“Hey, Wu Du,” Duan Ling mumbled almost to himself as he twirled a green foxtail stalk.
“Hm?”
They sat together in the moving carriage, and the tree receded further and further into the distance.
“Someone died under that tree where we were sitting, didn’t they?” Duan Ling said.
Wu Du frowned. “How did you know?” he asked after a pause.
“There were still traces of blood around the roots,” Duan Ling said. “From not very long ago—maybe no more than a year.”
Wu Du was impressed against his will. “You’re smart,” he said casually.
He must have sat under that tree reflecting for a reason. Duan Ling figured the deceased in question might have been a friend. He hesitated, wondering if he should say something to comfort Wu Du and perhaps get to know him better. Whenever he was alone with Wu Du, he remembered how he’d known next to nothing about Lang Junxia when they were together. Maybe that ignorance was the root of betrayal.
Could the deceased be…Zhao Kui? The timing would match. Duan Ling’s mind painted the picture: Zhao Kui, pursued by his father to this place, dying beneath the tree. Wu Du would’ve had nowhere to escape; his only choice would have been to drop his sword and swear loyalty to his father. He wanted badly to ask, but he was afraid Wu Du would become suspicious if it seemed he knew more than he should.
Yet Wu Du told him without being prompted: “It was General Zhao.”
Duan Ling made a shushing gesture, motioning toward the driver—there were ears everywhere. Wu Du waved a hand in return—don’t worry—then rested that hand on Duan Ling. Duan Ling had slumped against him again as soon as they entered the carriage, half reclined and staring off into space as they talked.
Wu Du had a comfortable smell, fresh grass mixed with the clean, masculine scent of a healthy young man. He didn’t spend much time on his appearance, but Duan Ling felt that made him more approachable; he acted casual and free, like a true rogue swordsman.
“Haven’t you noticed the driver is deaf?” Wu Du asked.
Only then did Duan Ling realize the driver was indeed both deaf and mute. It made sense—Mu Kuangda had assigned this man to them. If the driver couldn’t hear or speak, he couldn’t be captured and tortured for information.
“Did General Zhao treat you well?” Duan Ling asked.
“He was all right,” Wu Du said. “Truthfully, he looked down on me.”
“Why?”
“It was a long time ago,” Wu Du drawled. “I have a shijie, Xunchun. She can play ‘Joyful Reunion’ too; our shiniang taught it to us. And Shiniang had an old lover—General Zhao.”
“What about your shifu?” Duan Ling asked.
“He passed away a long time ago.” Wu Du frowned. “He made himself pills of immortality, believing in some formula he found somewhere, mixed them with mercury, and took himself to ascension.”
Duan Ling wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare in front of Wu Du.
“The emperor before the late emperor,” Wu Du continued. “The current emperor’s father who passed away last year—he believed in all that as well. He spent his days in the palace making pills and taking medicines in search of immortality.”
That’s my grandfather, thought Duan Ling. But I never met him and don’t have a great impression of him, so say whatever you want.
“Why did you end up following General Zhao?” Duan Ling asked.
“Because Shiniang died,” Wu Du said. “Liao breached the Great Wall, and my shijie and I left to pursue our own paths. Zhao Kui recruited me, while my shijie went to Shangjing seeking revenge. I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
Xunchun’s fate was fresh in Duan Ling’s mind, but he couldn’t say anything about it to Wu Du. There was still so much he hadn’t sorted through after his flight from the city.
“Is this tattoo also from your sect?” Duan Ling sat up and leaned closer to study the tattoo on the side of Wu Du’s neck. Wu Du looked at him askance as Duan Ling flipped his collar down and tugged it a little to bare more skin. Wu Du blushed, awkwardly yanking his collar back into place. Averting his eyes, he pointed to the bench and gestured for Duan Ling to sit properly.
“Yeah,” he said.
“What’s your sect’s name?” Duan Ling asked.
“Why do you have so many questions?” Wu Du replied, impatient.
“Come on, satisfy my thirst for knowledge,” Duan Ling volleyed back. “Wasn’t it Confucius who said, ‘If I were to gain knowledge in the morning, I could die at sunset without regret’?”
“The White Tiger Sect,” Wu Du answered.
“Never heard of it.”
