Martial Souls in a Chaotic Era

The Swordsman

By Li Bai

The swordsmen of Zhao wear loose tasselled caps; their Wu hooks gleam like frost and snow. Silver saddles shine on white horses, swift as meteors. They slay one man every ten paces, and travel a thousand miles without a trace. Once their task is done, they brush off their robes and vanish, leaving neither name nor fame. They stop at Lord Xinling's to drink, their swords laid across their knees. They eat roast meat with Zhu Hai and raise their cups to Hou Ying. Three cups, and they make a solemn promise; the Five Sacred Mountains seem light by comparison. Their eyes grow hazy and their ears flush hot, then their spirit rises like a rainbow. They wielded golden hammers to save Zhao, and Handan trembled first. Those two heroes will be remembered for a thousand years, their names blazing through Daliang. Even in death, a hero's bones carry their fragrance, never shamed before the world's champions. Who could write of them beneath the pavilion, hair gone white from studying the Great Mystery?