Hoofprints in the Snow
1590 Words
The third day after the Beginning of Spring.
A late cold snap swept across the Central Plains, bringing snow once more.
Mount Fuzhi was wrapped in white gauze. The stone steps down the mountain were coated with thin ice. When Zhou Yi reached the foot of the mountain with his bamboo broom, a pale winter sun was breaking through the fog over the eastern ridge.
“Spring snow foretells a good harvest. An auspicious sign,”
said Jiao Wuzi, admiring the snowy scene. Loosening the reins, he let his old horse lower its head to nibble at the patches of green wheat sprouting through the snow.
Zhou Yi looked at his master’s white beard and brows and said,
“The snow and wind make travel hard, Master. Why not delay your journey a few days?”
“There’s no day better than today,” Jiao Wuzi stroked his beard with a smile. “I roam the jianghu — I fear no long road. The temple is in your care now.”
Mounting his horse, the old Daoist turned back to Zhou Yi.
“You three — I pulled each of you from a pile of corpses. It’s only through my modest reputation that you’ve survived this long.
Remember: in the jianghu, your identity is what you make it.”
Zhou Yi bowed deeply.
“This disciple understands.”
“Then go back.”
Hooves struck the snow; Jiao Wuzi laughed freely as he rode away.
On the eastern slope of Mount Taiping, the disciple sent off his master. Only hoofprints remained on the white snow.
Soon the tracks stretched into the distance, fading beneath the soft morning light. Zhou Yi could no longer see his master’s figure.
Shouldering his broom, he joined the early messengers climbing back up the mountain.
The old Heavenly Master of Taiping’s journey caused no disturbance. Zhou Yi spent his days diligently cultivating his inner energy, studying scriptures, and reading the manuals kept in the training hall.
Most were basic martial arts — outer strength, weapons, and stances — yet in this world, even such skills were not to be underestimated.
For instance, in the southern martial world, there was a man named Bao Rang. His Iron Shirt technique was considered a lower-grade external art, but through decades of bitter training, he forged his body into Gang Qi, rivaling the true inner energy of high masters.
He became a first-class expert, known as the “God of Strength.”
There were countless martial techniques across the jianghu, and many who pioneered their own paths — thus great masters appeared one after another.
Holding to the belief that “more skill never hurts,” Zhou Yi studied whatever he could.
Five days after Jiao Wuzi departed.
At the hour of the Dragon (around 7–9 a.m.), a young Daoist of extraordinary grace stood before the Taiping Temple gates.
He wore a yellow Daoist robe beneath a black round cap, straw sandals on his feet, and a lightning-struck peachwood sword on his back.
With a sword in one hand and a bell in the other, Zhou Yi thought he might as well be ready to perform a rain ritual at Chechi Kingdom — just like the Tiger-Strength Immortal from the old tales.
“Senior Brother!”
Yan Qiu and Xia Shu, two young disciples, came running, cheerful and lively, carrying ritual tools.
Zhou Yi nodded to them and greeted the elder caretakers before leading the two down Mount Fuzhi.
At the foot, they boarded Feng Si’s carriage. Feng Si, like Zhang Cheng who watched over the training hall, had been taught by Jiao Wuzi in hard-body techniques and taken as a register disciple.
When not driving the carriage, he tended the vegetable garden below the mountain with another man from Dongjun, named Dou Kui.
“Where’s Dou Kui today?” Zhou Yi asked — the two were usually together.
“Senior Brother,” Feng Si replied, “Old Li, who delivers vegetables and rice, slipped on the ice a few days ago and broke his leg. His daughter’s too weak to lift anything, so Dou Kui took him to town to find a doctor.”
Zhou Yi remembered Old Li — an honest, timid farmer.
“Was it serious?”
“Not too bad,” Feng Si sighed, “but at his age, bones don’t heal so easily.”
Zhou Yi felt slightly relieved.
As Feng Si adjusted the old mat on the driver’s bench, he hesitated.
“Senior Brother, should we take the main road or go by the small path?”
Zhou Yi noticed his tone.
“You’ve heard news again?”
Feng Si’s face darkened.
“That Zhang Xutuo — he’s truly formidable. I heard at the tea house yesterday that the ‘Scholar of the World’ was defeated by him again. Near Zhangqiu, he crushed an army of over a hundred thousand.”
