The sun is softly brilliant; at first dawn, Lang Junxia hurriedly leaves the palace in a tea-coloured peasant robe, fading into the crowded streets just like any commoner.
Lang Junxia goes through a western street, heading in the direction of a courtyard house in the outskirts of the chancellor’s estate. As he steps out of an alleyway he comes to an abrupt stop, and slowly backs away, retreating into the shadows of an alleyway facing the house.
On the street across the way, a carriage is stopped. Duan Ling is dozing off as he’s attempting, and failing, to climb into the carriage. He fails several times until Wu Du grows impatient and stuffs him into the cab before turning away to buy breakfast on the street. Wu Du looks quite refreshed in a new set of clothes, and with a sword case strapped across his back, he’s talking to the owner of a wonton stand.
“Half a catty with shrimp filling, and another half catty with mincemeat,” Wu Du is saying this to the wonton seller when his keen senses pick up something all of a sudden. He turns his head, brows furrowing.
Lang Junxia backs away some more until he’s out of Wu Du’s sight. Once he has the wontons, Wu Du boards the carriage, but he opens the curtains to check outside again.
Duan Ling is groggy from sleep; as soon as he woke up this morning Wu Du had boorishly washed his face and dressed him, then stuffed him into the carriage where he could continue to sleep.
“Is there food?” Duan Ling wakes the moment he smells food, and taking the chopsticks and the bamboo cylinder from Wu Du, he begins to eat.
Then just as he finishes eating, he tips over again onto Wu Du and goes right back to sleep.
“Eh?” Mu Qing has just woken up as well, and when he finds out that Duan Ling has already left, he runs out of the estate to chase after him, but by then the carriage is long gone.
The coachman drives the carriage out of the city with the two of them onboard, the horses galloping along a highway at summer’s end as it turns to autumn. Lush green leaves rustle by on both sides of the road, with the forest’s canopy casting swaying shadows over the cab. The air is comfortably cool, so Wu Du has hung up the cab’s curtain, and with one foot on the low stool, he sits languidly back on the carriage’s bench with quite the imperious swagger, his elbows resting behind him. Duan Ling is lying down sideways over the bench, his head pillowed on Wu Du’s thigh.
All around them is the incessant chirping of the cicada; Duan Ling turns over, the sun shines on his face, and he’s awake.
He opens his eyes to see sunlight spilling over half of Wu Du’s body, while the greenery outside the window is scattering spots of light through the shadowed half of him, like a meteor shower that passes by with the rustling of the leaves. Wu Du is deep in thought, and when he isn’t speaking he has an ambiguous air of roguishness to him, as though everything he sees offends him, as though he holds everyone in contempt.
“You awake?” Wu Du says.
Duan Ling yawns, sits up, and crawls over to the window to look outside.
“Wow!” Duan Ling exclaims over the scenery outside the window.
“Don’t get too excited now.”
To be able to go out on a fun trip like this is rather exciting for him regardless. Duan Ling half drapes himself over Wu Du’s left side so he can look past him out the window. It’s a narrow cab to begin with, and since Wu Du doesn’t dare move around too much, all he can do is hold Duan Ling a little to keep him steady. Last time he came to Xichuan, it was through Jiangzhou and Jianmenguan, so he’s never taken this road leading into Hanzhong before;2 the scenery along this route is quite different compared to what he’s seen.
The pond lies still without a ripple, and for seemingly a thousand miles verdant wheat fields stretch on. An ancient tree stands in the centre of it all while the sky above them is so clear it’s a freshly washed blue; from the tree above, cicada calls rise and fall. The sky feels so low it’s almost like you can reach up and touch it, like it’s lower than the top of the tree.
The coachman stops to eat his lunch, and so Duan Ling goes to sit beneath the tree with Wu Du. It is only now that Duan Ling truly comprehends the beautiful, grand scenic expanse of the central plains his father once spoke of.
But Wu Du seems struck with an ineffable melancholy as he looks down at the dirt beneath the tree. He digs up some of it with his fingers, then he pats it all down again.
“Something there?” Duan Ling watches him curiously.
“Cicada slough.”3
Wu Du finds some cicada slough and wraps them in paper. From the highway, the coachman is calling out ah, ah to them, and so the two get up to start heading back. Just before they leave, Wu Du turns his head to look again, and for a while he simply stares fixedly at the tree. Duan Ling can feel that this place seems to hold some special meaning for Wu Du.
