The wind was howling.
Blowing from the west, it howled like a horde of demons cracking their whips against the hearts of those heading home, shattering the souls of passersby.
Fortunately, no one was on their way home, nor was anyone passing by.
There was nothing here. No horses, carriages, or donkeys on the streets; not a single soul in the shops; no firewood or fire in the hearths; no rice, fish, or meat in the pots; no warbling of orioles and swallows in the boudoirs, nor any scent of powder and perfume.
For there was no longer anyone here, not even a single living soul.
A scene of deathly desolation.
At some unknown moment, the wind suddenly died down. On the long, deserted street, a white dog with a drooping tail suddenly dragged its feet onto the blue-cloud-patterned flagstones.
Someone was walking behind the dog.
A blind man.
This blind man wore a padded blue coarse cotton robe, washed so many times it was nearly faded white, and stained a dusty yellow by the wind and sand. He used a white cane, now turned ash-grey, tapping with a *clack* on the blue flagstones, then a *thud* on the yellow sand.
The wind rose again.
A shop sign fluttered in the wind, its ring and hook grinding against each other with a screech like a saw cutting through iron, setting one's teeth on edge. The white dog whimpered, its bark hoarse. The torn paper on the window lattices rustled, sounding like painful groans and ragged gasps.
The blind man vigorously shook his small brass gong used to attract customers. The clear chime rang out, then abruptly stopped.
Where had those pleasant, lively sounds gone?
The clamor of street vendors, the haggling of women, the thud of knives on chopping boards, the sizzle of food in woks, the sound of a mother swatting her child's bottom, the loud crying of children, the giggles of young girls, the rattle of dice in a bowl, the boisterous laughter of drunken men, and the songs drifting down from the taverns, sung by girls imitating Jiangnan melodies.
Where had all those delightful, bustling sounds gone?
The chime of the gong ceased; the dog's barking ceased as well. The blind man's hand fell limp, the gong in his grasp suddenly seeming to weigh a thousand catties. An unspeakable dread welled up in his heart. Was it because he did not know what had happened?
He had passed through here before, but he did not know by what mysterious cause this once-prosperous little town had been transformed into a silent town of the dead.
Is not the unknown one of the very sources of human fear? He stopped. His dog, having already taken a step forward, suddenly shrank back.
No people. No one on the streets, no one in the houses. Ahead or behind, outdoors or indoors, there was not a single soul. If there was no one, then there should be no danger, for in this world, the most dangerous thing of all is man.
In this world, what animal kills more than "man" himself?
And so, the blind man began to move forward again. He even shook his gong vigorously, making it ring out clearly.
After a moment, his dog also began to move forward, but this time, it followed behind its master.
A dog is still a dog.
How could such a prosperous and peaceful little town suddenly become a dead place without a single soul?
The blind man, naturally, found it extremely strange.
However, if he could see, he would surely find it even stranger.
For this small town, though deserted and devoid of a single soul, was remarkably "fresh and clean." There were no cobwebs in the corners, no rust on the metalware, no dried-up oil in the lamps, no dampness or mold on the clothes and bedding, and not even a speck of dust on the tables and chairs.
Could the people of this town have fled in panic overnight?
Why did they have to flee in such a desperate hurry?
The blind man lightly shook his gong, slowly stepping forward.
The wind blew, evening clouds hung low, his figure as thin as a reed. Heaven and earth were a single gloomy hue, more washed out than an ink wash painting.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from afar. The sound of horse hooves, very soft, very slow, exactly like the tapping of a blind man's cane on green cobblestones—not entirely leisurely, but cautious to the extreme.
The newcomer could certainly not be someone on their way home, nor could they be a mere traveler passing through.
A person heading home would have a heart burning with impatience, wishing only to return sooner to their parents, spouse, and children; a traveler would be anxious and hurried, so how could they be so leisurely?
This kind of sound was something one would normally only hear during the beautiful seasons of spring and autumn, when the mountains and waters blend into a single hue.
Yet at this hour, in this place, which was neither a festive season nor a scenic spot, such a sound of hooves suddenly echoed. Moreover, it was not just one person and one horse, nor even just ten people and ten horses.
Who was coming? What were they here for?
The blind man slowly drew back, and his dog slowly shrank back with him, retreating beneath the dark eaves of a house.
He could hear at least thirty riders approaching, perhaps even more than fifty.
