Chapter Forty-Two: Refugees Block the Road

Two massive carriages rolled slowly out of the marquis’s manor, departing the southern gate of Shengjing. From the carriages came the tinkling sound of bells, their chimes carrying far into the distance.

A handful of mounted soldiers rode close by, encircling the carriages in a silent, protective formation. Two more riders had gone ahead by several miles, scouting the road before them.

Since leaving Shengjing, Shangguan Chuanyun felt his spirit energize, his whole being breathing freely, every pore rejoicing. So this is what it feels like to be free from the suppressive fortune of the imperial city, he mused. The Great Liang dynasty prided itself on civil governance and martial prowess, holding fast to the doctrine of “speak not of monsters, strength, or the supernatural,” and thus imposed a subtle restraint on those who cultivated spiritual arts.

Shangguan Chuanyun reckoned that it was only thanks to these chaotic times and the consequent imbalance of the court’s fortune that he had managed to refine the Minor Elixir of Return in such a stifling environment. Otherwise, to pursue cultivation, he would surely have to flee to remote mountains and lakes, or seek out isolated islands overseas, fighting beasts and establishing sanctuaries, or seeking blessed lands to progress on his path.

Long before the rise of humankind, the Way of Immortals existed. In ancient times, savage beasts ran rampant, and humans had no place to stand. The sages of old gazed at the heavens, observed the earth, and attuned themselves to nature; they imitated the primordial spirits of nature and thereby devised the methods of the Immortal Way. Only then did humanity carve out a place amid the myriad beasts.

Later, as the beasts and barbarians fought for survival, both sides suffered grievously. When immortals of the human race destroyed the other two, humanity gained dominion, and the need for the Immortal Way diminished. Thus, through the ages, dynasties repeatedly suppressed the Immortal Way. With the vanishing of demons and monsters, the Immortal Way all but disappeared. Now, barbarians are but humans with a trace of barbarian blood.

Reflecting on this, Shangguan Chuanyun recalled an old saying: “Presence gives benefit, absence gives use.” Indeed, it was true—for when faced with insurmountable foes, certain things would arise out of necessity. Once enemies were gone, their use vanished as well.

He cultivated only for longevity. History’s wheel turned ever onward; he refined a flying sword, not for any other reason, but to seek the profound and mysterious Way, to pursue the solitary bridge to immortality that only one in ten-thousand might cross.

Fortunately, monsters and demons still existed in this world. Otherwise, his path would be even more arduous, for he still had a purpose. As long as one was useful, there was soil in which to survive; once useless, the Way of Nature would cast one aside, and survival would no longer have meaning.

Clearly, the road of the Sword Immortal stretched long and arduous before him.

Shangguan Chuanyun was resting in the carriage, mind wandering the heavens, when suddenly the carriage halted. He opened his eyes, swept his senses outside, and noticed the faces of the guards tensed with grave expressions. Perplexed, he asked, “Commander Wu, what has happened outside?”

Commander Wu was the leader of this group of Divine Wind Battalion guards. Though there were only ten in his squad, each was worth ten ordinary men. Wu Kaishan, a master of inner force, was highly valued by the Marquis of Martial Peace, or he would not have been dispatched on such an errand.

“Sir, there are thousands of refugees ahead, blocking our way,” Wu replied.

Shangguan Chuanyun knew well enough about refugees—fleeing from distant calamities, ragged and hungry, desperate enough to steal food, and, when hunger grew desperate, capable of anything. Gathered in numbers, if someone led them to violence, they became a rebel mob.

He was unsure what to do, so he asked, “What should we do then?”

Commander Wu hesitated before answering, “Ordinarily, we could avoid them by lying low and waiting for the refugees to pass, but time is pressing. We have no choice but to break through.”

Shangguan Chuanyun considered it. Avoiding them seemed best; he was in no hurry. Yet, his own urgency had driven the journey so far, and now he felt embarrassed for the delay. Still, to force the carriages through a crowd of thousands—these were not small vehicles—how many would be trampled? He was not so cruel.

He did not doubt that his men could break through; if the refugees could have stopped them, they would not be mere refugees but martial artists. Of course, anyone with real skill would not be reduced to a refugee’s plight.

This was a troublesome situation, so he said, “Let’s move forward slowly. As long as they don’t hinder us, we’ll be fine.”

Commander Wu hesitated, then responded, “Yes, sir,” and turned to give orders. “Stay vigilant. Move out.”

Wu was a soldier through and through; obedience was his duty. No matter his own thoughts, he would carry out his orders.

Shangguan Chuanyun watched the soldiers outside, their faces grave, each astride a horse with saber drawn, ready to cut down anyone who approached.

Ahead, the refugees were a pitiful sight—clad in rags, yellow-skinned and gaunt, huddled by the roadside. From afar, they were a dense, dark mass, sitting numb and listless on the path he must take.