“What is this place?” Duan Ling asks.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”
Duan Ling has always been quite curious about Wu Du’s past, but Wu Du seldom brings it up, as though telling him too much would be humiliating.
“Hey, Wu Du.” Duan Ling is holding a strand of foxtail millet between his fingers, turning it over in his hands while he looks at it, sounding like he’s half mumbling to himself.
Wu Du looks at him, questioning.
The two of them are sitting in the carriage, gaining distance from the tree bit by bit.
“You know that tree where we were sitting under earlier? Someone’s died there before.”
Wu Du stares at Duan Ling silently for a heartbeat before he frowns and asks, “How’d you know that?”
“There are bloodstains beneath the roots. It’s not very old. Probably from less than a year ago.”
Wu Du can’t help but be impressed with him.
“You’re very smart,” Wu Du airs his thoughts.
Duan Ling spends a moment hesitating; he’s deduced that the reason Wu Du would stop briefly beneath that tree is perhaps because it holds some special meaning for him, and therefore the one who died there was very likely a friend of his. Duan Ling wavers as to whether he should say something comforting to Wu Du, and while he’s at it, try to get to know him better. Every time he’s with Wu Du he always thinks of how he used to know nothing at all about Lang Junxia — perhaps that’s the actual wellspring of all acts of betrayal.
Could the one who died there … have been Zhao Kui? If he extrapolates from the timeline alone, that’s probably correct. Duan Ling’s mind fills in the images of Zhao Kui being pursued by his father until they reach this place, followed by him dying beneath that tree. Nowhere left to run, Wu Du had no alternative but to put down his sword and pledge allegiance to his father.
He really wants to ask about it some more, but doing so is highly likely to make Wu Du suspicious; after all, it will make him appear too smart.
And yet without him asking, Wu Du is choosing to tell him on his own anyway.
“It was General Zhao.”
It’s clear to Duan Ling now, but he puts a finger in front of his lips to signal silence, as in the coachman is outside and the walls have ears so they shouldn’t talk too much. Wu Du waves the idea off to let him know it’s fine, and throws an arm over Duan Ling’s shoulders. Duan Ling continues leaning against Wu Du as before, idly spacing out.
Something about Wu Du smells comfortable, feels like fresh grass rubbed into healthy male skin. Wu Du never really takes care of his appearance, but that actually gives Duan Ling a sense of closeness; he acts freely and without restraint, like the boss of some street gang.
“You haven’t noticed that the coachman is deaf?” Wu Du says to Duan Ling.
It’s not ‘til then that Duan Ling realises that their coachman is deaf-mute. Come to think of it, of course he would be; Mu Kuangda is the one who arranged for the carriage. A deaf-mute coachman can’t hear and can’t speak, which would mean he can’t be taken as a hostage and tortured for information.
“Was General Zhao good to you?”
“He was alright. Actually, he didn’t think much of me.”
“How come?”
“Oh, it’s ancient history.” Wu Du doesn’t sound at all bothered, “I have a shijie, her name’s Xunchun. She and I both know how to play the song ‘Joyful Reunion’. Master’s wife was the one who taught us how to play it. The master’s wife once had an ex-lover — that would be General Zhao.”4
“What happened to your master?”
“He died a long time ago.” Wu Du is frowning as he says this. “He was making some immortality elixir, placing his trust in a strange formula he got from who knows where. There was mercury in it. He ate himself into a one way trip heavenwards.”
Duan Ling wants to laugh rather badly, but he dares not do so aloud out of respect for Wu Du.
“The late, late emperor — as in His Majesty’s dad, the retired emperor who passed away last year? He believed in all that stuff too. Spent all his days in the palace making and drinking elixirs, studying the Dao and trying to become an immortal.”
Duan Ling thinks to himself, that’s my grandpa, but I’ve never met him and I don’t have much of an impression of him, so you go can go right ahead and say whatever you like.
“Why were you working for General Zhao?”
