Chapter One: The Young Hu San

“Swish, swish, swish, swish—”

The night wind swept through, setting the towering trees rustling as their thick leaves fiercely rubbed against one another, as if hoping to dissipate some of the lingering summer heat. The soft sounds drifted by, adding no noise to the mountain village that had bustled all day; rather, they highlighted the tranquility that settled over the village as night descended.

At the village entrance, on the large stones flanking the dirt road, the mountain folk gathered in small groups, resting after a day of toil. Wooden stools, bamboo chairs, a breezy plantain fan, a crude clay jug filled with spring water—this was, for these villagers, the happiness of their simple lives, as they savored the day’s last breath of coolness.

Elders with graying sideburns sat cross-legged on the ground, while children with cropped hair scampered about. Old or young, fat or thin, handsome or plain—it didn’t matter; everyone could find something to interest them under the veil of night.

This was a small village beneath the shroud of the mountains, only about a hundred households. The villagers had lived here for generations, all closely related, their lives entwined so closely that there was little formality in their speech—only the easy comfort of familiarity.

Countless such villages nestled among these ranges. Few ever stepped beyond the mountains to see the legendary towns for themselves.

All they knew was that somewhere at the distant edge of the mountains lay boundless plains, on which stood mighty kingdoms, places of enviable civilization.

There, people led prosperous lives, with fertile fields, never forced to depend on the weather or face hunger, living off the hunt. Most crucially, those people enjoyed the protection of the kingdom and did not suffer the endless plundering of bandits who descended on the mountain villages like locusts.

In idle moments, the villagers would gather round the elders, listening as their slow voices spun tales of these distant lands, letting their minds wander through imagined kingdoms.

But dreaming was one thing—few ever dared to act on such thoughts. Only the boldest of children, naive and fearless, ever mentioned leaving, and they soon learned the harshness of life from the sting of a parent’s palm.

The vastness of the mountains, the ferocity of wild beasts, the hordes of bandits, and the endless web of villages—all combined to form a world unto itself, cut off from the outside. Many died on the road to the kingdom.

None of the young men who left ever returned, whether they succeeded or failed.

Those who succeeded, recalling their arduous journey, found themselves powerless to return. As for those who failed, their bones would forever rest in the forests.

So year after year, the story was passed down: only one kind of person could hope to cross the boundless Qilian Mountains—the martial artist.

How vast was the martial artists’ world? The villagers did not know. But the bandit leaders in their mountain strongholds, whose strength seemed almost inhuman, offered them a perfect example. Even if these men were only a glimpse of that world, it was enough to fill the villagers’ hearts with longing for the title of “martial artist.”

Everywhere, parents hope their sons will become dragons and their daughters phoenixes. Here was no different; their sole wish was for their own children to become martial artists. Yet, in this world, such a wish was a distant dream, destined, barring a miracle, to remain unfulfilled.

Just look to the bandit strongholds: among those ruthless marauders, there might be only one martial artist in a hundred, or even a thousand. The gulf between martial artists and ordinary folk was clear.

This night, as people sought relief from the heat, the subject of conversation was, as ever, the martial artist. When the old man with the long, sweeping beard began recounting tales of his adventures, the word “martial artist” surfaced again and again, and a crowd of half-grown children gathered close.

While these children, their eyes bright as stars, hung on every word of those legendary exploits, not far away—still at the village entrance, on another great boulder that resembled an enormous egg, a ragged boy of eleven or twelve lay on his back. One hand pressed his belly, the other rested atop it, kneading restlessly as his bright eyes gazed into the infinite starry sky.

If one looked closer, by the pale moonlight, they would see that this boy’s honest face was clouded with worry, as if burdened by some unresolved matter of great importance.

At his age, in a village like this, in such an isolated place, such a look was indeed unusual. It seemed out of place for a boy who should have been living in tune with the sun—rising with dawn, sleeping with dusk, hungry at times but always optimistic in the simple mountain way.

“So hungry... I only had a bowl and a half of coarse rice tonight. Father’s face grows darker by the day, but my belly’s even emptier than yesterday.”

The breeze rolled by, carrying the boy’s quiet murmur. His hand slipped from his belly, striking the rock with a faint thud. Fingers curled, and a handful of soft soil fell into his palm.

He stared at the dark earth in his hand, hesitating, and muttered, “They say there is a kind of earth called Guanyin soil, which can fill the stomach. I wonder if this soil before me has that effect.”

