SF 8

The man’s voice was not loud, but it silenced the rowdy cell like a flock of crows struck dumb. Ling Xun turned toward the sound and, peering through the wall of thick-necked, broad-shouldered bodies, located the one who had spoken, a figure seated with a certain towering presence.

He sat at the very back of the cell on a threadbare cotton quilt. Next to him stood a chipped, paint-worn square stool. Together, they carved out a space that, even in this filthy cage, resembled something close to an upper-class corner.

Ling Xun studied him carefully. The man’s hair and beard were thick and unkempt, his frame broad and solid. If he stood to his full height, he would be an imposing giant. But with the light so dim, Ling Xun could not make out his features clearly, and had no way of knowing whether this man truly was an “old friend.”

After calling Ling Xun an old friend, the man said nothing more. Ling Xun also remained still. Since the other wasn’t moving, neither would he. His backside stayed firmly planted atop the miserable boy beneath him.

The other inmates, stuck between them like an audience at a play, turned their necks from one side to the other, sizing them up. Someone finally piped up, “Well I’ll be damned. So the little beauty is our boss’s old flame?”

The silence shattered. The crows squawked again.

The man referred to as “boss” did not deny it. But the air around him carried a quiet menace, a silent promise that said clearly, Keep talking and see what happens. Sure enough, once the jeering thugs had laughed themselves teary-eyed, he dropped a thunderclap of a sentence.

“You lot are busy wagging your tongues, but if you offend a formation master, don’t expect to die with your bodies intact.”

The ones still halfway through their dirty jokes froze mid-sentence. It was like a coop of plucked chickens suddenly caught by the neck. One by one, they turned wide-eyed toward Ling Xun.

“A formation master? Boss, you’re not messing with us, are you?”

Ling Xun’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure if the man had caught the subtle techniques he used on that kid earlier. Still, he wore the same smile as always, perfectly calm, like someone untouched by worldly concerns. The more relaxed and aloof he appeared, the more the others panicked. They scattered like birds flushed from the brush.

Once they had scrambled a safe distance about three or four steps, they seemed to feel they were out of harm’s way. For the moment, their fear subsided. They clustered into small groups again and began chattering excitedly.

In the Great Xia Dynasty, formation masters had been hunted and purged for centuries. They were rarer than phoenix feathers, practically extinct. An ordinary citizen could go their whole life without ever seeing one. And so, over time, the myths and stories surrounding them had become increasingly bizarre.

“I heard formation masters can use arrays to change their appearance. You think he looks this good because of some kind of formation magic?”

“That makes sense! I mean, how else could anyone look that good?”

“My gran used to say formation masters could sacrifice living people to fuel their arrays. They’d meditate at the array’s core for forty-nine days straight, and open a path to the Yellow Springs.”

Scarface, who had finally untangled himself from his own sleeves, seemed to find a convenient ladder named dignity to climb back up on. He muttered like a scolded housewife, saying no wonder he lost that fight. The way he saw it, his opponent clearly wasn’t human. That high-pitched voice combined with such an outrageously seductive face made for a sight so awkward it almost hurt to look at.

Ling Xun listened with idle amusement as the group continued to chatter nonsense. The man who had exposed his identity finally stood up from the worn cotton quilt and walked over, extending a hand to him.

“Little brother, why don’t we find a quieter place to talk.”

Once they reached a spot with better light, Ling Xun finally got a good look at him. The man had a leopard-like head, round eyes, a strong jaw, and a beard like a tiger’s. Suddenly, a dusty memory stirred in some back corner of his mind. He remembered this face. They had crossed paths once before. This was no old friend. If anything, it was more like enemies meeting on a narrow road.

“So it’s you, you old bastard. Zhongli Shan.” Ling Xun pulled a crooked smile and took the man’s hand. With his help, he got off the human stool and stood up.

“Didn’t think you’d still remember me,” Zhongli Shan said with a hearty laugh. He kicked aside a few inmates blocking the way and helped Ling Xun over to his own corner, where he settled him against the wall atop the threadbare quilt.

“Boss…” The teenager who had first picked the fight whimpered from the ground. His body remained frozen in a stiff pose, as if something invisible were holding his limbs in place.

Zhongli Shan scowled and shot him a glare. “Shut the hell up. Lie there and think about what it means to mistake a tiger for a stray dog.”

That rebuke hit everyone in the cell. After all, none of them had been able to see through Ling Xun’s disguise. But by now, it was clear that this pretty face wasn’t just some eunuch’s bedwarmer. No one with a brain still believed a formation master would lower himself to that.

“The first time I saw you, I knew you weren’t ordinary. Figured you were more than just some freight-runner. But I didn’t expect you to be a formation master. How did you end up in here?”

Ling Xun finally managed to stretch his legs out. The movement tugged at his wounds and made him hiss through his teeth. He didn’t answer. Instead, he shot the question back.

“And what about you? A proper mountain bandit leader, locked up like the rest of us. Are all these your men? Don’t tell me the court came and wiped out your whole nest.”

“Ah, it’s a long story…” Zhongli Shan began to explain. Though he was trapped in a death cell, with an execution date likely looming close, he spoke as if it were just some trivial event, hardly worth worrying about.

In truth, his and Ling Xun’s first meeting was the stuff of old-fashioned martial tales, the kind summed up neatly by the phrase no friendship without a good fight.

It had happened three years ago, the first time Ling Xun took a delivery job. At just sixteen, short on manpower and too stubborn to trust anyone else, he had decided to lead the convoy himself. He wasn’t big, but he was bold, determined to earn that dangerous pay by personally escorting the goods from Yizhou to Liangzhou.

When they passed through Qingping Mountain, where the borders of Yizhou, Liangzhou, and the capital intersected, the story unfolded just as it did in every folk tale. A group of mountain bandits stopped them with the classic line. We built this path and planted these trees. If you want to pass through, you’ll have to pay a toll.

Still, these bandits weren’t entirely heartless. They only wanted a toll. They told Ling Xun to leave the wagons and walk away with his men.

If the wagons had been filled with nothing more than silk or cloth, Ling Xun might have handed them over and called it charity. But they weren’t. He was responsible for the shipment. If he lost the cargo and failed to deliver it to the next buyer, even if the bandits spared his life, the original client would have him bound and tossed into the river to feed the fish.

So he had no choice but to fight.

Maybe both sides still had some shred of mercy in them, or maybe they were just perfectly matched. Either way, the skirmish raged for hours in the ravines of Qingping Mountain without a single casualty.

By the time the sun dipped low, both merchants and bandits were sprawled out in the dirt, too tired to lift a finger. The bandit chief unstrapped a wine flask from his belt and tossed it to Ling Xun. Ling Xun drank straight from the flask, then tossed it back half full. The chief laughed heartily, then pulled a token from his belt and handed it over. He told Ling Xun that if he ever passed through Qingping Mountain again, all he had to do was show the token and no one would dare touch him.

After that, word spread throughout the underworld in Yizhou and Jingzhou. The convoys of Jinxiu Pavilion had received the personal protection of Zhongli Shan, the bandit king of Qingping Mountain. The value of their brand soared, and within just three years, Jinxiu Pavilion had carved out a formidable presence in the transport trade.

Everyone believed that Boss Feng and Zhongli Shan shared deep ties. But the truth was, after that one meeting, they had never crossed paths again. Zhongli Shan didn’t even know that Ling Xun was the boss of Jinxiu Pavilion.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor. Years later, the two who once squared off with a glance were now stuck together in a prison cell.