“Because my master’s wife died. The Khitans invaded and fought their way through the Great Wall, so Xunchun and I split up. Zhao Kui solicited me to work for him, while Xunchun left for Shangjing to get revenge. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
Duan Ling remembers Xunchun, but he doesn’t dare tell Wu Du. There’s a lot about what happened back then that he hasn’t sorted through yet.
“Is this tattoo from your martial arts sect as well?” Duan Ling sits up on his knees, staring at the tattoo on Wu Du’s neck. Wu Du turns his head a little and glances at him, so Duan Ling reaches out to flip his collar over, pulling it down to try to get a better look. But Wu Du has started to blush, and he fixes his collar uncomfortably, not even looking at Duan Ling as he points a finger at the bench to let him know he should sit properly and stop moving all over the place.
“Yeah.” Wu Du replies absentmindedly.
“What’s its name?”
“Why do you have so many questions?” Wu Du says, annoyed.
“Come on, satisfy my thirst for knowledge. One who learns the Dao at dawn can die at dusk without regret.”5
“White Tiger Hall.”
“Never heard of it.”
Wu Du stares at Duan Ling without a word.
Duan Ling changes his tone to fawning at once, “I’m the one who’s ignorant and ill-informed. That’s why I’m asking for your guidance, Master Wu.”
“Do you know what the Zhenshanhe is? Well, you probably don’t.”
Oh I said you’re fat so you’re just waddling now, are you, Duan Ling thinks, you sure look proud of yourself. Out loud, he says, “It’s a sword.”
“Yes, a sword. And this sword was forged by that very same White Tiger Hall.”
When the empire of Great Yu was torn asunder, the people lost their homeland in the chaos of war, foreign tribes beyond the Great Wall invaded and the Nameless Sabre was lost. It was taken by the invaders and reforged into several swords that were in turn divided amongst the tribes. Ultimately it was a wandering hero of Han descent from Xichuan’s White Tiger Hall with the handle Wanlifu — thousand mile’s pursuit — who killed four of the Xiongnu tribe leaders in three successive nights and took back the swords, reforging them back into one, and handed it over to a descendent of the Li family in possession of the jade arc. Wanlifu established an organisation of wandering vigilantes, naming it “White Tiger”. Then he passed his martial arts on to four disciples and tasked them to pledge themselves to the holder of the Zhenshanhe, and told them to help him liberate the occupied Han territories.
Thirteen years later, Great Chen was founded, Wanlifu also chose to retire now that his work was done, while three of his disciples each left the “White Tiger” organisation of assassins. Even though they kept on passing down their skills, they continue to keep Wanlifu’s teachings close at hand as well — anyone who inherits the style must tattoo a white tiger on their body.
The tattoo acts both to intimidate as a mark of an assassin, as well as to express the freedom of the phrase folk heroes violate the law with martial might; to symbolise that even if the world is at war and the lives of millions hang in the balance, these killers who place themselves above the law and politics, concealed in the underworld societies for the time being, must reemerge, and with their personal strength that defies the heavens, interfere in the destiny of the empire.
Wanlifu was of course immensely strong; even his namesake was a radiant ancient sword named Chengsheng Wanlifu, the victorious pursuit of a thousand miles. Other than nurturing his four preeminent disciples, each inheriting the skills he possessed, he also taught the Sword Manual of the Realm and Fist of the Roaring Tiger to the Li family.
And so the four disciples went their separate ways, but each of them also took a white tiger tattoo with them. The fighting skills of this generation can be traced all the way back to the founder, and as for the founder of Wu Du’s school, he was once Wanlifu’s youngest disciple.
Listening to these stories for hours, Duan Ling just finds them more astonishing than anything he’s ever heard. After all, few possess knowledge of these insider secrets of the lawless layer of society, and his father has never given him any details.
In other words, all four of the preeminent assassins are descendants of the White Tiger in spirit, and what Wu Du has inherited is the most important skill — poison.
“That’s why,” Wu Du says casually, “before she passed away, the master’s wife always kept this duty close to her heart. Master died early, and she drew this tattoo for me with her own hands. But after passing these traditions on for so many years, some of the disciples have left, and others have scattered; it is nearly finished.”
“Why?” Duan Ling doesn’t really get it. “What duty?”
“The duty to poison.”
“The duty to poison?” Duan Ling has no idea what he’s talking about.
“You won’t get it.”
