Chapter 13: Sha Lifei

Chapter 13: Sha Lifei

Dead?

When Li Yan heard the news, he felt momentarily stunned.

"Of course he's dead", Li Gui spat, his voice laced with contempt. "That old dog Yuan Xizhong, older than me by a decade, carried wounds from his days suppressing rebellions on the frontier. Ten years ago, word came that he’d taken to his sickbed. He suffered for three years before finally kicking the bucket—by then, he’d wasted away to skin and bones. And his children were no better, committing grave crimes that led to their entire family’s execution. Got exactly what they deserved!"

Li Yan scratched his head, feeling uneasy.

It was like preparing to confront someone only to learn they’d already been killed in an accident.

He couldn’t resist asking, "What exactly happened back then?"

Grandfather Li Gui puffed silently on his pipe for a long moment before finally speaking. "Fine. So much time has passed—I don’t want to carry this to the grave. We were deep in the White Mountains and Black Waters then. Besides the rebel general Guo Mao, who’d incited the northern tribes to rebellion, we crushed several nomadic clans that had joined the southern invasion.

"But because the previous dynasty had long clashed with the Golden Horde, there were still Han villages scattered across the northern frontier. Yuan Xizhong, for reasons I’ll never understand, burned every village to the ground along his path. He spared no one—not even the elderly, the infirm, or children.

"A few of us dared to protest. He had us publicly whipped—ten lashes each—and mocked us with cruel words.

"And that might’ve been bearable. War is cruel, and innocents always suffer. But when a branch of the Jurchen royal family fled, he turned a blind eye, as if struck blind.

"Afterward, we reported this to General Zhang, but we were barred from his camp. Yuan schemed against us, and while he rose steadily in rank, we were forced to retire in disgrace.

"Ah, the court was corrupt, the martial world perilous. What’s wrong with living peacefully as a farmer?"

Li Yan nodded thoughtfully, yet something felt off.

According to his grandfather, Yuan had been merely a deputy commander during the northern campaign, rising to prominence only later. The imperial commendation, the sorcerer’s interference, the precious Trinity Demon-Subduing Coin—none of these were things Yuan could have orchestrated alone.

Someone else must have cast the curse.

What grudge could justify such a costly scheme?

"Grandfather, what about your old comrades?"

"At first, we exchanged letters after returning home, but eventually all contact ceased. Most are probably too old or dead by now."

The old man sighed, gazing into the distance as his pipe smoke curled upward, lost in memories.

Li Yan asked no more.

He was certain now—there was more to this story. But he wouldn’t share his suspicions with his grandfather. The old man’s health was frail, and after finally breaking the curse and leaving the past behind, revealing that his son’s death had been orchestrated—and that it involved him—might break him.

Worse still, in a world where demons and ghosts walked, a death clouded by resentment could doom a soul to eternal unrest. That would be a burden Li Yan could never forgive himself for.

It was a debt for the younger generation to settle.

Changing the subject casually, Li Yan returned to his room and prepared a few simple dishes. Sitting with his grandfather over steamed buns and wine, he appeared relaxed—but inwardly, his resolve had hardened.

Whoever had cast the curse would reveal themselves eventually. When they did, he’d repay them in full.

For now, the priority was entering the Mystic Gate.

According to Du Daya, Sha Lifei knew the people involved. But Li Yan wasn’t in a rush to find him.

Simple reason—harvest season was approaching. That man would come to them.

...

Truth be told, the Li family had a history with Sha Lifei.

His real name was Sha Guangsheng.

Old martial sayings held that wandering the jianghu was about profit or reputation—earning a name. But fame was usually bestowed by others. Li Yan’s father, Li Hu, had earned the title "Ailing Tiger", a name reflecting how he seemed ordinary until striking like a mountain tiger, fierce and domineering.

Sha Lifei, however, had named himself.

Though the title sounded imposing, connoisseurs regarded it as a joke.

Still, Sha Lifei was clever—adept at reading the wind and adjusting his sails, skilled in the unspoken rules of the martial world. He’d avoided major misfortunes, and eventually, "Sha Lifei" became his accepted name, with many forgetting his original one.

Swordsmen didn’t spend every day fighting.

Earning a reputation and securing livelihoods were equally important. While dangerous jobs paid well, they were rare in times of relative peace. A strong reputation attracted employers, and famous swordsmen often had patrons.

But for newcomers or aging swordsmen who’d never risen, survival required creativity.

They had three paths:

First, follow a renowned swordsman as escorts for caravans, guards for guilds, or smugglers of salt.

Second, turn bandit. Several notorious Guanzhong outlaws had once been swordsmen who chose to seize their livelihoods rather than endure hardship or servitude.

Third, go solo—taking any work until fame arrived.

