In days of old, whenever an era was consumed by violence, evil, and chaos, a certain flying dagger would suddenly appear in the jianghu. No one knew its shape or form, nor could anyone describe its power and speed.
In the eyes and hearts of men, it was not merely a weapon to suppress violence, but a symbol of justice and dignity. Such power was naturally immense and peerless, and therefore, invincible.
When the chaos subsided, it vanished along with it, like roaring waves dissolving into a peaceful, silent ocean.
Yet everyone knew that should chaos ever engulf the jianghu once more, it would reappear, bringing to humanity boundless faith and infinite hope.
About the Flying Dagger:
The blade is not only a weapon; tradition even holds that it ranks first among the eighteen weapons of martial arts.
Yet in almost every respect, the blade cannot stand above the sword. It lacks the elegant, mysterious, and romantic temperament of the sword, as well as its nobility.
At times, the sword is a magnificent ornament; at others, a symbol of status and position.
Not so for the blade.
The sword is elegant, belonging to the aristocracy, while the blade is common and popularized.
Associations with the sword are often found in imperial courts, deep in the mountains, or amidst the white clouds.
The blade, however, is deeply intertwined with the very breath of human life.
From the moment humans came into being and began forging blades, they have shared an inseparable bond with them. Chopping food, harvesting grain, cutting cloth, cutting hair, shaving, trimming nails, butchering meat, slicing fish, crafting saddles, warning the public, displaying might, executing the law—not one of these deeds can be accomplished without a blade.
Human life cannot exist without the blade, just as it cannot exist without food and water.
Strangely, in the minds and eyes of men, the blade is far more ruthless, tragic, fierce, savage, and violent than the sword.
Blades come in many forms: single sabers, double sabers, fluttering daggers, monastic cleavers, serrated blades, mountain-cleaving sabers, ghost-head sabers, goose-quill steel sabers, Five Phoenixes Facing the Sun sabers, and Fish-Scale Purple-Gold sabers.
The flying dagger is, without a doubt, also a kind of blade. Though rarely recorded in official history, this only enhances its mystery and legendary allure.
Is "Heaven's Reckoning" a type of blade? That is impossible to verify.
Li Xunhuan is a fictional character, and his "Little Li's Flying Dagger" is naturally the same.
Most believe that a character like Li Xunhuan could never truly exist in this world, nor could a weapon like "Little Li's Flying Dagger."
For he is too chivalrous and righteous, constantly sacrificing himself for others.
And that weapon is too wondrous and miraculous, completely detached from reality.
For what people call "reality" pertains to the modern world, not the era of Li Xunhuan.
Thus, whether Li Xunhuan and his Little Li's Flying Dagger are fictional is of little importance. What matters is whether the character can leave a lingering trace in the reader's heart, stir their empathy, and allow them to share in his sorrows, joys, laughter, and tears.
Originally, no one knew what Li Xunhuan and his flying dagger actually looked like. Yet through the lens of cinema, both the man and his weapon were given form, bringing them to the masses.
From a broader perspective, such popularization can be seen as vulgar, a departure from true literature and art.
But my conclusion remains that, in our current social climate, becoming a bit more popularized is not a bad thing at all.
At least it is better than someone hiding in an ivory tower, weeping alone.
The novel *Fei Dao, You Jian Fei Dao* is related to the story of Li Xunhuan and his flying dagger, and naturally, it is also inextricably linked to the story of *Xiao Li Fei Dao*.
Yet, there are still many aspects in which the two are completely different.
Although both stories similarly revolve around the grievances, loves, and hates of Li Xunhuan's lineage, they are completely independent.
While the story of *Xiao Li Fei Dao* has been adapted for the silver screen many times, his story was written as a novel long before that. In contrast, the current story of *Fei Dao* was adapted into a film before the novel was even begun.
*Xiao Shiyilang* was the same; the movie came first, followed by the novel.
Such a situation may actually filter out many unnecessary details, making the story cleaner, simpler, and more dynamic.
Because filmmaking is an all-encompassing endeavor, requiring untold amounts of painstaking effort, as well as immense material and financial resources.
Therefore, when writing a novel based on a film, one's state of mind is completely different from when writing an ordinary novel.
Fortunately, these two approaches to novel writing still share one thing in common: both hope to evoke a sense of joy and encouragement in the readers' hearts, uniting them in spirit.
I think that is perhaps one of my greatest purposes in writing novels.
Of course, it is by no means the sole purpose.
There is also one point I must clarify.
Currently, my wrist is still in pain, and I cannot write for long periods without rest. Therefore, I am dictating this orally and having someone else write it down.
