The Swordsman Scholar of Chang'an

The moonlight over Chang’an always carries a hint of sword’s shadow and the fragrance of ink. When the morning mist still lingers on Vermilion Bird Avenue, two kinds of footprints are already imprinted upon the blue stone slabs: one, the resolute clang of armored steeds; the other, the calm tread of cloth shoes worn by a scholar. And Scholar Xiao is precisely the alchemist of these two spirits—his Tang sword at his waist reflects the soaring eaves of the Wild Goose Pagoda, while the poetry scrolls hidden in his sleeves embrace the lotus breezes from Qujiang Pool.

I first encountered Scholar Xiao in a tavern of the Western Market. He was seated by the window, his left hand pressing on a well-thumbed copy of The Records of the Grand Historian, his right index finger tapping lightly upon the table, his rhythm echoing the cadence of sword techniques discussed by the bodyguards at the neighboring table. Someone laughed at him, saying, ‘You are neither adept at deciphering words nor defending yourself in battle.’ He merely glanced up with a smile, and the light in his eyes was brighter than the iron steed on the eaves. Only later did I realize that the rhythm of his tapping concealed the unstoppable momentum of Pei Min’s swordplay and the soaring grace in Lady Gongsun’s sword dance.

In Chang’an, swordsmen are as numerous as cattle on the plains—there are wandering knights roaming the world, the Golden Guards defending the city gates, and couriers hiding amidst the crowds of the marketplace. But Scholar Xiao is different. His sword is rarely stained with blood, yet