The refugees spotted the approaching group, the ten armored guards with drawn blades flanking two grand carriages. Their dull eyes flickered with a hint of hope. Slowly, they edged toward the road, recognizing that such carriages must belong to the wealthy or noble. Perhaps, if they blocked the way, they could beg or seize some food to survive a few more days.

Shangguan Chuanyun used his art of aura sight to survey the crowd. Above the sea of people, a hazy, ashen energy hovered, streaked with black, and even tinged with red. This was their fortune—the art of reading fate as recorded in the legacy of Huaxia.

A healthy person’s aura was white; death was black. If someone’s aura turned black, misfortune or doom was near, or bad luck plagued them. Those down on their luck had lifeless eyes, drained bodies, minds shrouded in fog, spirits oppressed, and fading memory—a sense that nothing went right.

Such a state was easy to spot, even for ordinary folk with no cultivation.

But for those with more exalted destinies, one needed the cultivation of aura sight to perceive it.

Fate varied—the outward manifestation of one’s fortune, or “outer light,” came in seven colors: white, red, orange, yellow, blue, green, and purple. These were the colors of ordinary people’s fortune, with death, killing intent, and other special auras as exceptions. Cultivators' auras shone silver-white, especially bright.

A cultivator’s aura was strong, connected to heaven and earth, and would usually be drawn inward once their core was stable. Thus, one could only judge by demonic, ghostly, or evil auras, or spiritual energy. The principles were complex and not easily recorded in a few words.

From what Shangguan Chuanyun saw, the crowd’s aura was mostly grayish-white, with occasional streaks of red. Overhead, however, was a strange scent—neither killing intent nor high destiny, but more like the miasma left by slaughter and the eating of flesh, heavier even than the evil aura of carnivores.

He guessed quietly: they must have eaten human flesh.

By now, the refugees had already blocked the road, a dense, dark throng.

“Have mercy, kind sirs! Pity us!”
“I haven’t eaten in three days…”
“Please, save my father. He’s dying!”

A chorus of desperate wails arose, stopping the carriages.

As the crowd pressed closer, Commander Wu spurred his horse forward, cleaving a tree as thick as a bowl in two with a single stroke. Pointing his blade at the refugees, he barked, “Clear the way! All of you, move aside! Take one step forward, and you’ll end up like this tree!”

Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted, “They have food in their carriages! If they won’t give it to us, they’ll kill us! Don’t be afraid of them!” Then the speaker ducked away.

“Yes, it’s these rich people who force us to the edge!”
“They have food and won’t share with us!”
“Yes, heartless wealthy folk! It’s people like them who have driven us to despair!”

Shangguan Chuanyun looked at the chaotic mob, venting their anger at the carriages, but with ten armored guards, none dared to approach. He understood they were utterly desperate—when a glimmer of hope appeared, they would seize it.

He did not refuse to help out of malice or indifference. Years of cultivation had forged his will—he would not be swayed by the world. The Way was both merciless and compassionate, always choosing the most reasonable course, never shackled by conventional morality.

One enslaved by worldly morals became a puppet, forever under the control of those who set those morals.

If he had the power, he would settle these people, give them land or a trade, help them survive. But now, he had little food himself—just a small allowance from his mother, not enough for so many. It was best to move on. He said to Commander Wu, “Have their spokesman come forward to talk.”

Soon, three emerged from the crowd: a burly, middle-aged man with the bearing of a fighter; an elderly man in his fifties, scholarly in demeanor; and a lean, nimble youth.

The first two seemed unremarkable, but the young man was clearly trained—his physique taut, movements unified, blood and energy robust. He was likely capable of inner force.

Shangguan Chuanyun found it odd—such a man should never starve. Even a slow-witted one could serve as a guard for a wealthy household, or as a caravan escort. A shrewder one might open a martial hall or seek work at the magistrate’s office, living comfortably. Even if he gathered a band to rob the roads, he would get by. As for those who would not bow to authority or serve others, they too needed to eat, and usually went to rid the land of bullies or bandits, gaining fame and enough spoils to last decades.

In this life, they called it the struggles of the martial world and hailed such men as heroes. The court, glad to see bandits eliminated, turned a blind eye to their actions, so long as they did not break the law.

In modern times, such deeds would be called “banditry against bandits.”

But in any case, such a man ought not worry about his next meal.

So Shangguan Chuanyun fixed his gaze on the youth and told Commander Wu, “Let them come forward to speak.”

“Yes, sir,” Wu replied, turning to notify the three.

The elderly man stepped forward and addressed Shangguan Chuanyun. “Sir, I beg you, please have mercy on us.”

Shangguan Chuanyun did not answer, but asked, “Where do you come from?”

“We are from the southern lands. The south has been in turmoil for years, plagued by disaster. Two months ago, the bandits of Lake Taixuan rebelled, and now the south is in chaos. Our food was plundered. We heard that the north needs people, that if we go, we’ll be granted land and homes, so we set out for the north.”