Chapter Five: The Stranger’s Inquiry

By the time Liu Xian was five years old, it was the third year of the Xianning era (277 AD).

That year was peculiar. First, at noon on the first day of the first month, a solar eclipse suddenly occurred.

It was Liu Xian’s first time witnessing such an event, leaving a deep impression on him. At that moment, he was playing with the family’s yellow dog in the courtyard. Just moments ago, the world had been clear and bright, but it quickly became dim and blurry.

At first, people thought passing clouds were blocking the sun, but the darkness deepened, and soon the entire world was shrouded in a muddy gloom. The yellow dog barked wildly at the sky in fear, the horses in the stable whinnied softly, and the chaotic cries of people in the streets made it feel as if the end of days had come.

But to Liu Xian, such a scene was novel and fascinating. Like a child discovering a flower never seen before, he ran excitedly to his mother, shouting:

“Mother, look! The sun in the sky is gone!”

Zhang Ximiao was embroidering on the couch at the time, with Fei Xiu sitting nearby. Seeing Liu Xian rush in, she pulled the boy onto her lap and smiled:

“Don’t look too long; the sun will come back soon. Be careful not to hurt your eyes.”

Liu Xian only half understood. Soon, he overheard his mother and aunt discussing the matter.

After lighting an oil lamp, Fei Xiu sighed to Zhang Ximiao, “Do you remember the last time there was a solar eclipse? You were still pregnant with Biji. That was five years ago.”

Zhang Ximiao nodded and said, “A solar eclipse symbolizes yin overpowering yang. When we were in Chengdu, people called it demons devouring the sun—a sign that war was coming.”

Fei Xiu added, “And not just war. That year, I recall General Yang of Zhennan suffered a crushing defeat against Lu Kang, and there was an outbreak of plague in Hanzhong!”

She concluded, “This solar eclipse on the first day of the first month does not bode well for the year.”

Though such beliefs seem superstitious to later generations, the fourth year of Xianning indeed proved harsh.

Spring arrived late. By mid-February, when the peach blossoms in Luoyang should have already withered, they had yet to bloom. Instead, fierce winds unexpectedly blew through. The howling was deafening, shaking trees into wild dances, and the doors of Luoyang creaked ominously, as if some angry deity was displeased, unsettling all who heard.

By late February, the winds ceased, and when people ventured outside, the countryside was a ruin. Many slender trees—orange, apricot—were snapped in half. Broken branches and dust littered the ground. Poor families’ roofs were nearly all gone.

But this was just the beginning. After the winds came frost. In early March, several days of biting cold coated streets, doorways, eaves, windowsills, riverbanks, and treetops with a layer of frost like paper pulp. The earth hardened so much that even the hooves of horses left no marks. In such conditions, farmers could not sow or transplant rice normally. Experts warned that famine in the Henan region was likely unavoidable that year.

In June, just as the weather normalized, messengers arrived in Luoyang from Guanzhong with two pieces of bad news.

The first was natural disaster: a massive earthquake had struck the western regions, affecting six commanderies—Hanzhong, Wudu, Yinping, Tianshui, Longxi, and Jincheng. Tens of thousands were displaced and urgently needed government relief.

The second was human calamity: following the quake, the Xianbei rebel leader Tufa Shujing realized reinforcements to Liangzhou were cut off. Seizing the opportunity, he launched a surprise attack on Yang Xin’s forces, the governor of Liangzhou. Yang Xin was caught off guard and beheaded on the spot. This was the third Liangzhou governor, and the fourth regional official, to die in battle since Tufa Shujing’s uprising.

Rumors spread throughout Luoyang, stirring unrest. Some whispered that the emperor lacked virtue and the dynasty’s fate was doomed. Emperor Sima Yan was forced to publicly burn a pheasant-feathered coat offered by the imperial physician Sima Cheng to prove his integrity. He then offered incense at the ancestral temple, praying for heavenly protection. After three days of court deliberations, a decree was issued that, due to difficult times, officials’ salaries would be halved to economize.

Five-year-old Liu Xian did not understand these affairs. His clear memory was simply that the family’s meals suddenly became frugal. Meat porridge was replaced by wheat gruel; stuffed flatbreads became soup cakes. Meals were accompanied by radishes, yams, and amaranth. Even when lamb was served, the lack of spices made it taste bland and gamey.

Fortunately, Ximiao always knew how to cheer her child. She gathered the mulberries from that year, dried them into candied treats, and stored two large baskets in the cellar. When Liu Xian cried, she gave him a couple of sweet berries, whose sweetness and maternal love always soothed him.

This was a peaceful, leisurely life, and considering that most people were starving and others merely filled their bellies with coarse fare, it could even be called a blessed existence.

