Chapter One: The Newly Appointed County Constable

Wang Zhenling picked up the inkstone and splashed ink directly over the two little white foxes. The two who had been gloating only a moment before were instantly transformed into little black foxes, frozen in surprise. Now it was the turn of the little piebald fox, who had previously been the butt of their jokes, to gloat, extending a paw to point and gesture at them as if to mock. Yet before it could voice its laughter, the unscrupulous Wang Zhenling poured the remaining ink over the piebald fox as well. In an instant, all three little white foxes had become little black foxes. They could only stare blankly, unable to think of any retort, while Wang Zhenling doubled over with laughter.

But soon, Wang Zhenling’s joy turned to sorrow. The three little foxes immediately sought their revenge, pouncing upon him and smearing the ink from their fur all over his clothes. For a while, the house was filled with the sounds of human and foxes laughing and playing, and ink was splattered everywhere.

In the end, the three little foxes left in a huff, leaving only Wang Zhenling to face the chaos in the house, shaking his head and sighing. Yet the smile remained on his lips, his mood evidently excellent. For the moment, he set aside his concerns that the authorities might come knocking.

By the way, besides Little White, the other two foxes had also been named by Wang Zhenling. One was called Little Black—the one he had drenched in ink with the inkstone. The other was Little Piebald, the one he had flicked with ink dots using his brush. The two foxes seemed quite dissatisfied with the names he’d given them, circling him and alternately threatening and coaxing in an attempt to make him change their names. Wang Zhenling stood firm, refusing to change them, so the two foxes left, disgruntled. Little White, on the other hand, was full of pride, strutting about, proud of its snowy white fur and its name—though in the end, it too was spattered with ink by Wang Zhenling.

At this moment, Wang Zhenling felt an easy contentment and murmured to himself, “Now that I possess the true transmission of the secret art, there is no need to worry about cultivation. At worst, I can hide away deep in the mountains and forests, spend decades in seclusion, and emerge when the time is right. If things truly become impossible, I can always cross over to the modern world where Jun Tian Monastery resides. Although I wouldn’t be able to cultivate there, at least my life would not be in danger, and I could live out a peaceful life for decades.”

Of course, though he said this, Wang Zhenling would not truly do so unless there was absolutely no other choice.

Having a way out always brings peace of mind!

Almost as if fate was playing a trick on Wang Zhenling, just as he had settled on a course of action and felt secure in having an escape plan, officials arrived at his door. And not just the local constables, but the County Commandant himself.

The County Commandant was a high-ranking official, drawing a salary of four hundred bushels of grain and commanding the county’s military affairs. His arrival was imposing indeed—several light carriages escorted the Commandant’s horse-drawn carriage, and more than a dozen mounted riders relayed orders back and forth. He was accompanied by several hundred county soldiers, cutting a truly formidable figure.

Wang Zhenling, still reading in his thatched cottage, heard the sounds of shouting and neighing from afar. Puzzled, he soon saw this martial procession ascend Little Plum Mountain in a display of force.

At first, Wang Zhenling’s heart trembled, fearing these soldiers had come to arrest him. He had already taken his long knife and bow from the wall. But he soon realized something was off—the county soldiers hung back, allowing two riders to advance up the mountain alone.

Fortunately, Little Plum Mountain was more of a hill than a true mountain, and the two riders quickly arrived outside his thatched hut, raising their voices: “Does the gentleman who dwells here answer to the name of the Plum Mountain Scholar? The County Commandant is conducting an inspection and requests that you come down to meet him!”

Plum Mountain Scholar? Wang Zhenling was momentarily taken aback before realizing that must refer to himself. Living here on Little Plum Mountain, the title fit well enough. He was vaguely aware that he was somewhat known in the county.

Taking a steadying breath, Wang Zhenling stepped out of his cottage. The two riders, clad in leather armor, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, dismounted politely and said, “The Commandant awaits at the foot of the hill, Scholar of Plum Mountain. Please accompany us.”

These men exuded an undeniable air of intimidation—clearly seasoned warriors, perhaps even veterans who had seen battle. Yet their manners were courteous as they gestured for Wang Zhenling to descend.

“Is the County Commandant still Lord Deng?” Wang Zhenling inquired. “I have been dwelling in the mountains so long, I’ve lost touch with the affairs below.”

He had a sense that these men were not subordinates of the former Commandant Deng.

“No, our Commandant is now Lord Chen—a newly appointed official,” one replied, adding, “He comes from the region of Sanhe.”

Sanhe—the capital region—was home to the most distinguished families and the greatest nobles of the Grand Dynasty.

Wang Zhenling quickly surmised that this Lord Chen must be of noble birth. The Wang clan of Danling might be considered a great family locally, but in truth they were merely prominent in the county—a local power, nothing more. They could not compare to the truly illustrious clans.

As he made his way down the hill, Wang Zhenling noticed among the county soldiers many wore armor and had a disciplined, competent air about them. The dozen or so cavalrymen in particular were elite—another sign that this Commandant was no ordinary man. The very presence of such men, clearly private retainers, showed that only a noble house could afford such an entourage.

At last, Wang Zhenling saw the Commandant—a man in his early thirties, with a calm countenance, yellow sash, and bronze seal. Surrounded by a retinue of attendants, he cut an impressive figure.

By the Commandant’s side stood several swordsmen, each with a hand on their blade, their gazes sharp as knives. They were clearly masters. Their eyes followed Wang Zhenling’s every move, seeking out any flaw in his posture, every possible opening. The scrutiny was so intense that Wang Zhenling became self-conscious, stumbling over his steps.

Their eyes were too keen, too ruthless—each glance seemed to predict his next move, to expose his vulnerabilities before he even took a step. Wang Zhenling could not help but think to himself, “Masters—true masters! And these must train in coordinated fighting techniques!”

Their teamwork was evident—one would focus on his current weaknesses, another would anticipate his next action. If they were to attack, one would strike at his opening, another would cut off his escape. Wang Zhenling realized that, if it came to a fight, he would have no chance to resist.

Just then, Commandant Chen laughed heartily, stepped forward, and said, “I have long heard of the renowned Scholar of Plum Mountain. To meet you today is truly a stroke of great fortune!”

At his words, the swordsmen’s gazes relaxed, the heavy pressure dissipating instantly. Wang Zhenling let out a deep breath, finally at ease, and bowed respectfully to Commandant Chen: “Your humble servant, Wang Zhenling, pays his respects to the Commandant!”