“Come on, tell me. I really want to know.” Duan Ling’s intuition tells him that this is very important. He looks at Wu Du expectantly.
Wu Du gives himself a moment to think before he says to Duan Ling, “None can be best in the literary arts, but that is not true in the martial arts, as they say. Has there been anyone who is naturally a prodigy in the martial arts and would eventually get to the point where their skills are entirely unrivalled?”
“Yes.” Duan Ling nods.
“I’ve only met one person like that. That would be the late emperor. Of course, he was already the emperor, so none of us would try to kill him. Who else then, other than him?”
Duan Ling really wants to hear Wu Du talk about his father some more, but Wu Du is explaining to him with a solemn expression on his face, “Even if it’s not the late emperor, it would have been someone else. Someone like this or like that will always arise. Even the four assassins of White Tiger can give rise to a peerless martial artist. He can kill anyone any time he feels like, but he won’t be bound by the honour code of the lawless society. If you surround him, he can run away; in a one on one duel, you’re no match for him. If someone so strong as to be entirely unconstrained becomes evil, it will cause great calamity to all.”
“Well that’s true.” Duan Ling admits that the stronger someone is who falls to his demons, the more terrifying the evils he may commit.
“That’s why, once it gets to the point where that person is no longer punishable, poisoning becomes the last resort. Even if a man doesn’t eat or drink, he’ll still have to breathe. The final duty is to use poison to settle all desperate, out of control situations, and recover the named sword.”
This time, Duan Ling understands completely.
At last, Wu Du says, “The reason why the other three disciples left the organisation and we remain, is because only we are the formal disciples of the White Tiger.”
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
Hanzhong simply means “Central Han”, as in the capital area during the Han dynasty. It’s roughly northeast of Xichuan, and acts as its natural border. ↩︎
Cicada slough is a medicinal ingredient in TCM. ↩︎
This is a reminder that the definitions of all pinyin terms previously explained in footnotes are also listed in the reference page. ↩︎
From the Analects of Confucius. Though what it really means is “the pursuit of the way of benevolence is something worth dying for”, and since The Dao is like … the answer to the ultimate question of everything, I’ve left it as just “Dao”. ↩︎
The sun is softly brilliant; at first dawn, Lang Junxia hurriedly leaves the palace in a tea-coloured peasant robe, fading into the crowded streets just like any commoner.
Lang Junxia goes through a western street, heading in the direction of a courtyard house in the outskirts of the chancellor’s estate. As he steps out of an alleyway he comes to an abrupt stop, and slowly backs away, retreating into the shadows of an alleyway facing the house.
On the street across the way, a carriage is stopped. Duan Ling is dozing off as he’s attempting, and failing, to climb into the carriage. He fails several times until Wu Du grows impatient and stuffs him into the cab before turning away to buy breakfast on the street. Wu Du looks quite refreshed in a new set of clothes, and with a sword case strapped across his back, he’s talking to the owner of a wonton stand.
“Half a catty with shrimp filling, and another half catty with mincemeat,” Wu Du is saying this to the wonton seller when his keen senses pick up something all of a sudden. He turns his head, brows furrowing.
Lang Junxia backs away some more until he’s out of Wu Du’s sight. Once he has the wontons, Wu Du boards the carriage, but he opens the curtains to check outside again.
Duan Ling is groggy from sleep; as soon as he woke up this morning Wu Du had boorishly washed his face and dressed him, then stuffed him into the carriage where he could continue to sleep.
“Is there food?” Duan Ling wakes the moment he smells food, and taking the chopsticks and the bamboo cylinder from Wu Du, he begins to eat.
Then just as he finishes eating, he tips over again onto Wu Du and goes right back to sleep.
“Eh?” Mu Qing has just woken up as well, and when he finds out that Duan Ling has already left, he runs out of the estate to chase after him, but by then the carriage is long gone.
The coachman drives the carriage out of the city with the two of them onboard, the horses galloping along a highway at summer’s end as it turns to autumn. Lush green leaves rustle by on both sides of the road, with the forest’s canopy casting swaying shadows over the cab. The air is comfortably cool, so Wu Du has hung up the cab’s curtain, and with one foot on the low stool, he sits languidly back on the carriage’s bench with quite the imperious swagger, his elbows resting behind him. Duan Ling is lying down sideways over the bench, his head pillowed on Wu Du’s thigh.
