faint flicker. Folk recalled it mostly through afterechoes: winds sighing o'er Yi River's chill. In this age, Yan cast no shadow. Yet having come this far, they'd tread its paths, drink its sights.
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