In the past, I consistently refused to use this method of dictation, because dictating often glosses over the nuances of plot and prose. It lacks the depth of emotion and the intricate carving of human nature that naturally takes shape when one writes with their own hand.
At the very least, it lacks that delicate, subtle melancholy and profound emotion.
Naturally, there is also a slight deficiency in the prose itself, because the Chinese written language is exquisite, almost as delicate as the melancholy of a Chinese scholar.
Fortunately, I do not need to apologize to you all, because writing a novel in this manner ensures that the plot is swifter and more fluid, completely free from the stiff, gloomy, and agonizingly stagnant style that drags on endlessly.
And such a stiff, gloomy, and agonizingly stagnant style is often the ailment of my novels.
As for that ailment, it has nothing to do with my drinking habit. It is not something that happens after drinking.
Duan Bafang stood seven feet nine inches tall. His entire body was made of steel sinews and iron bones, forged through his mastery of the Thirteen Grand Protectors external martial arts, unmatched by anyone under heaven.
Duan Bafang was fifty-one years old this year. By the age of thirty, he already led the seven major sects and forty-two strongholds north of the Changjiang River, while also serving as the chief escort leader of the four great escort agencies. His prestige and renown were at their peak, unmatched by anyone.
To this day, he was undoubtedly one of the most important figures in the jianghu. His martial arts were superb, and very few could match him.
Yet, three days before New Year's Eve, he witnessed an extraordinarily bizarre event.
What he saw was something almost no one would believe.
On that day, Duan Bafang was unexpectedly frightened to death by a small dagger drawn on a sheet of white paper.
Three days before New Year's Eve, the old year was drawing to a close, and the new year was about to arrive.
At that time, no matter what anyone had to go out for, they only had one thing on their mind: to get back home as quickly as possible.
Duan Bafang was no exception.
That day, he had stepped forward to mediate the largest dispute in the *jianghu* in the past ten years, accepting the gratitude and praise of the thirteen great sects of Huaiyang, and drinking the wine they had specially prepared for him.
Amidst the singing and music, he had easily downed six catties of wine.
By the time he and his bustling entourage stepped out of Zhenhai Tower, his entire body was flushed with warmth. To him, life was like the endless, pure wine in his cup, waiting for him to savor it slowly.
But he suddenly died.
It could be said that his heart had died beneath the blade, much like those who are still alive but have lost all joy in living.
Who could have imagined what had happened to such a man?
* * * * *
Duan Bafang died after receiving a letter. There was no addressee on the envelope, nor any salutation.
In fact, there was not a single word on it. Someone had simply dipped a brush in ink and crudely sketched a small dagger on an unusually large sheet of paper. No one could discern the style or make of the dagger, nor what the drawing was meant to convey, but anyone could tell it was a blade.
The letter had been delivered by a ragged youth. On that dark road in the dead of night, despite the reflection of numerous lanterns, no one could clearly make out his figure or features.
Fortunately, everyone could at least tell he was human.
He stepped out from the darkest shadow of the street, walking forward in a perfectly proper, orderly manner.
Then, with the utmost decorum, he approached Duan Bafang and respectfully presented the letter with both hands.
Instantly, Duan Bafang’s expression changed, as if a red-hot iron spike had suddenly been driven into his throat.
Then, everyone else's expressions changed as well—their reactions far more terrifying and bizarre than even Duan Bafang's.
For everyone watched as Duan Bafang suddenly drew a blade and, with a technique that was both incredibly swift and ruthlessly brutal, plunged it straight into his own abdomen, as if striking down his most hated enemy.
How could anyone possibly explain such a thing?
Yet, if that incident was already inexplicable, there was another occurrence regarding Duan Bafang that was even more baffling, even more unimaginable.
Three days before New Year's Eve, Duan Bafang had committed suicide on the open road, yet when New Year's Eve arrived, he was still alive and well.
In other words, Duan Bafang did not die three days before New Year's Eve, but on the night of New Year's Eve itself.
A person has only one life, and Duan Bafang was only human. How could he have died twice?
* * * * *
The ragged messenger boy had vanished without a trace.
Duan Bafang, a towering man of seven feet nine inches, weighing a solid one hundred and forty-three catties, lay collapsed in a pool of blood.
No one knew what to do, nor did anyone know what to say.
The first to find his voice was Third Master Tu, renowned for his composure and wit among the Three Heroes of Huaiyang.
"Quick! Go find a physician!" he shouted.
In truth, he knew it was already too late for a physician. What they needed most now was a coffin.
The coffin was rushed back by water. By the time it reached his ancestral home, dusk had already fallen.
It was the dusk of New Year's Day.