Had he grown up in such comfort, Liu Xian might have become, as Zhang Hua predicted, a lord ignorant of hardship.

Yet that tranquility was destined to be shattered—cursed, even.

In mid-July, amid financial strain, the government launched a strict investigation into bureaucratic corruption, focusing on nobles hiding commoners and concealed farmlands. Even the Anle Duke’s household was not exempt. At the magistrate’s request, Liu Xun was summoned repeatedly to the county office to reconcile accounts. Six uncles had their own duties, leaving the household rather empty. Though Liu Xian still played with friends, he often wondered where the adults had gone.

At dinnertime, Liu Xian would sit quietly by the mansion’s gate, counting the drooping willow leaves and glancing at passersby, searching for his father’s figure.

One day, he sensed something amiss.

He felt eyes quietly watching him.

At first, he dismissed it as imagination. After all, the Anle Duke’s mansion was in a bustling area, with constant carriages and crowds. It was only natural for someone to glance at a child.

But then, a man in a blue robe casually glanced at Liu Xian as he passed by, and the boy felt an inexplicable familiarity—as if they had met before.

Was he an acquaintance of his father or uncles? A friend of Lord Laifu or Wang Qi? Or just a trick of his mind? Liu Xian pondered for a long time. When he gave up and looked up again, the blue-robed figure was there once more, passing by the mansion gate, glancing inside with the same casual manner. Liu Xian confirmed it was the same man.

Who was he? Why did he linger here?

At dinner, Liu Xian mentioned the matter to the elders. Liu Xun’s face darkened; Zhang Ximiao remained silent. Only Second Uncle Liu Yao said:

“Biji, don’t worry about it. Just pretend you didn’t see anything.”

“Why not?” Liu Xian asked.

“That’s not something you should concern yourself with. If you must, just think of them as guards.”

Such a vague reply only deepened Liu Xian’s suspicion, but reading the elders’ expressions, he wisely lowered his head to eat, his mind swirling with questions:

Are they really guards? If so, why pretend not to see them? Uncle said “them,” but there’s only one person, isn’t there?

These questions troubled and intrigued Liu Xian, who felt he had stumbled upon a mystery worth unraveling. So, in the following days, he perched on the roof with unprecedented curiosity, observing the bustling crowds around.

His goal was clear: to find strangers who seemed idle yet lingered near the residence for long periods.

At five, a child’s eyes are sharp. Where others saw clearly, he did too; where others couldn’t see well, he still could. His search was successful. By the fourth day, he tallied about fourteen such individuals: six at the south gate, six at the north, and two at the side gate.

This discovery excited Liu Xian, but new questions arose: Who were these people? Where did they come from? Why were they here? Where did they live? What did they eat? Would they stay forever?

Though unanswered, these thoughts fueled his endless daydreams.

At first, he imagined they were secret knights his family had befriended—guards who disliked rules, living incognito and quietly.

But they looked too ordinary to be knights in his imagination.

Then he thought perhaps they were Taoist priests invited to protect the mansion’s feng shui, which explained their silence.

But they showed no sign of supernatural power or aura.

Next, Liu Xian considered that maybe these men were cursed by some ghostly force, bound by an irresistible magic, waiting for rescue.

This idea pleased him most, as it matched their cold expressions and added a thrilling novelty.

Yet such feelings faded quickly. These strangers affected his life little, like parallel lines that never meet. So the thoughts slowly slipped from his mind, only occasionally returning when he wondered if they ever grew weary or tired.

On the day of Guiwei in July, a heavy rain poured all day, easing only at dusk. The streets became muddy; Liu Xun and others did not return home on time. As usual, Liu Xian went out to observe.

The usually bustling street was now eerily quiet, with only a few beggars huddled under eaves on the left, shivering in tattered clothes.

Liu Xian’s attention was drawn to a weak, hoarse crying among the beggars, barely distinguishable in age.

Looking closely, he saw a girl about his age, cradled in her mother’s ragged arms. Her hair was matted and tangled; her face blurred with rain and tears; her body so frail it seemed scarcely human.

The scene struck Liu Xian deeply. Comparing his new clothes with the beggars’ rags, he felt the cry was a question, a test. He instinctively wanted to approach but hesitated at their appearance. Instead, he called Laifu, asking if they could offer food.

Laifu glanced at the beggars and sighed, “Master, there are so many beggars in the world; giving to one or two won’t make a difference.”

Liu Xian said, “Laifu, there’s so much rice and flour in the mansion. Missing a bowl or two won’t starve us.”

Laifu was speechless and sought Zhang Ximiao’s permission. They gathered leftover steamed buns from the day before, piled them in a ceramic basin, and placed it before the beggars before returning.

The beggars paid no thanks, immediately devouring the food in the mud with fierce intensity, as if fighting for survival.

