Chapter Thirty-Six: The Apprenticeship Banquet

When Zhou Qian returned to the Hu'er Estate, he indeed saw many outsiders—there were elders, children, monks and nuns, bandits and thieves. Zhou Qian even spotted several notorious thieves from the martial world, wandering about in boredom. Steward Sun made his way through the crowd, greeting everyone with cupped hands. The people around seemed to hold him in considerable respect, each returning his salute while casting curious glances at Zhou Qian.

"Third Young Master, do you see that burly man with the limp and the scar on his right cheek? He is Duan Fei, known as the Soul Severing Blade, one of the four most renowned blades in the martial world. His greatest claim to fame is annihilating the entire Tongcheng Sect in his youth..."

"And that plump man in fine clothing, who must weigh at least three hundred pounds and is always smiling, is none other than the Deputy Leader of the Tang Clan, the most feared figure in the underworld today, and the current Tang Clan Leader's uncle..." Zhou Qian studied him with curiosity, realizing this was one of the legendary heads of the Tang Clan so often mentioned in storybooks. Strangely, he did not seem as sinister or scheming as the tales suggested.

"And that one is..." Steward Sun went on, introducing the members of various sects and clans as if reciting a familiar catalog. Zhou Qian was truly amazed—today, the Hu'er Estate was a gathering of dragons and tigers. Even the most inconspicuous child might be the son or disciple of some grandmaster, each more impressive than the last. Little did Zhou Qian suspect that the most extraordinary person here was himself, the disciple of the greatest swordsman in the land.

The main hall of the Hu'er Estate was distinctly foreign in style. Tiger and leopard skins covered the walls and floor, with beasts' bones and heads serving as decorations. Sixty-six bronze torches carved in the shape of merfolk were all ablaze, illuminating the hall brightly.

At the highest seat, Zhou Xun sat upon a gilded jade throne. When he saw Zhou Qian enter, he smiled. "I had not intended to make this such a grand affair, but with the matter of the First Emperor's treasure, I had no choice but to use this gathering as a pretext to invite all our peers. In the end, it benefits you."

"It's of no consequence," Zhou Qian replied calmly. "It’s merely a formality—offering a cup of tea and wine. My master and I do not care for such ceremony. Still, since everyone is here, they might as well make themselves useful. Where is your Jueguang? Bring it with you presently."

Zhou Qian hurried back to his room and took down Jueguang, the sword hanging on the wall. Drawing it from its scabbard, he saw the blade shimmer green as a tranquil lake. Satisfied, he nodded—Sister Zhao had maintained it well, the edge flawless, the blade spotless. As he stepped outside, he suddenly collided with a soft, fragrant figure.

Zhou Qian had already noticed Zhao’er by the door. These past two days, she had been avoiding him as if he were the plague. Now that he had finally caught her, he couldn’t resist playing a little trick. But he had forgotten that Zhao’er, untrained in martial arts and of slender build, could not withstand even the slightest bump from him. She cried out and fell. Zhou Qian, feeling sorry for his adopted sister, quickly caught her, and the two rolled awkwardly on the ground.

He ended up pressing atop Zhao’er, his arms encircling her tightly. Her soft form was pressed against his chest; today, she wore a light jade tunic with a white crane corset beneath. As their faces brushed close, both grew flushed with heat. Seeing Zhao’er’s lips, moist and alluring, her eyes misty with longing, Zhou Qian felt an inexplicable pull. In his mind flashed Second Brother Li’s “earnest instruction.” Bowing his head, he kissed Zhao’er.

Second Brother Li once said, “Kissing is like a big fish swallowing a smaller one, or a cat toying with a mouse. Only after enough teasing is it time to take the bite. As for technique, I leave you these seven words: gentle, slow, caress, and lift—remember them well.”