On New Year's Day, mothers' hands were slick with grease from cooking, and children's faces were bright with joy.
New Year's Day meant new clothes, fresh flowers, wintersweet blossoms, fresh fruit, firecrackers, steamed buns, gold ingots, and red envelopes.
New Year's Day—a time of blessings, joy, and overflowing laughter.
What a colorful and vibrant day New Year's Day should be, yet what arrived at Bafang Manor was a coffin. Though that coffin was worth a thousand taels of silver, it was still just a coffin made of wood.
At a time like this, having no coffin at all would have been infinitely better than having one.
* * * * *
Bafang Manor was magnificent in atmosphere and grand in scale, with rows upon rows of buildings stretching back through countless courtyards.
The main gate of Bafang Manor stood two zhang four chi high and one zhang eight chi wide, painted a brilliant crimson, adorned with gleaming golden brass knockers, and flanked by stone lions on either side.
The coffin was carried through those massive doors by thirty-six burly men using long carrying poles.
Dressed in coarse hemp mourning clothes and white headbands, with straw sandals on their feet, the thirty-six men carried the pitch-black coffin into the courtyard and immediately began to retreat. They took exactly one hundred and fifty-six steps backward, retreating all the way out of the main gate.
Then, the heavy doors slammed shut.
From the inner courtyard, another thirty-six burly men rushed out, hoisted the coffin, and carried it further back.
Beyond the inner courtyard lay yet another courtyard.
And beyond that courtyard lay still another.
By the time they reached the deepest, final courtyard, it was pitch black, dark as ink.
In that ink-black courtyard, there was only a single lamp, casting a faint, dismal glow.
Mourning halls were often like this, always filled with such a dismal atmosphere.
The thirty-six men carried the coffin into the mourning hall, set it down before a crowd of pale-faced widows and orphans, and immediately began to retreat backward, taking swift, hurried steps.
But they did not make it to the door.
From the hands of those widows and orphans—who looked so frail that a gust of wind might blow them over—there suddenly erupted countless flashes of dim golden light. The thirty-six men, as strong as iron lions, instantly collapsed.
They were dead the moment they hit the ground.
In the split second their bodies touched the floor, their breath was gone, fallen never to rise again.
Duan Bafang had a wife; of course, he had only one official wife.
Duan Bafang had concubines; there appeared to be twenty-nine of them.
Duan Bafang had sons; he had forty sons.
Duan Bafang had daughters; sixteen daughters.
At this moment in the mourning hall, besides these eighty-six wives, concubines, and children, there were two other people.
These two looked incredibly old, like men who should have died long ago. Their faces were entirely devoid of expression.
There were only blade scars, and no expression.
Yet every single blade scar could be considered an expression in itself—an expression forged in the flash of blades and the shadow of swords, recalling a past of blood, grievances, love, and hate, carving out a complex and tragic sorrow.
Those thousands upon thousands of blade scars were thousands upon thousands of expressions.
And those thousands upon thousands of expressions ultimately merged into a total lack of expression.
In the pitch-black hall, there had originally been only a single point of light, shining before the spirit tablet on the altar.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a dismal gust of wind swept through, and the light was instantly extinguished.
By the time the lamp was lit once more, the coffin had vanished.
* * * * *
The secret chamber was constructed from a pale green stone, a shade resembling the bones of the dead.
The lamplight, too, cast the very same hue.
As the two old men carrying the coffin approached, the secret door of the chamber slid open on its own.
The two old men slowly lowered the coffin to the floor and gazed at it in silence. The blade scars and wrinkles on their faces seemed to deepen, weaving together into a tragic, mournful pattern.
They stood there in silence for a long time. No one could decipher the patterns on their faces, so no one knew what they were thinking, or what they intended to do.
Then, they did something utterly unimaginable.
They suddenly smashed their heads against the stone wall.
The lamplight flickered like a will-o'-the-wisp.
Unexpectedly, the coffin began to move, sliding slowly aside, and a hand reached out from within.
The hand slowly pushed the lid open, and Duan Bafang rose from the coffin.
He looked around the secret chamber, a smug, satisfied smile spreading across his face.
For he knew that he was now completely safe.
Everyone in the jianghu now believed he had taken his own life with a blade on the highway; all the grudges and vendettas from his lifetime had perished along with him.
No one would hunt him for revenge anymore, because he was a dead man.
A dead man who was still alive and well in this world—such a secret could never be revealed. Everyone who knew of it was already dead, truly dead.
After all, what mouth is sealed tighter than a dead man's?
Duan Bafang let out a long sigh and pulled a bronze ring on the stone wall. A secret door slid open, but then, his face suddenly drained of color.