Wu Du stared at Duan Ling, momentarily speechless. Duan Ling corrected course and said fawningly, “Clearly I’m ignorant, so I’m asking for guidance from Master Wu.”
“Have you heard of the Guardian of the Realm?” Wu Du asked, pacified. “I guess you probably haven’t.”
You puff up the second you’re praised, Duan Ling thought. Look how pleased you are.
“It’s a sword,” Duan Ling said.
“Yes, a sword. Forged by the White Tiger Sect.”
Wu Du told the tale: In ancient times, when the legendary Great Yu dynasty crumbled and the realm was thrown into chaos, foreign tribes from beyond the Great Wall had invaded the Central Plains. As a result, the original Nameless Sword was lost to the northern tribes, who melted it down and reforged it into several swords, distributed among them. Later, a gallant Han swordsman called Wanlifu from the White Tiger Sect of Xichuan slew the four chiefs of the four Xiongnu tribes within only three nights. After he retrieved the scattered swords, they were reforged into a single blade once again, which he entrusted to the Li family, who also held the jade disc. Wanlifu established a group of assassins in Xichuan, which he called the White Tiger Sect. He took on four disciples, to whom he passed down all his martial techniques, and ordered them to follow the wielder of the Guardian to restore glory to their empire.
Thirteen years later, Great Chen was established, and Wanlifu retired, having accomplished his goal. Three of his four disciples left the White Tiger Sect, but despite their departure, they never forgot Wanlifu’s teachings. All successors of his school of martial arts were obligated to tattoo a white tiger onto their bodies. These awe-inspiring assassins, who led carefree lives transgressing the law by way of martial arts, were a promise: In troubled times, when the nation was in desperate need, those above rules and politics—the killers hidden in the world—were bound to reappear and change the course of history by dint of their inhuman strength.
Wanlifu himself had been supremely powerful; even his name was the name of a glorious ancient sword, Chengsheng Wanlifu—the Triumphant Subjugator. On top of training four disciples, each of whom inherited one of his skills, he taught the Li family the Mountain and River Sword Style and the Roaring Tiger Fist. Though his four disciples eventually went their separate ways, the teachings were passed on, and they and all their disciples bore white tiger tattoos. Wu Du’s sect, in particular, had been founded by Wanlifu’s youngest disciple.
Duan Ling listened to the story with rapt attention. Few in the outside world knew of these secret affairs of the jianghu, and his father had never shared any details. What he learned was that the Four Great Assassins were all descendants of the White Tiger Sect, and that Wu Du’s branch had inherited the most important skill: poisons.
“While she was alive, Shiniang always remembered her duty,” Wu Du said. “Shifu passed on early, so she tattooed me herself. But although she passed down our teachings for so many years, nearly everyone has left the sect.”
Duan Ling didn’t quite understand. “What duty?”
“Poison.”
“Poison?” Duan Ling repeated.
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Tell me. I really want to know.” Duan Ling sensed that this was terribly important; he stared at Wu Du expectantly.
After a short pause, Wu Du said, “There’s no first place in scholarship, and no second place in martial arts. I’ll put it this way: Do you think it’s possible for someone to be born a martial arts genius and eventually become so powerful that no one can rival their skill?”
“Sure,” Duan Ling agreed.
“I’ve only seen one person like that,” Wu Du said. “The late emperor. Of course, since he was the emperor, I wouldn’t kill him. But what about others?”
Duan Ling longed to hear Wu Du speak more about his father, but Wu Du continued his earnest explanation. “If it wasn’t the late emperor, it would’ve been someone else. Geniuses will always appear. An unrivaled master might even be born among the four branches of the White Tiger Sect. Such a person could kill anyone, at any time, unbound by the rules of the world—he could escape when outnumbered, and fight unmatched when alone. If such a person becomes too strong to be controlled and turns to evil, he will bring disaster upon the world.”
“That’s true,” Duan Ling acknowledged. The stronger a person was, the more devastating the evil deeds he could commit should he give into temptation.
“When such a person can no longer be defeated with force, poison is the final recourse. Even if a person doesn’t eat or drink, they must still breathe. The final duty of our sect is therefore to use poison as a last resort to retake the sword.” Duan Ling nodded in understanding as Wu Du concluded, “Three of our founder’s four disciples left the sect back then, yet the sect is still here. We are the formal successors of the White Tiger.”