For his ears had always been exceptionally sharp; because he was a blind man, and when a person's eyes can no longer see, do they not have only their heart and ears left to listen?
Sure enough, there were fifty riders. Fifty-one.
Fifty-one swift steeds of famous, pure breeds—fast, enduring, one in a thousand.
To call them thousand-mile steeds would not be an exaggeration. Yet right now, they were moving very slowly.
Astride the fifty-one swift steeds were fifty-one heroes—tall and short, fat and thin, old and young—but among them, at least fifty shared one common trait...
They were all extraordinarily fierce, robust men of a hundred battles, and they must have been incredibly calm and composed individuals.
However, at this moment, they showed extraordinary impatience, and anxiety as well.
Normally, with such a state of mind, they would have whipped their horses into a wild gallop; even if the horses collapsed and the men grew exhausted, it wouldn't matter. The horses were excellent steeds, the men were formidable heroes—they could arrive as fast as they wished.
But why were they moving so slowly?
Fifty-one horses, fifty riders... was their sluggishness because of the remaining person?
No. That fifty-first person—his temperament, his physique, his bearing, the power radiating from his body—could not be compared to those fifty men, even if all fifty of them were combined.
For he was the pillar of all the heroes and martial artists of the southwest, the one who guarded the land of Chang'an—Master Tie.
… Tie Dajia had no other name. His surname was Tie, and his name was simply Tie Dajia.
… Tie Dajia stood seven feet nine and a half inches tall and weighed one hundred and thirty-nine catties. It was said that his most beloved wife, Yang Yu, once asked him to do something for her.
She wanted him to strip naked and flex his body so she could count how many bulging muscles he had.
Three hundred and eighty-six.
Yang Yu confided to her closest confidante:
“Actually, there are three hundred and eighty-seven, not a single one missing, and every one of them is as hard as iron.”
Tie Dajia’s mastery of the Thirteen Guardians Golden Bell Cover and Iron Shirt, a hard qigong technique, was famous throughout the land.
His beloved concubine, Yang Yu, was as gentle as a lamb and as smooth as jade—a fact known to everyone.
Unfortunately, her closest confidante was not a girl as gentle as she was, but a very gentle young boy.
… In some respects, men with invincible hard qigong could never compare to soft, gentle young boys.
Tie Dajia, of course, could never be gentle.
He had a fiery temper and had never waited for anyone in his life. Right now, he seemed even more impatient than his attendants; his horse was faster, yet he was forced to rein it in and walk it slowly, step by step.
Why was that? How had a man with a temper as hot as fire like Tie Dajia suddenly found such patience? How had he become so accommodating?
Because of a sedan chair.
Among the fifty-one riders, there were four handsome, bare-chested young men wearing tight cotton trousers. Moving with dancing steps, they carried a sedan chair alongside Tie Dajia.
When the sedan chair stopped in front of the Sihai Tavern, the most luxurious establishment in town, Tie Dajia immediately dismounted. The other fifty riders leaped down almost simultaneously, in the exact same manner.
The young men lowered the sedan poles and drew back the curtain.
After a long pause, a hand slowly reached out from inside the sedan and grasped a young man's arm.
The hand was fair, soft, and slender, with meticulously trimmed nails and skin as smooth as a young girl's. Resting against the young man's dark, sturdy arm, it was all the more jarring.
It was surely the hand of a young girl. Three of her fingers wore exquisitely carved jade rings, each worth at least a thousand taels of silver.
This girl was clearly favored by Tie Dajia above all others, which was why he was willing to wait for her, and why she could afford to wear such rings.
Yet, to everyone's utter astonishment, the person who stepped out of the sedan chair was a tiny, incredibly ancient old man.
A tiny old man wearing a green silk robe embroidered with little rabbits and white stripes.
He was a tiny old man whom anyone would find utterly repulsive at first glance, yet from his squinting eyes, it seemed as if two daggers were thrusting out.
Even before he had fully emerged from the sedan, those dagger-like eyes were already staring intently at the blind man.
The blind man had hunched his shoulders, sitting under the gloomy eaves like a snail retreating into its shell, thinking that if he couldn't see others, they wouldn't see him either. However, the tiny old man in the embroidered robe had already walked up to him, his dagger-like eyes staring intently at his face.
The old man's footsteps were as light as a rabbit's, and the blind man's eyes were as blind as a bat's, but his dog's body was tensed like a bow.