“This Zhang Xutuo now has the Emperor’s full trust and has taken a post in the Eastern Capital. They say he’s joined forces with the great general Yuwen Chengdu of the Eagle-Yang Army to wipe out the remnants of Yang Xuangan’s rebels — purging all righteous armies across the Central Plains.”
Feng Si grew nervous.
“The Eagle-Yang troops were once stationed near Baima — not far from us. Now they’ve moved south to Taikang; who knows where they are now?”
Zhou Yi became cautious.
“The Yuwen Clan’s generals are top masters… best keep a low profile for now.”
Though Taiping Dao was technically a jianghu sect, even Feng Si could sense the danger.
The name “Taiping” carried heavy meaning — too easily mistaken for rebel sympathizers and thus an easy target for imperial suppression.
Still, the Yuwen Clan, being one of the Four Great Noble Houses, wouldn’t bother with a minor temple on Mount Fuzhi.
“We’ll take the main road,” Zhou Yi said calmly. “No need to worry — the ritual mustn’t be delayed.”
Feng Si urged the horse onward.
By late morning, they reached north of Yongqiu, where the city of Yanggu appeared — its walls barely two zhang high, just a small town.
After all, the walls of Chang’an, Luoyang, and Jiangdu rose over thirty zhang — colossal fortresses that even the greatest masters of the Western Turks could not leap.
The carriage passed beneath the “Yanggu” gate.
Xia Shu lifted the curtain wide, the two young disciples peering out curiously.
Inside the bustling town, the rhythmic clang-clang of hammers filled the air.
At a smithy near the street corner, two half-naked blacksmiths struck glowing iron in sync, sparks flying everywhere — the sound stirring even the soul of an artist.
Zhou Yi felt the rhythm of the forge like the pulse of the jianghu itself —
the windlike spirit of the wanderers.
An inn nearby was crowded. Armed martial men drank and boasted of their adventures across the land, while upstairs, two young scholars gazed out at budding willows, murmuring about the “Emperor Wen” and the “rise and fall of the realm.”
Shops lined both sides of the street; people and horses thronged the roads. Feng Si slowed the carriage.
Zhou Yi watched the mundane bustle, lost in thought.
Such was the wonder of this world — no matter how fierce the wars beyond, most cities still thrived, more prosperous than any historical record.
“Whoa—!”
Feng Si suddenly pulled the reins.
An elderly steward, dressed formally, was approaching with several well-trained guards in dark tunics, each armed with blades.
Their posture alone revealed their skill.
Beside the steward stood a young nobleman in rich attire.
The old steward glanced at the banner on the carriage and stepped forward.
“May I ask — is this the carriage from Taiping Temple?”
“It is,” Feng Si replied.
The steward smiled.
“My master has sent me to welcome the Heavenly Master to the Cao Residence.”
“We thank your house for the courtesy,” Xia Shu replied politely.
Zhou Yi and the steward exchanged brief nods.
The Cao family of Yanggu were prominent gentry — during Emperor Wen’s reign, one of their kin had served as Gentleman Attendant of the Secretariat.
Normally, such a family would avoid dealings with sects like Taiping Dao.
But since Emperor Yang’s ascension, that same official had been executed — his head displayed at the city gates.
Now the Cao retainers led Feng Si’s carriage forward.
The young nobleman said nothing, walking ahead with the steward.
“Steward Sun, who’s inside that carriage?” the young man asked coldly.
“That is Zhou Yi,” replied the steward. “He is the foremost disciple of the Taiping Heavenly Master, Jiao Wuzi. Since Second Young Master has been training in the Sanqin region, you may not have heard of him.”
The young man gave a low hum.
“Grandfather shouldn’t have invited people from Taiping Dao at a time like this.”
The steward lowered his voice further.
“This matter runs deep. Agents of the Liang royal descendants have already visited the manor. You should ask the Old Master yourself.”
“Descendants of the Liang Emperor?” Cao Chengyun snorted in disdain.
“The only one worthy of my sect master’s eye is the Duke of Secrets himself.”
He sneered.
“If only Yang Xuangan had been a man capable of success…”
- Writer