He had expected to see the food, wine, clothes, and daily necessities he had prepared.
But he did not.
Never in his wildest dreams did he expect to see the very person who had been hunting him for revenge.
Yet there they were.
Though his face fell in horror, his physical reflexes did not falter.
His muscle memory and martial arts instincts remained at their absolute peak; under any circumstances, he could have pierced a mosquito's belly with a single needle.
Unfortunately, this time, his reflexes were not fast enough.
Just as he began to move, a flash of blade-light caught his eye.
A flying dagger.
He knew that once he saw this flying dagger, no matter what technique he used or how he tried to dodge, he would never escape it.
And so, he died.
A man who draws a blade and plunges it into his own stomach, collapsing in a pool of blood, is not necessarily dead.
The blade might have been rigged with a trick mechanism.
But this time, what he saw was the flying dagger—the flying dagger that never misses its mark.
So this time, he was truly dead.
Once again, the flying dagger had appeared in the jianghu.
The mountain town.
This small town lay nestled deep within a remote mountain range, thousands of miles away.
Li Huai had returned to this town once more.
The swirling dust, the yellow earth, and the people here were all deeply familiar to him.
For this was where he had grown up. He was a wanderer, rootless, and his youth had been nothing but a succession of nightmares—yet the most unforgettable part of those nightmares remained this very place.
A steamed bun shop did not necessarily sell only steamed buns, and back when Old Zhang first came to be called "Old Zhang," he wasn't actually old.
But now, he was old.
Every day, he would strain his dim, aging eyes to peer through the swirling dust, always waiting as if a miracle might appear on the road ahead at any moment.
He never could have imagined that today, a miracle would actually happen.
He saw a ragged, travel-worn youth clad in dusty clothes, trudging wearily toward the steamer in front of his small shop.
Billowing steam rose from the steamer, as hazy and dim as Old Zhang's aging eyes.
He could only see that the youth was very handsome, with a pair of sharp eyes and a very distinctive appearance. Old Zhang had never seen anyone like him before; he would wager that the youth had definitely never been here.
"Honored guest," Old Zhang asked, "the stove in my humble shop isn't lit yet, but the vegetables, mushrooms, and meat for the bun fillings are all ready. What would you like to eat?"
"I want to eat you."
The youth answered him in a very gentle tone. Yet those words truly gave Old Zhang a fright.
"You want to eat me?" Old Zhang gasped in fright. "Why would you want to eat me? I'm not delicious at all."
"Of course you are," the youth said. "If I hadn't eaten you, how could I have survived until now?"
Old Zhang stared at him in shock, then suddenly burst into laughter—a hearty, wide-mouthed, wide-eyed laugh.
"So it's you, you little rascal Xiao Huai!" Old Zhang laughed so hard that the deep wrinkles on his face almost split. "Back then, you ate me every single day. You ate me for so many years, and now, after all these years of not seeing each other, you still want to come and eat me?"
"If I don't eat you, who else would I eat?"
The youth was indeed straightforward—not only in his words, but in his actions as well.
He actually went right ahead and lifted the steamer lid, took out all the buns inside, and devoured every last one of them.
"You're really eating them?"
"Of course I am."
Old Zhang laughed again. "Do you still remember your eleventh birthday, how many of my buns you stole and ate? Who would have thought that today you'd eat even more than you did back then."
"I've had practice."
The youth's smile seemed to carry a touch of melancholy. "When a person goes hungry for six whole months, they might not master anything else, but they can definitely master this."
"Go ahead and eat!" Old Zhang sighed deliberately. "Eat your fill. I'm already used to being eaten by you."
"And you, of course, are also used to not taking my money."
"Since you have a habit of not paying, I naturally have no choice but to get used to not collecting," Old Zhang said with a wry smile. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to get a copper out of you anyway."
But even as Old Zhang said this, his expression did not seem to match his words.
For he had suddenly spotted something rarely ever seen.
On the dusty, windblown road, there suddenly appeared four children. They had round necks, round eyes, and round faces. Their round bodies were clad in long red robes; around their necks hung glittering gold rings, on their wrists they wore pairs of flashing jade bracelets, and their ears were pierced with gold rings. Their small, round, fair hands held round trays before them, piled high with countless round gold coins. With round, smiling faces and round dimples, the four of them entered the bun shop from four different directions.
Old Zhang was dumbfounded.
He had never seen such people appear in this place before.
Yet those four round little children not only walked into his shop, but they also carried their four round trays and placed them right in front of him.
Old Zhang stared at the piles of gold coins on the trays, his own eyes turning perfectly round.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked the youth. "Did you have these people bring these coins to me?"