“If I can’t get more to eat, I might have to consider this after all.”

As he thought about it, worry overcame hesitation in his eyes, and the soil trickled from his fingers. He’d only tasted real hunger for three or five days—his fear of such unorthodox food still won out, and his decision was easily made.

Who knows what he might choose if the days dragged on.

As the saying goes, “A half-grown boy will eat his father poor.” It refers to those children, still growing, unable to work or fend for themselves, who eat voraciously. This was Hu San’s plight.

Born and raised here, Hu San had grown up scrambling in the mud, largely unsupervised because his family was too large for anyone to manage closely. He’d developed his own ideas, but his prospects were limited—he would likely become, at best, another storyteller among the elders.

But fate played a cruel joke. Some days ago—three, five, or seven, he wasn’t sure—after fainting while bathing in the deep pool at the mountain’s edge, he awoke a bottomless pit, never satisfied by any amount of food.

He’d come to lying on the pool’s stony bottom; the water, once icy cold, had vanished, leaving the rocks exposed beneath the blazing sun, along with half-dried fish scattered about.

He was struck by a hunger so intense that, in his desperation, he’d nearly gnawed his own fingers. Under that sun, the half-cooked fish were devoured one by one.

Once sated, Hu San’s hunger faded. Inspired by tales he’d heard by the village stones, fear mingled with excitement as he inspected himself, only to discover he was still the same scrawny boy, too weak to lift anything.

Disappointed, he tried to forget the incident, not realizing the nightmare had only begun.

Though he’d filled his belly that day, he found, upon returning for lunch and dinner, that his hunger was unquenchable. Where once a single bowl of coarse rice sufficed, now he was never full.

Under his father’s curious gaze, he ate two bowls and still felt empty. He could only put his chopsticks down and endure the burning hunger, for there was simply not enough food to go around.

Hu San was the third of five siblings—two older brothers, one younger brother, and a sister. His eldest brother, Hu Da, was fifteen and engaged, though not yet married and still living at home. He worked but also ate heartily. The second brother, Hu Er, was thirteen, and like Hu San, could eat but not do much else. The younger brother and sister, just six or seven, didn’t eat much, but it still counted as a share.

The family scraped by, hunting, gathering herbs, and growing a little grain—enough, if the bandits left them alone, to keep hunger at bay. That was before Hu San’s appetite changed.

By his estimates, the family’s monthly food supply wouldn’t last him a day now. He had to leave every meal unfinished, not even able to stave off hunger.

It wasn’t that Hu San was especially self-disciplined; mountain boys had little sense of restraint. Hunger would have overwhelmed any worry, but he feared only his father’s calloused palm.

Rather than gorge himself and risk a beating—still left hungry, suffering twice over—Hu San chose to eat less and spare himself some pain.

After a few days, though, his resolve wavered. Hunger had not yet driven him mad, but it had eroded the respect he’d once felt for his father’s discipline.

Caught between these two forces, he lay on the great rock, counting stars to distract himself from hunger and pondering how to fill his belly.

“Third Brother? Third Brother?”

As Hu San’s thoughts wandered, a dark figure scurried over the other side of the boulder. Looking closer, he saw it was carrying a large basin.

“Tigress, is that you?” Hu San started, his eyes flicking from the shadow to the basin, which glowed green in the moonlight, hungry as a wolf.

The newcomer, apparently oblivious to this, struggled to balance the basin as he staggered over. He seemed uneasy atop the rock, his body trembling slightly.

“Third Brother, here you go!”

As the boy drew closer, the moonlight revealed a chubby, round-faced child. Relieved to see Hu San, he quickly set the basin at his feet and collapsed, panting.

Without a word to his friend, Hu San seized the basin, scooped up a wooden spoon, and began shoveling coarse rice into his mouth. In moments, the entire basin was empty, leaving the chubby boy gaping in astonishment.

“Third Brother, where did you put all that rice?” he asked, eyeing Hu San’s belly and rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

“Whew!” Hu San exhaled contentedly, ignoring his friend’s teasing. He basked for a moment in the relief from hunger, then tossed the basin aside and waved the boy closer.

Catching on, the chubby boy leaned in, and after a brief whispered conversation, the two of them grabbed the basin and slipped down the rock, vanishing into the village under the cover of night.