The blind man did not know.
He could not see the killing intent surrounding him on all sides, nor could he see the old man's knife-sharp eyes, and he did not hear the rabbit-light footsteps.
The old man stared intently at him for a long while before slowly turning his head. Tie Dajia was standing right where he turned.
He said nothing, but his eyes asked:
– To kill? Or not to kill?
In truth, there was no need to ask. "Better to mistakenly kill a hundred than to mistakenly spare one."
"Kill" was the most logical answer. With just a simple hand gesture, this blind man would instantly be hacked to pieces.
Life was so precious, yet why did it so often become so cheap?
The sun was setting, dusk was falling, and the night grew deeper and deeper.
The blind man had reached a small alley at the far end of the town. At the end of the alley, the faint clacking of a wooden clapper seemed to echo, sounding just like the blind man's cane tapping against the road—hollow, monotonous, and lonely.
But what was wrong with loneliness? Only the living could feel lonely; only the living could feel a coldness that seeped into their bones. At least, that was surely better than feeling nothing at all.
The blind man was still alive. Even he found it strange that those people hadn't killed him.
At the end of the alley was a door, a very narrow door. He knocked on it: once, then a pause; then four times—three fast, one slow—followed by another pause; and finally, two more times. He knocked with force, making those seven taps form a rhythm that was both strange and intriguing.
Then, the door opened.
The person who opened it seemed born for the task: a narrow door, a skeletal figure holding a dim, flickering lamp. It was an ordinary sight, yet within that ordinariness lay a touch of the mysterious.
Behind the narrow door lay a desolate courtyard. Weeds choked the path, and the plants and flowers were withered. An old woman with hair as white as frost and a back bent like a bow sat alone on the porch, crafting a flower out of pith paper.
An artificial flower, a small, white artificial flower.
The flower was not yet finished, yet it was already dead.
A grand house, high eaves, a long corridor, a solitary lamp, an ancient courtyard, a cold night, and the distant wind wailing like a sob.
The blind man stopped and bowed to the old woman:
– Third Aunt, are you well?
– I am well, I am well. And you are well, too, you are well, too.
A rare smile appeared on the old woman's face:
– We are all well, all still alive. Why wouldn't we be well?
As she spoke, she finished making the flower. Though it was plain white, it looked incredibly delicate and beautiful.
Looking at the flower she had just finished, the smile on her face suddenly froze, as if someone terrified of snakes had suddenly realized they were holding one.
…But this was no snake; it was a white chrysanthemum.
…Why did the sight of the artificial flower she had just crafted fill the old woman with such sheer terror?
The blind man did not see the change in her expression. He only asked:
– And Nephew Young Master?
– He is fine, too. He is very well.
The old woman smiled again:
– Looking at his face lately, he doesn't look like he's going to die anytime soon.
A smile appeared on the blind man's face as well:
– May I go inside to see him?
– Yes, yes.
The old woman said:
– Go on in. He is waiting for you inside.
The blind man stepped up the moss-stained steps. He walked along the corridor, his white cane tapping against the old wood—tap, tap, tap—as he passed the old woman and approached a door.
He heard the old woman coughing fitfully and gasping for breath, but he did not see her eyes suddenly welling with tears.
Tears fell drop by drop onto the flower petals, as translucent as dewdrops.
Whether they were the tears of an old woman or those of a young girl, they were equally translucent.
Tears were tears, all the same. Yet the old woman's heart seemed to have died long ago; why would she suddenly weep over a fake flower?
This room was incredibly ancient. By all rights, it should have been covered in dust and cobwebs, yet it was swept as clean as a bedsheet freshly washed from a basin by a meticulous woman—immaculately clean.
Even the wooden floorboards had been scrubbed almost white.
However, there was nothing else in the room. Tables, chairs, ornaments, calligraphy paintings, dishes—things every other household possessed—were entirely absent here.
In the room, there was only a lamp, a bed, and three people.
Of the three, two were standing. They wore green robes that draped from head to toe, covering their feet, with sleeves long enough to hide their hands. Even their faces were veiled with green cloth; except for their eyes, nothing else could be seen.
Yet any sighted person, merely by observing their posture and movements, would be able to tell that they were both highly charming young women.
The third person was reclining against the bed. He was a very handsome, very young man with thick eyebrows and large, bright eyes as clear as a lake atop Mount Tianshan. His gaze was filled with a wild, exuberant joy, like a spirited steed that had just won a hunt.