All around them is the incessant chirping of the cicada; Duan Ling turns over, the sun shines on his face, and he’s awake.
He opens his eyes to see sunlight spilling over half of Wu Du’s body, while the greenery outside the window is scattering spots of light through the shadowed half of him, like a meteor shower that passes by with the rustling of the leaves. Wu Du is deep in thought, and when he isn’t speaking he has an ambiguous air of roguishness to him, as though everything he sees offends him, as though he holds everyone in contempt.
“You awake?” Wu Du says.
Duan Ling yawns, sits up, and crawls over to the window to look outside.
“Wow!” Duan Ling exclaims over the scenery outside the window.
“Don’t get too excited now.”
To be able to go out on a fun trip like this is rather exciting for him regardless. Duan Ling half drapes himself over Wu Du’s left side so he can look past him out the window. It’s a narrow cab to begin with, and since Wu Du doesn’t dare move around too much, all he can do is hold Duan Ling a little to keep him steady. Last time he came to Xichuan, it was through Jiangzhou and Jianmenguan, so he’s never taken this road leading into Hanzhong before;2 the scenery along this route is quite different compared to what he’s seen.
The pond lies still without a ripple, and for seemingly a thousand miles verdant wheat fields stretch on. An ancient tree stands in the centre of it all while the sky above them is so clear it’s a freshly washed blue; from the tree above, cicada calls rise and fall. The sky feels so low it’s almost like you can reach up and touch it, like it’s lower than the top of the tree.
The coachman stops to eat his lunch, and so Duan Ling goes to sit beneath the tree with Wu Du. It is only now that Duan Ling truly comprehends the beautiful, grand scenic expanse of the central plains his father once spoke of.
But Wu Du seems struck with an ineffable melancholy as he looks down at the dirt beneath the tree. He digs up some of it with his fingers, then he pats it all down again.
“Something there?” Duan Ling watches him curiously.
“Cicada slough.”3
Wu Du finds some cicada slough and wraps them in paper. From the highway, the coachman is calling out ah, ah to them, and so the two get up to start heading back. Just before they leave, Wu Du turns his head to look again, and for a while he simply stares fixedly at the tree. Duan Ling can feel that this place seems to hold some special meaning for Wu Du.
“What is this place?” Duan Ling asks.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”
Duan Ling has always been quite curious about Wu Du’s past, but Wu Du seldom brings it up, as though telling him too much would be humiliating.
“Hey, Wu Du.” Duan Ling is holding a strand of foxtail millet between his fingers, turning it over in his hands while he looks at it, sounding like he’s half mumbling to himself.
Wu Du looks at him, questioning.
The two of them are sitting in the carriage, gaining distance from the tree bit by bit.
“You know that tree where we were sitting under earlier? Someone’s died there before.”
Wu Du stares at Duan Ling silently for a heartbeat before he frowns and asks, “How’d you know that?”
“There are bloodstains beneath the roots. It’s not very old. Probably from less than a year ago.”
Wu Du can’t help but be impressed with him.
“You’re very smart,” Wu Du airs his thoughts.
Duan Ling spends a moment hesitating; he’s deduced that the reason Wu Du would stop briefly beneath that tree is perhaps because it holds some special meaning for him, and therefore the one who died there was very likely a friend of his. Duan Ling wavers as to whether he should say something comforting to Wu Du, and while he’s at it, try to get to know him better. Every time he’s with Wu Du he always thinks of how he used to know nothing at all about Lang Junxia — perhaps that’s the actual wellspring of all acts of betrayal.
Could the one who died there … have been Zhao Kui? If he extrapolates from the timeline alone, that’s probably correct. Duan Ling’s mind fills in the images of Zhao Kui being pursued by his father until they reach this place, followed by him dying beneath that tree. Nowhere left to run, Wu Du had no alternative but to put down his sword and pledge allegiance to his father.
He really wants to ask about it some more, but doing so is highly likely to make Wu Du suspicious; after all, it will make him appear too smart.
And yet without him asking, Wu Du is choosing to tell him on his own anyway.
“It was General Zhao.”
