Chapter Fifteen: Jiang Fan's Scheme

Pei Min never imagined he would be inexplicably drawn into the fray, but when he saw the spear thrusting toward him from across the way, he had no choice but to draw his longsword in response.

Jiang Fan’s sudden interest in Pei Min was not without reason. It was said since ancient times that the lands of Yan and Zhao produced heroes; the people of Yan Yun had always been renowned for their martial spirit, and the Tang dynasty was an era when martial prowess flourished. In Yan and Zhao, the practice of martial arts was a common custom—almost everyone could wield a farmer’s tool as a weapon. Martial academies in this region thrived as a result. In the city of Ji alone, there were more than a dozen martial academies of various sizes. The largest among them belonged to Yuan Hao’s Sword Pavilion, Wang Hu’s Wang Family Academy, and Jiang Fan’s Zhao Family Spear, all of which enjoyed great prosperity.

Today, the Sword Pavilion had been unexpectedly challenged by an unknown young woman from out of town. This immediately drew the attention of both Wang Hu and Jiang Fan, for the stranger’s words were excessively arrogant. Not only did she force Yuan Hao to accept her challenge with utter disregard for his status, but after her victory she brashly inquired whether there was anyone truly formidable left in Youzhou, making it clear she intended to challenge them one by one.

A martial academy’s prosperity relied upon its reputation. Without a name, any academy was doomed to close its doors. Of the three, Jiang Fan was the most calculating. He worried this young woman would soon come knocking at his own door, bringing similar disgrace. Thus, he invited his friend Wang Hu to visit the Sword Pavilion with him to see the situation for themselves and prepare for any eventuality. Unexpectedly, after challenging the Sword Pavilion, the young woman then swaggered over to show off her victory.

They ran into her head-on; to avoid the contest would be to admit cowardice—something they could not afford. Thus, Jiang Fan deliberately goaded Wang Hu into fighting first, keeping himself out of harm’s way. To his shock, the opponent’s swordsmanship was so refined that Wang Hu was utterly defeated. Though Jiang Fan was shaken, he could do nothing about it. The three of them were of similar skill, each with their own strengths. If Wang Hu could not prevail, neither could he.

Now, Wang Hu’s reputation was entwined with his own; if one fell, both suffered. To avoid complete humiliation, Jiang Fan even briefly considered joining forces with Wang Hu to fight two against one. Yet the thought was fleeting—losing to a slip of a girl was shameful enough; to attack two on one would provoke endless ridicule.

Pei Min’s sudden interjection gave Jiang Fan an idea. For two men in their thirties to bully a young woman was undoubtedly disgraceful, but a two-on-two match would be entirely aboveboard.

Without hesitation, he sought out Pei Min and labeled him as the girl’s companion.

The spear—known as the ancestor of all weapons—came in many forms: red-tasseled spears, hooked spears, long spears, short spears, paired spears, and practice spears.

Jiang Fan’s weapon, however, was a solid iron spear—one typically used on the battlefield, not for duels on the martial circuit.

This iron spear measured thirteen feet in length and weighed sixty-three pounds. Without substantial strength, it would be impossible to wield it fluidly. Yet in Jiang Fan’s hands, it seemed light as a feather. He spun it in a flourishing arc, the force of the movement sending currents of air whistling through the spearhead, as if the wind itself had been funneled into it.

Jiang Fan had no intention of defeating or injuring Pei Min; his goal was simply to force him to the side of the young woman, thereby legitimizing a two-on-two match with Wang Hu—though in truth it would remain two against one.

As a man of the martial world, Jiang Fan looked down on scholarly types like Pei Min, who bore a sword but seemed frail and bookish.

Yet the instant he thrust his spear, Jiang Fan altered his attack, driving the iron spear straight and low like a venomous dragon, the tip appearing before Pei Min in a flash. He assumed Pei Min’s sword was a mere ornament, as it so often was with scholars. But the moment Pei Min drew his longsword and gripped it in his hand, Jiang Fan sensed a transformation—the man’s entire presence changed, as if he were a different person.

That unremarkable iron sword seemed to possess a mysterious power, completely altering its wielder’s bearing.

Of course, the sword itself held no magic; the true source of change was the man.

Jiang Fan realized his mistake. Having committed to the strike, there was no turning back—he could only give his all.

A veteran of the martial world, Jiang Fan prized his reputation and was always cautious about taking action. But once in battle, he set all thoughts of gain and loss aside.

Pei Min felt a fierce and overwhelming gust of force coming at him, so sharp it seemed to sting his face. If that spear struck true, his skull would undoubtedly be pierced through. Yet, facing this ferocious attack, he calmly extended his sword, resting it lightly against the spear’s shaft and tracing a semicircle. The spear, which had been aimed directly at his face, was smoothly diverted a full meter to the side, stabbing only empty air.

This move was one Pei Min had devised himself, inspired by the principles of Taiji. In his past life as Pei Jingyuan, he had no martial skills, but he’d read hundreds of martial arts novels and watched countless films and television dramas. He knew well that such stories were full of exaggeration, but behind the special effects lay certain real principles. For instance, Taiji’s famed “four ounces deflect a thousand pounds,” or Yang Guo’s heavy sword, “overcoming skill with sheer strength”—all were based on genuine martial theory, though artistically embellished.

Most people, even if they knew these theories, could not apply them in reality. But Pei Min was different. His talent for swordplay was astonishing, bordering on the uncanny. Even without a teacher, through his own insight he became a sword sage, even creating the famed General Pei’s Sword Dance. The soul of Pei Jingyuan, who inherited this talent in a later age, carried it as well.

Relying on this innate gift and his knowledge of martial theory, he developed many ingenious techniques—Taiji among them. Until now, he’d never had a real opportunity to test them in combat.

Jiang Fan’s inexplicable challenge, combined with the use of such a heavy weapon, was the perfect opportunity.

The move proved remarkably effective; with barely any effort, he neutralized the tremendous force of the spear.

Jiang Fan was utterly bewildered, unable to comprehend why his powerful thrust had gone completely astray.

It is worth noting that the phrase “four ounces deflect a thousand pounds” first appeared in the Ming dynasty, in martial arts master Wang Zongyue’s “Treatise on Taijiquan”: “Let him strike with great force; I move with four ounces to deflect a thousand pounds.” This principle of borrowing and redirecting force is widely believed to have originated with the legendary grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng at the turn of the Yuan and Ming dynasties. In the flourishing Tang era, such concepts were unheard of.

For Pei Min to display such a technique at this moment was utterly unprecedented—truly astounding.

Refusing to believe in trickery, Jiang Fan pressed in again, launching ten rapid thrusts. Pei Min, still immersed in the delight of his successful innovation, responded to each attack with the same deft Taiji-inspired maneuver, causing Jiang Fan’s every strike to miss, as if he were merely toying with him.

Flushing with embarrassment, Jiang Fan’s temper flared. With a furious roar, his hair and beard bristling, he drove his spear straight at Pei Min’s centerline, pouring all his strength into a final, desperate gambit—a Heaven and Earth Strike.

Yet Pei Min, unhurried as ever, merely rested his sword atop Jiang Fan’s spear. All at once, Jiang Fan found his hands unresponsive; with a sudden whoosh, the spear was lifted skyward, and he was left standing on one leg in a pose like a golden cockerel.

He had meant to thrust straight and true—yet somehow, his spear was now pointing uselessly at the heavens.