Li Yan’s father, for instance, organized Wheat Reapers from nearby villages during harvest seasons. It was an old tradition. Nearly every Wheat Reaper group had a swordsman as leader, ensuring steady work and protection against unscrupulous landlords. Naturally, the leader took a cut—a role akin to a modern foreman.

Even after Li Hu’s rise to fame, he continued this work.

As he’d often said, he didn’t care about the small profits—it was about protecting their village folk, earning a good name, and avoiding gossip. Eventually, he’d stopped taking payment altogether.

After his death, the Wheat Reapers lost their leader.

That’s when Sha Lifei appeared.

Li Hu had learned his family’s martial arts and trained under a famed swordsman—Sha Lifei had been a junior disciple, sharing a nominal "brotherhood." But their paths diverged.

Li Hu had carved out a name.

Sha Lifei remained a drifter across Guanzhong villages, eking out a living from common folk, never daring approach Chang’an City.

Leading the Wheat Reapers was a rare opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

The annual visit followed jianghu etiquette—when entering another’s territory, one must pay respects, acknowledging the local hierarchy. Having benefited from his "brother’s" legacy, Sha Lifei owed tribute.

With his oily nature, he’d never risked offending anyone.

Of course, his "tributes" were always token gifts—pastries from local shops, nothing extravagant.

By his calculations, the time for this year’s visit was near...

...

The next day, a lone rider thundered down the Imperial Road.

The horse, a yellow-maned mare, was aged but sure-footed.

Its rider wore gray robes and black trousers, a towering figure with twin swords at his waist, a face of rugged features and thick beard, and a bald head gleaming in the sun.

"It’s Sha Lifei!"

"Sha Lifei’s here!"

Children at the village entrance shouted with glee.

To them, Sha Lifei was the epitome of a wandering hero—everything a swordsman should be.

Li Yan, though a swordsman himself, was too pretty, too sharp-tongued, too much like the foppish heroes in operas to match their ideal.

"Hahahaha!"

Sha Lifei roared with laughter at the children’s cheers.

He yanked the reins—the mare reared, then charged into the village, prompting the children to clap wildly.

As hooves clattered over dirt, two copper coins clinked to the ground.

A booming voice echoed behind him:

"Kids—buy some candy!"

Riding in circles through the village, Sha Lifei beat a copper gong, shouting, "Listen up! Want work? Bring your tools tomorrow and follow me!"

The Wheat Reapers’ essentials were sickles, whetstones, and bedding. With labor scarce, employers paid well this season.

The news had spread widely—many had already packed. They’d head to Xianyang or Xingping, work there, then return in time for their own harvests.

At Sha Lifei’s call, villagers rushed out.

"Hero Sha, how much pay this year?"

"Did you secure contracts already?"

Though the flattery pleased him, Sha Lifei kept a stern face, rubbing his bald head as he scolded, "Why so many questions? Follow Sha Lifei, and you’ll eat well enough!"

He leapt from his horse, tossed the reins to a boy, and barked, "Tie it up, feed it well!"

Then he retrieved an oil-wrapped pastry bundle from his saddle and strode humming toward Li Yan’s home.

At the door, he nearly collided with Li Gui, who was heading out to play chess.

"Old Master Li, you’re looking strong!" Sha Lifei grinned, bowing deeply. "I brought you some osmanthus cakes from Xiangyuanlou in Chang’an—true delicacies!"

"Save it. Don’t bother coming next year!"

Li Gui snorted, leaning on his cane as he walked off.

The old man had little patience for Sha Lifei’s oily ways and empty boasts.

Those Xiangyuanlou cakes? Sha would’ve devoured them himself before sharing. These were likely bought cheap in Lantian County.

More importantly, Sha’s visits were mere formalities—noisy displays for his own reputation.

Thick-skinned as ever, Sha Lifei laughed off the cold reception and marched inside.

Li Yan was practicing martial arts—a Tiger Climbing the Wall stance, followed by a twisting motion, his elbow rising in a Hidden Flower in the Leaves technique.

"Excellent!"

Sha Lifei clapped, eyes flickering with surprise.

He’d trained in Hong Quan since youth and knew quality when he saw it.

Though Hong Quan proverbs emphasized, "Hands are doors, legs do the damage", technique was key. Proper handwork—cloud hands, covering hands—made one invincible.

The Ailing Tiger’s son, so young, already mastered the essence. His movements crackled with power, his strikes sharp as wind, his bones snapping like whips—clearly at the peak of Mingjin cultivation.

He’d surpass his father someday!

Sha Lifei inwardly regretted his cheap gifts, already plotting to bring better ones next year.

Better not provoke this kid further.

Rubbing his bald head, he chuckled, "Yan’er, don’t let me interrupt. I’ve urgent matters to attend to!"

He dropped the pastries and turned to leave.

Li Yan finally spoke, smiling.

"Uncle Sha, no need to rush. I’ve a question for you."

...

The book’s competition is fierce this year—even readers who save their recommendations, please consider a follow. Thank you!

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end