The Central Plains had put fighting men to use since the previous dynasty, and once Great Yue rose by the sword and raised the standing of warriors, several hundred years of inheritance slowly let warriors outstrip scholars.
That course swelled Great Yue's strength until it swept the realm and unified the Central Plains, but the side effects it brought were no small matter either.
As the saying goes, 'A scholar's rebellion won't last ten years.' What scholars hold is the brush, and most of them are clever men; apart from nodding behind someone's back and cursing a few words, they can make no great dent in the people who hold power.
What a man of arms holds, though, is a blade, and most of them are reckless fellows of the 'common man's wrath leaves blood five paces out' sort—kill an official and raise a rebellion over a bad mood, that was common enough.
By the time the present Son of Heaven took the throne, the Great Yue court had already been swept by the spirit of the wandering knight, and jianghu families passed down for centuries had come to the point of scorning royal authority outright.
The clashes between the two finally touched off the Iron Eagle Deer Hunt, which all but destroyed a whole generation of jianghu folk; only then did the martial crowd pull in their horns and keep to their own business a little more.
But the habit of practicing martial arts had been handed down several hundred years, and Great Yue, founding its state on arms, had countless houses of generals; it could not be turned around outright. In the end the court could only establish the Investigation Bureau to keep watch over the jianghu and the greenwood, each side holding to a tacit understanding and a balance.
Practicing martial arts did not mean flailing through a set of turtle punches at home and calling yourself a warrior. Just like Wing Chun and Taiji these days, the schools were split into more factions than the scholars' literary cliques; most passed from master to disciple or from father to son, and every house fought differently.
Sons of great houses had famous masters to teach them—Xu Buling, for one, could collect all manner of fist manuals and saber manuals that were never meant to leave a family. Sons of humble families naturally had no such means, nor the talent to be taken in by a famous master; their only choice was to learn at a martial academy.
Chang'an, being the capital of Great Yue, had once been thick with wandering knights on every street; private brawls came too often and damaged the state's prestige, so the court laid out every martial academy on Hutai Street in Changle Ward.
Martial academies could never match jianghu families with proper lineages; most of their instructors were nominal disciples of some famous teacher, and their standing was not high. But anyone who opened a school and took disciples in the capital had skills that were certainly no joke.
The twelve academy heads of Hutai Street were all experts with rare skills in hand, and the arrangement had not changed since the dynasty was founded a jiazi ago: for every one that came in, another went out. Only a man who could hold his ground on Hutai Street was qualified to open a school there.
To hold your ground, you had to knock half the other academies flat. That was the jianghu way.
The winter night's wind cut to the bone, and figures were sparse on Hutai Street—only the disciples of each house patrolling about with blades.
Martial men had hot tempers and could not learn the civil officials' ways, and too tight a leash would shave off their edge; so there were no constables or soldiers on this street at all. So long as you did not kill people at random, the court by and large did not ask questions.
In a large residence at the end of the long street, Gongsun Lu came out of the guest room, a look of helplessness on his face:
"My father failed to look after you properly this time, Brother Zhu—please don't take it to heart. Nothing of the sort will ever happen again…"
Beside Gongsun Lu was a tall, lean young man whose arms were unusually long and whose fingers were thick with callus. He wore a black robe, and there was a certain gloom between his brows: Zhu Chenglie, eldest son of Zhu Manlong, academy head of the Iron Claw Sect.
Hearing Gongsun Lu's words, Zhu Chenglie sighed. "An undeserved calamity. Let us just call it bad luck this time. It's my poor junior brothers I pity—not yet out of their training, and cut off before their time…"
Gongsun Lu nodded, but there was not much more he could say. Half a month ago, the Fuman Tavern salt-smuggling case had finally been pressed down flat—at the price of Zhu Manlong handing over several disciples to carry the blame, sent into the Investigation Bureau's dungeon to await sentencing.
Gongsun Lu knew Zhu Manlong's ability. A dozen-odd years ago the man had come to Chang'an alone, and with one hand of eagle-claw had beaten six academy heads flat to take his stand on Hutai Street; by now his disciples were everywhere in Chang'an, and even among the Wolf Guard there were plenty who had learned under Zhu Manlong. His power around Daye Ward was great.
Zhu Chenglie was Zhu Manlong's eldest son, had inherited the whole transmission, and was a flexible, well-connected sort—counted a good friend of Gongsun Lu's. Having taken their silver for so many years and this time not being able to help, Gongsun Lu felt somewhat embarrassed.
But the matter was over, and more talk was useless. After a few polite words, Gongsun Lu took his leave and went out of the academy.
Zhu Chenglie saw Gongsun Lu out the gate and stood beneath the gilded signboard watching him go. Only when the horse had vanished at the end of the street did his face slowly darken, and he gave a soft snort:
"Eats and does nothing. All these years we've fed him for nothing."
Inside the vast academy, two martial instructors came out, arms folded, with a hint of contempt:
"Officials are all the same. Put on a tiger skin and they think they're somebody; set them loose in the jianghu, and they're not fit to shine my shoes."
"True enough. The official families of Chang'an—aside from those few seniors in the Investigation Bureau and Eunuch Jia in the palace—are a pack of good-for-nothings. All they've got is a sharp tongue."
Hearing this, Zhu Chenglie raised a hand. "Don't be so cocky. How many experts the court has hidden away, we saw ten years ago—even Wudang Mountain and Longhu Mountain were beaten into shutting their gates. Our cultivation isn't up to that yet."
As they spoke they entered the academy, the two instructors following close behind. One of them frowned:
"The Fuman Tavern business went wrong and cost us a big pile of profit; the master is furious. The Gongsun father and son can't be relied on, and for now they don't dare move the goods over. How does the young master mean to arrange it?"
Zhu Chenglie walked with his hands behind his back, thinking it over briefly. "Bring the goods here first. Young Master Li of Kuishou Street and I are on good terms; in a few days I'll go have a word with him."
At that the instructors nodded, much reassured—everyone who lived on Kuishou Street was a prince, a general or a minister; there were seven princely estates there alone. A man who did not stand in the first three rows at morning court did not dare ride a horse or a carriage into Kuishou Street. Whoever could live on Kuishou Street was naturally reliable.
The academy was large, the night was deep and the snow fell thick. The disciples had long since gone to bed; a thin layer of snow lay on the drill platform at the center, and several lanterns swung under the flying eaves, the visibility poor.
Zhu Chenglie was just about to head back to his room when something off caught the corner of his eye. He raised a hand to stop the instructors in their tracks, turned to look, and saw that a man was sitting on the drill platform in the middle of the academy.
Dressed in white, a bamboo hat on his head hiding his face, sitting on the edge of the platform in a rather lazy pose, a sword propped against his shoulder and a wine gourd in his hand.
Zhu Chenglie's and the two instructors' faces darkened, wariness rising in their eyes.
Hutai Street was all fighting men, the experts of every house gathered and each on guard—like a net spread over heaven and earth. Slipping in here without a sound was no simple feat.
After a few appraising looks, Zhu Chenglie came down the steps into the snow-filled courtyard and looked at the man on the platform:
"Who might you be, sir? What brings you here so late?"
The man on the platform set down his wine gourd and flicked up the brim of his hat with long fingers, showing his chin. His voice was cool and clear:
"Is that any of your business?"
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