It’s clear to Duan Ling now, but he puts a finger in front of his lips to signal silence, as in the coachman is outside and the walls have ears so they shouldn’t talk too much. Wu Du waves the idea off to let him know it’s fine, and throws an arm over Duan Ling’s shoulders. Duan Ling continues leaning against Wu Du as before, idly spacing out.
Something about Wu Du smells comfortable, feels like fresh grass rubbed into healthy male skin. Wu Du never really takes care of his appearance, but that actually gives Duan Ling a sense of closeness; he acts freely and without restraint, like the boss of some street gang.
“You haven’t noticed that the coachman is deaf?” Wu Du says to Duan Ling.
It’s not ‘til then that Duan Ling realises that their coachman is deaf-mute. Come to think of it, of course he would be; Mu Kuangda is the one who arranged for the carriage. A deaf-mute coachman can’t hear and can’t speak, which would mean he can’t be taken as a hostage and tortured for information.
“Was General Zhao good to you?”
“He was alright. Actually, he didn’t think much of me.”
“How come?”
“Oh, it’s ancient history.” Wu Du doesn’t sound at all bothered, “I have a shijie, her name’s Xunchun. She and I both know how to play the song ‘Joyful Reunion’. Master’s wife was the one who taught us how to play it. The master’s wife once had an ex-lover — that would be General Zhao.”4
“What happened to your master?”
“He died a long time ago.” Wu Du is frowning as he says this. “He was making some immortality elixir, placing his trust in a strange formula he got from who knows where. There was mercury in it. He ate himself into a one way trip heavenwards.”
Duan Ling wants to laugh rather badly, but he dares not do so aloud out of respect for Wu Du.
“The late, late emperor — as in His Majesty’s dad, the retired emperor who passed away last year? He believed in all that stuff too. Spent all his days in the palace making and drinking elixirs, studying the Dao and trying to become an immortal.”
Duan Ling thinks to himself, that’s my grandpa, but I’ve never met him and I don’t have much of an impression of him, so you go can go right ahead and say whatever you like.
“Why were you working for General Zhao?”
“Because my master’s wife died. The Khitans invaded and fought their way through the Great Wall, so Xunchun and I split up. Zhao Kui solicited me to work for him, while Xunchun left for Shangjing to get revenge. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
Duan Ling remembers Xunchun, but he doesn’t dare tell Wu Du. There’s a lot about what happened back then that he hasn’t sorted through yet.
“Is this tattoo from your martial arts sect as well?” Duan Ling sits up on his knees, staring at the tattoo on Wu Du’s neck. Wu Du turns his head a little and glances at him, so Duan Ling reaches out to flip his collar over, pulling it down to try to get a better look. But Wu Du has started to blush, and he fixes his collar uncomfortably, not even looking at Duan Ling as he points a finger at the bench to let him know he should sit properly and stop moving all over the place.
“Yeah.” Wu Du replies absentmindedly.
“What’s its name?”
“Why do you have so many questions?” Wu Du says, annoyed.
“Come on, satisfy my thirst for knowledge. One who learns the Dao at dawn can die at dusk without regret.”5
“White Tiger Hall.”
“Never heard of it.”
Wu Du stares at Duan Ling without a word.
Duan Ling changes his tone to fawning at once, “I’m the one who’s ignorant and ill-informed. That’s why I’m asking for your guidance, Master Wu.”
“Do you know what the Zhenshanhe is? Well, you probably don’t.”
Oh I said you’re fat so you’re just waddling now, are you, Duan Ling thinks, you sure look proud of yourself. Out loud, he says, “It’s a sword.”
“Yes, a sword. And this sword was forged by that very same White Tiger Hall.”
When the empire of Great Yu was torn asunder, the people lost their homeland in the chaos of war, foreign tribes beyond the Great Wall invaded and the Nameless Sabre was lost. It was taken by the invaders and reforged into several swords that were in turn divided amongst the tribes. Ultimately it was a wandering hero of Han descent from Xichuan’s White Tiger Hall with the handle Wanlifu — thousand mile’s pursuit — who killed four of the Xiongnu tribe leaders in three successive nights and took back the swords, reforging them back into one, and handed it over to a descendent of the Li family in possession of the jade arc. Wanlifu established an organisation of wandering vigilantes, naming it “White Tiger”. Then he passed his martial arts on to four disciples and tasked them to pledge themselves to the holder of the Zhenshanhe, and told them to help him liberate the occupied Han territories.