The cries ceased, but Liu Xian remained puzzled and uneasy.

He turned his gaze to the distant sky, where black clouds lingered like rolling smoke, and fallen willow leaves drifted everywhere.

Then he noticed a stranger approaching along the wet road.

The man appeared dust-covered and weary from a long journey, clad in worn black clothes, a yellowed bamboo hat on his head, a cleaver at his waist, and a blue-gray cloak fluttering like a banner beneath the gloomy sky.

The sight tightened Liu Xian’s heart, reminding him of ghost stories. The man’s sharp gaze fixed on Liu Xian as he neared.

Before Liu Xian could react, the man stopped. The wet cloak rustled loudly, like a sudden downpour.

Looking down at Liu Xian, he said, “Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the Anle Duke’s mansion?”

At that moment, Liu Xian saw the scar beneath the man’s hat—a snake-like mark running from the corner of his eye down to his jawline. He could only imagine what dreadful injury had caused such a fearsome wound. Yet the man’s tired expression was softened by bright, clear eyes.

Liu Xian replied, “This is it. Who are you here to see?”

The man’s eyes suddenly brightened. If earlier his gaze was like flickering sparks, now it burned like a roaring torch.

He studied the mansion as if from another world, his face shifting through expressions Liu Xian could not understand. Then he turned back to the boy and asked:

“Are you from the Anle Duke’s household?”

“Yes! My name is Liu Xian. My father is the Anle Duke!”

“Ah!” The man leaned back slightly, smiling with relief and caution. “So, you are the heir of the Anle Duke!”

“That’s right! Are you here to see him? He’ll be back soon. You can come in and rest!”

The man shook his head softly, sighing in a faint voice:

“I won’t come in. I’m just passing through Luoyang and thought to visit an old friend. I’ll leave immediately afterward—no need to cause trouble.”

Liu Xian was puzzled. Shouldn’t reconnecting with old friends take time? He realized he hadn’t even asked the man’s name.

“Uncle, what’s your name?”

“I... am called Wang Fu, seventh in my family. You can call me Uncle Wang Qi.”

Liu Xian was disappointed and frowned:

“That’s not right! Your name is too plain. You must be a knight, so you should have a cooler name!”

“For example?”

Liu Xian stammered—he was too young to invent names.

But Wang Fu did not mock him. Instead, he showed rare patience and kindness, patting Liu Xian’s head and asking:

“You say I’m a knight; do you want to be one too?”

“Yes!” Liu Xian brightened, words tumbling out: “I want to master swordsmanship, buy a fine horse, roam the land far and wide, and be invincible!”

“Do you have a sword?”

Wang Fu’s question embarrassed Liu Xian. At his age, Zhang Ximiao naturally would not allow him a sword. He only played with peach branches, fighting imaginary foes, delighting in make-believe. But facing a real knight, such fantasies were embarrassing.

Fortunately, Wang Fu quickly changed the subject. They talked freely, without indulgence or scorn—respectfully, like a teacher sharing his insights on swords and blades. Before long, Liu Xian became a devoted admirer.

He gazed at Wang Fu’s cleaver and declared:

“Uncle Qi, you must be an extraordinary knight.”

Wang Fu understood and unsheathed the cleaver, showing its blade. It was light and thin; when revealed, it gleamed brightly with a clear ringing sound that enchanted Liu Xian for a long time.

When Wang Fu sheathed the cleaver again, Liu Xian felt as if they had become close friends.

“Uncle Qi, will you really only see my father once?”

“There’s no choice. Time is tight.”

“Will you come again?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Those who wield sword and blade never know if they’ll see tomorrow. If I die, I won’t come again.”

“Die?” It was Liu Xian’s first serious encounter with the word, though he did not understand death, just as spring leaves cannot imagine snow and ice. Youthful ignorance made him dismiss death lightly, assuming no connection between the man before him and the grave. But Wang Fu’s words contradicted that, plunging Liu Xian into deep confusion and reflection. Most fear death because of pain, but the scars on Wang Fu’s face showed he feared no pain. So what could be more dreadful?

He could not grasp it, but he knew he liked the man profoundly after their talk.

“If you… if you don’t die, please remember to come again!”

Wang Fu studied Liu Xian for a moment and nodded slowly:

“If I have the chance, I certainly will.”

By then, the rain had ceased, clouds were dissolving, and faint light slipped through breaks in the thick sky. Orioles sang in welcome. Liu Xian sensed in Wang Fu a world utterly unknown to him—a world of adults.

This made him long to grow up quickly, to explore new realms, to become someone entirely different. Yet he was still a child, clueless about growing up. At that moment, even the rustling of the cloak sounded like a response, filling him with contentment. Years later, he would still remember the sound of that downpour.

What happened next would be unforgettable.