The vitality of youth, a spirited demeanor, abundant vigor, boundless confidence, an extraordinarily striking appearance, the scion of a noble family whose wealth rivaled nations... and yet...
The blind man walked in and greeted the youth. The youth did not return the greeting, but merely smiled.
Just a smile, and though he did not return the courtesy, it was a very warm and gentle smile.
"Tenth Uncle, have you been there? Did you see that big fellow?"
The youth's voice was not only warm and intimate, but also very clear:
"Did that big fellow see you?"
The blind man smiled.
"Tie Dajia is not blind, so why wouldn't he see me?"
"But even if he saw you, it would surely be as if he hadn't, because he wouldn't recognize who you are at all."
The youth asked the blind man with great excitement:
"Is that right?"
"Indeed."
The youth laughed aloud:
"That blind bastard! How could he possibly recognize that this blind man is actually Mr. Liu?"
The blind man also chuckled:
"You shouldn't mock them. My ability to feign blindness has always been top-tier."
The blind man said.
"Even if your act wasn't convincing, they still wouldn't see through it."
The youth said:
"How could the eyes of Mr. Liu Mingqiu, famous for 'seeing down to the finest detail,' ever go blind? Who could possibly imagine such a thing?"
His gaze suddenly grew as dim as autumn moonlight:
"The affairs of the world are always like this. For instance, who could have imagined that Murong of Jiangnan, famous among the Four Great Young Masters, would..."
Xiong of Jiangxi, eating without end, drinking without end.
Murong of Jiangnan, infinitely versatile with a hundred transformations.
When Guandong rages, countless corpses fall; when he rages again, corpses are strewn in all directions.
Jiangdong Liu, whose elegant swordplay knows no rival.
Before the number one young master of Jiangnan could finish what he was about to say, his expression changed completely, and he suddenly asked the blind man:
“Is that big fellow still exactly the same as before? Always accompanied by a pretty boy who seems completely useless?”
“This time, there is one difference.”
The blind man, who was not blind at all, said:
“This time he brought along at least twenty-seven people, and moreover, they are very useful.”
“Very useful?”
Young Master Murong asked:
“Just how useful?”
Liu Mingqiu asked in return:
“Although Young Master is from Jiangnan, you must have heard of a famous troupe of entertainers in the estates of the prominent officials and powerful lords of Huguang, called the Longyu Troupe?”
“I know of them.”
Young Master Murong chuckled:
“I have heard of them.”
He smiled a smile that was not quite normal, not very decent, because that "Longyu Troupe" was precisely like that, originally hoping that wealthy young masters would treat them in such a manner.
They all joined the Longyu Troupe at the age of four or five, trained strictly from childhood. They could sing, dance, drink, and play instruments; not only were they multi-talented, but they were also highly adept at pleasing others.
“Actually, what they are most skilled in is not those things,”
Liu Mingqiu said.
“If not those things, then what is it?”
“Killing.”
Mr. Liu said:
“How to strike at the most opportune moment, seize the most advantageous opportunity, use the most effective method to kill, and moreover, retreat completely unscathed after the deed is done.”
He said:
“That is the ultimate purpose of those pretty boys in the Longyu Troupe.”
“Could those lovely boys really be such terrifying assassins?”
Young Master Mur
At times, they can even go without food or drink, without sleep or movement, lying curled up in a tiny spot for days on end. But the moment they strike, their opponent is almost certainly dead.
Mr. Liu said:
"Their way is very much like the most venomous of snakes, the Qingzhusi."
"Then why aren't they called the Qingzhusi?"
"Because their camouflage isn't necessarily green, and they don't look much like snakes either."
Young Master Murong burst into laughter.
"Reasonable, very reasonable indeed."
He praised with heartfelt admiration:
"Silk. It is silk. What better name could there be?"
The discernment of the Murong clan's successors had always been exceptionally sharp; no one had ever denied this.
——————————————————————————–
Translator's Note:
*Midnight Orchid* is the final installment in Gu Long's *Legend of Chu Liuxiang* series, written in 1979 when the author was entering the final years of his life, battling cancer.
Perhaps because of this, some details in the plot do not always align perfectly. If readers find certain parts of the story confusing or inconsistent, these issues stem from the original Chinese text, not the translator.
Translator: Le Khac Tuong