Yet Zhou Qian thought his brother was only half right. This time, it seemed the mouse might turn the tables on the cat. Zhao’er, despite her inexperience, seemed to have mastered the art, skillfully toying with him as their lips met. Zhou Qian’s hands unconsciously wandered to the softest part of her body, caressing her lightly through her clothes. Suddenly, Zhao’er stiffened and pushed him away, her tone icy: “By relationship, I am your sworn sister; by status, your maid. How can you treat me so? Please, have some respect, Third Young Master!” With that, she ran off, heedless of her disheveled clothes.

Unlike the experienced Second Brother Li, Zhou Qian now felt he had been too reckless. He hesitated, torn between chasing after her and staying put, wracked with regret and frustration.

Back in the main hall, Zhou Qian’s face was icy as he stood coldly behind Zhou Xun, sword in hand. The martial world guests, unaware of the earlier scene, whispered among themselves that master and disciple truly were alike—equally cold and emotionless.

There were more than two hundred guests, each a notable figure in the martial world, yet the hall was so silent that even a pin drop would be heard; even their breathing was nearly inaudible—a testament to their inner discipline. Zhou Xun slowly rose and spoke: “I am Zhou Xun, an old swordsman. I thank you all for coming to my disciple’s ceremony. I am deeply grateful. Qian’er—”

Zhou Qian stepped forward, presenting the pre-brewed Rain-Front Dragon Well tea. Zhou Xun took a sip, thus publicly acknowledging Zhou Qian, the northern beggar, as his official disciple. From this moment, whether Zhou Qian acted for good or ill in the martial world, his master would bear responsibility. Thus, the bond between master and disciple often surpassed that of father and son, or even brothers.

Standing at the front, Zhou Qian was filled with emotion—had he finally entered the martial world? He noticed Li Sanshan below, pulling faces and making mischief. His elder brother Wang Hu, by a twist of fate, had been taken as the sixteenth registered disciple by the old beggar Tu Yong and was currently away on some errand, unable to attend the ceremony.

Zhou Xun nodded to Steward Sun, who clapped his hands. At once, maids entered with trays of exquisite dishes—Four Happinesses, Four Delicacies, roasted lamb, braised camel hump, and the seasonal “twenty-four balls”—all of which made Zhou Qian frown. Though Steward Sun managed the estate with precision, his culinary skills left much to be desired. Used to the refined simplicity of Jingxiang Pavilion, Zhou Qian found fault with each dish: the bear paw had not been steamed in honey before cooking, the meatballs were not prepared properly, and so on.

As the banquet went on, the atmosphere gradually grew livelier. After a few drinks, the martial artists began chatting freely, though their conversations inevitably turned to tales of combat and rivalry. Still, they kept a watchful eye on Zhou Qian, noting his calm demeanor. Little did they realize he was lost in thought, which only elevated their opinion of him. No one noticed—perhaps as if under a spell—that the disheveled Taoist had awakened and was now seated in a corner, devouring food and drink as he pleased. The old Taoist seemed especially fond of wine; already, more than a dozen bottles lay discarded beside him. Whenever a maid brought more wine, a mere gesture from him would send a jug flying into his hand, as if the maids could not even see him. He drank straight from the jug as if it were water.

“Gentlemen!” Zhou Xun, seated at the head and sipping his wine, suddenly called out in a booming voice, “I have something to say, and I ask you all to help spread the word.” The hall fell instantly silent.

“I swear in the name of my late brother, Linghu Ye: Anyone under the age of twenty-five who can defeat my disciple Zhou Qian in combat, I will allow to study my Three Talents Sword Technique and my brother’s Four Broken Sword Forms. If, in the course of combat, my disciple is accidentally killed, it is his own lack of skill and he has only himself to blame. I swear to Heaven I will not seek retribution. May lightning strike me and may I fall into the underworld for eternity if I break this oath!”

The martial artists exchanged glances, uncertain whether Zhou Xun had lost his mind. Some, however, marveled at his boldness—daring to use the up-and-coming generation of the martial world as a whetstone for his own disciple. Whether Zhou Qian could endure such a challenge remained to be seen. Truly, he was worthy of his reputation as a battle-mad swordsman who challenged all under heaven.