"Coins? What coins? Where did they come from? I don't see a single coin."
"Then what do you see?" Old Zhang blinked rapidly, staring at the youth who was playing dumb. "If you don't see any coins, what do you see?"
"I only see buns," the youth replied. "It's just a pity that while your bun saved my life, the bun I returned to you cannot be eaten."
"I understand what you mean."
Old Zhang let out a genuine sigh this time.
"You want to repay my kindness. You once said you would repay me a hundredfold, a thousandfold," Old Zhang said. "At the time, I believed you could never do it, but now I'm not so sure."
"Why?"
"Because I have no way of believing that a kid like you, in just a few short years, could become such a big spender."
The handsome youth slumped back comfortably in his chair. Under the glittering gold light, an incredibly mysterious smile suddenly appeared on his face.
"You don't believe it?" he said. "To tell you the truth, not only do you not believe it, but I don't really believe it myself."
Old Zhang's face, lined with the wrinkles of time, suddenly took on a mysterious expression. He chuckled and deliberately lowered his voice:
"I heard that a lone bandit has recently appeared in the Jianghu. He has superb martial arts and immense courage—he even dared to steal money from the imperial treasury."
"Oh?"
"You haven't heard of this person?"
"No."
"But his temperament seems quite similar to yours, and I've known since you were a child that you are extraordinarily bold."
Old Zhang looked at him, his cloudy, aged eyes filling with a sly, mischievous amusement.
"If I were a grand bandit wanted by the government, I would definitely hide here too," Old Zhang said. "Hiding in a godforsaken place like this where chickens don't fly, dogs don't leap, and rabbits don't piss—who could ever find you?"
The youth also smiled. "That is indeed not wrong at all."
When the young girl appeared, it was just when the youth was wearing his most charming smile.
In all honesty, once the youth's smile bloomed, it actually looked a bit roguish, especially when he saw the young girl.
She was furious.
Although she wasn't riding a horse, she held a riding crop in her hand, which seemed as if it weren't meant for whipping horses at all, but rather for dragging people.
She pointed the whip right at the youth's nose and asked Old Zhang, "Who is this guy?"
Before Old Zhang could open his mouth, the youth answered first, "As for who that person is, I'm afraid no one in the world knows better than I do."
He pinched the tip of the whip with two fingers and used it to point at his own nose. "My surname is Li, and my name is Li Huai."
"Your name is Huai?" The young girl seemed unable to hold it in and wanted to burst out laughing. "So you even know yourself that you're bad?"
"A person named Li Huai isn't necessarily a bad person," Li Huai said solemnly.
The young girl grew even more curious. "Is your name really Li Huai?"
"It's real, of course it's real," the youth replied. "I also have another name that has four characters."
"A four-character name?" The young girl's eyes widened as she looked at Li Huai. "What is that four-character name of yours?"
"It's Li Huai Zi Liao."
The young girl smiled. "Li Huai, you really are bad to the bone."
She smiled very charmingly, incredibly charmingly.
If Li Huai's smile was the most charming smile among men, then the young girl's smile could be considered the most charming smile among women.
Li Huai stared at her dotingly, looking as if he had lost his soul.
Right at that moment, the whip in the young girl's hand suddenly flicked, slithering like a snake to wrap around Li Huai's neck.
Her other hand slapped Li Huai's face twice, smack smack, while her leg swept out below to trip him.
And so, the eldest young master of the Li family, who had just struck it rich, was now splayed out like a sprawling bear, limbs pointing to the sky, flat on his back on the dusty road, his mouth stuffed full of steamed buns.
Old Man Zhang burst into laughter as he looked at Li Huai's face, which was now caked in dirt and grime.
"You’re certainly not that legendary lone rogue," Old Zhang said, his mouth stretched wide in a grin. "Nowhere under heaven is there a lone rogue who would let himself get knocked flat on his back so easily by a young girl."
"That girl is far too fierce. I don't owe her anything, nor have I ever provoked her. Why did she have to treat me like this?"
"Who says you haven't provoked her?"
"Have you forgotten who she is?" Old Man Zhang burst into hearty laughter again. "Have you forgotten how, when you were kids, you used to look for every opportunity to trick her and smear mud all over the face of that little girl who always wore flowered clothes?"
Li Huai gasped in shock:
"Could it be... Keke?"
"It's her."
Li Huai gave a bitter smile:
"I never would have thought she'd still hold a grudge against me."
Old Man Zhang chuckled with great amusement:
"And you certainly never would have thought she'd grow up to be such a beautiful and alluring young woman, either."