At first, a strange noise came from a street corner—something breaking, indistinct to Liu Xian. Then came the sound of many footsteps, chaotic as rain, from both left and right.

Before he could react, over forty men blocked the paths, surrounding the mansion’s gate with no escape.

At their head was the blue-robed man.

With a leisurely air, he drew his sword. His followers followed suit, blades flashing like snow, dazzling Liu Xian’s eyes.

The beggars nearby scrambled away, shrieking in terror.

But Wang Fu’s expression remained calm, as if expecting this. He drew his cleaver with steady hands, pushed Liu Xian toward the gate, and whispered:

“Forgive me, my lord; it seems there will be no next time.”

His voice was so light that Liu Xian almost thought he imagined it. Yet Wang Fu’s figure was clear in his eyes.

Like a leopard, Wang Fu leapt forward with unstoppable resolve, charging into the flashing blades!

Liu Xian gasped. It was his first time seeing a real fight—one man against dozens. His imagination could conceive no result other than Wang Fu being torn apart, so he shut his eyes, unwilling to witness the gruesome scene.

Unexpectedly, screams pierced his ears.

Opening his eyes, he saw two men lying in the mud, blood gushing from their necks. Their eyes were filled with terror of death. They tried to cover their wounds but could not hide their fading life. The screams continued.

Wang Fu moved among the crowd, spinning and swinging his cleaver like a long snake weaving through dense foes, elusive and slippery.

His cloak was the secret—tattered and blue-gray, it danced like wild waves, blocking others’ sight and will. Enemies blindly swung, mostly striking air. Those who nearly landed blows lost strength in confusion. Wang Fu’s strikes were lightning-fast, killing instantly amid stunned foes. Blood splattered on blade, mud, cloak, and eyes.

Liu Xian was transfixed at the gate. He should have retreated inside, but from afar, he saw Wang Fu repeatedly turning and swinging, stepping and sliding. Water splashed at his feet, distorting all reflections. Yet his blade remained dazzling, like a white swallow flashing against dusk clouds. No one was faster, no sword swifter.

Liu Xian never imagined such majesty in one person—yet Wang Fu had seemed as ordinary as cool water.

He felt a mysterious bond between them, as if a hidden thread connected their fates, explaining why they were both there.

Some foes realized close combat was futile and raised crossbows. Dozens of sharp arrows shot forth like a locust swarm, forming an iron curtain, a brief meteor shower.

Four arrows struck Wang Fu; more hit his opponents, who wailed in pain. Wang Fu only paused briefly, seeming impervious to pain or fatigue. He turned on the crossbowmen and leapt high, slashing down like a fierce tiger.

But a second volley came. Arrows pierced Wang Fu’s body, blood spraying from his back. He fell like a wounded bird.

The standing enemies collapsed their crossbows and drew blades, advancing on the gasping man.

With a muffled “puff,” a blade pierced Wang Fu’s back, pinning him to the ground, eliciting a groan.

That was his last sound. Another blade severed his vocal cords.

It was Liu Xian’s first true encounter with death. Amid the crowd, Wang Fu’s eyes caught his through a crack, shining on the boy’s face. There was no fear or sadness—only relief, as if long-awaited liberation had come. Then he smiled.

Liu Xian stared at that smile, watching Wang Fu’s eyes close peacefully, as if asleep. The mudstains on his clothes resembled the gray, nameless flowers blooming in the fields.

This was Liu Xian’s genuine feeling at five years old: death was simply sleep.

At that moment, a familiar voice rang out nearby:

“What is going on? What’s happening? Why are you killing in front of my manor?”

It was Anle Duke Liu Xun. With impatience, he stepped down from his carriage and shouted at the armed men before the gate.

The blue-robed man immediately sheathed his sword, drew a token from his cloak, and respectfully presented it to Liu Xun:

“Reporting to the Anle Duke: we are officers of the Patrol Department, here to arrest a criminal. If we have disturbed you, please forgive us.”

Upon hearing “Patrol Department,” Liu Xun’s face changed. The token seemed a grave matter, yet he dared not lose face and forced a stern reply:

“Who is this criminal? How could so many be killed! You’d better handle this properly and not tarnish my family’s reputation.”

The blue-robed man smiled:

“He is a rebel from Yizhou named Wang Fu. Seven years ago, he falsely claimed to be Zhuge Zhan and gathered followers in Baxi. Though defeated, he escaped capture. We happened to cross paths here. Anle Duke, would you like to see him? Perhaps you know him.”

Liu Xun’s face stiffened. Like a puppet, he answered coldly:

“I don’t know him. Why bother looking at a dead man? Bad luck!”

Saying this, he took Liu Xian’s hand and strode into the mansion without looking back once.

Liu Xian watched his father vanish inside, feeling a profound silence where his gaze lingered.