Jian Linling

Beneath the walls of Foguocheng, torches flowed like a river. A white-robed youth pushed the last brick into place, sealing the city gate. And sealing off his own way out. At the Yuyuan Pawnshop in Luoyi, the owner hung a sword-seeking notice on the wall: one thousand taels. Someone below asked, “Didn't the sword's owner die?” The owner replied, “A client put up the notice. The client says the sword may be dead, but the man might not be.” On the northern snowfields, at the start of spring, a blind girl knelt in the snow, both hands buried in the drifts as she felt her way along, inch by inch. She found a broken arrow, half a piece of cloth, and a trail of deep and shallow footprints heading north. She placed her hands into the footprints and measured them. “He's not fast,” she said. “I can catch him.” Three places, three groups of people, and one invisible thread. At the other end of it, a youth who should have died at sixteen is training himself back to life, year by year. The wind rises in the north. When it reaches Luoyi, the whole world will know: The tomb of the swords of the White Hero was built for the wrong man.