Thirteen years later, Great Chen was founded, Wanlifu also chose to retire now that his work was done, while three of his disciples each left the “White Tiger” organisation of assassins. Even though they kept on passing down their skills, they continue to keep Wanlifu’s teachings close at hand as well — anyone who inherits the style must tattoo a white tiger on their body.
The tattoo acts both to intimidate as a mark of an assassin, as well as to express the freedom of the phrase folk heroes violate the law with martial might; to symbolise that even if the world is at war and the lives of millions hang in the balance, these killers who place themselves above the law and politics, concealed in the underworld societies for the time being, must reemerge, and with their personal strength that defies the heavens, interfere in the destiny of the empire.
Wanlifu was of course immensely strong; even his namesake was a radiant ancient sword named Chengsheng Wanlifu, the victorious pursuit of a thousand miles. Other than nurturing his four preeminent disciples, each inheriting the skills he possessed, he also taught the Sword Manual of the Realm and Fist of the Roaring Tiger to the Li family.
And so the four disciples went their separate ways, but each of them also took a white tiger tattoo with them. The fighting skills of this generation can be traced all the way back to the founder, and as for the founder of Wu Du’s school, he was once Wanlifu’s youngest disciple.
Listening to these stories for hours, Duan Ling just finds them more astonishing than anything he’s ever heard. After all, few possess knowledge of these insider secrets of the lawless layer of society, and his father has never given him any details.
In other words, all four of the preeminent assassins are descendants of the White Tiger in spirit, and what Wu Du has inherited is the most important skill — poison.
“That’s why,” Wu Du says casually, “before she passed away, the master’s wife always kept this duty close to her heart. Master died early, and she drew this tattoo for me with her own hands. But after passing these traditions on for so many years, some of the disciples have left, and others have scattered; it is nearly finished.”
“Why?” Duan Ling doesn’t really get it. “What duty?”
“The duty to poison.”
“The duty to poison?” Duan Ling has no idea what he’s talking about.
“You won’t get it.”
“Come on, tell me. I really want to know.” Duan Ling’s intuition tells him that this is very important. He looks at Wu Du expectantly.
Wu Du gives himself a moment to think before he says to Duan Ling, “None can be best in the literary arts, but that is not true in the martial arts, as they say. Has there been anyone who is naturally a prodigy in the martial arts and would eventually get to the point where their skills are entirely unrivalled?”
“Yes.” Duan Ling nods.
“I’ve only met one person like that. That would be the late emperor. Of course, he was already the emperor, so none of us would try to kill him. Who else then, other than him?”
Duan Ling really wants to hear Wu Du talk about his father some more, but Wu Du is explaining to him with a solemn expression on his face, “Even if it’s not the late emperor, it would have been someone else. Someone like this or like that will always arise. Even the four assassins of White Tiger can give rise to a peerless martial artist. He can kill anyone any time he feels like, but he won’t be bound by the honour code of the lawless society. If you surround him, he can run away; in a one on one duel, you’re no match for him. If someone so strong as to be entirely unconstrained becomes evil, it will cause great calamity to all.”
“Well that’s true.” Duan Ling admits that the stronger someone is who falls to his demons, the more terrifying the evils he may commit.
“That’s why, once it gets to the point where that person is no longer punishable, poisoning becomes the last resort. Even if a man doesn’t eat or drink, he’ll still have to breathe. The final duty is to use poison to settle all desperate, out of control situations, and recover the named sword.”
This time, Duan Ling understands completely.
At last, Wu Du says, “The reason why the other three disciples left the organisation and we remain, is because only we are the formal disciples of the White Tiger.”
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
Hanzhong simply means “Central Han”, as in the capital area during the Han dynasty. It’s roughly northeast of Xichuan, and acts as its natural border. ↩︎
Cicada slough is a medicinal ingredient in TCM. ↩︎
This is a reminder that the definitions of all pinyin terms previously explained in footnotes are also listed in the reference page. ↩︎
From the Analects of Confucius. Though what it really means is “the pursuit of the way of benevolence is something worth dying for”, and since The Dao is like … the answer to the ultimate question of everything, I’ve left it as just “Dao”. ↩︎
