Chapter One: The Little Beggar of Huangyun Town

The Little Beggar of Yellow Cloud Town

The Grand Qian Dynasty was founded on martial strength, governed by civil virtue, bringing peace and prosperity to the land.

In a remote and humble place called Yellow Cloud Town, at the entrance of a tavern, a frail beggar sat with an iron bowl before him. From time to time, passersby would toss a copper coin into the bowl, producing a clear, ringing sound.

Yet this frail beggar did not, like other beggars, bow his head or offer thanks; it was clear he was not a beggar in the usual sense.

In every era of peace, beggars are always the lowest rung of society. In times of chaos, they might band together into powerful guilds; even in peace, the Beggar’s Sect could not be underestimated.

This little beggar was a wanderer, arriving in Yellow Cloud Town only a few days prior.

It was noon, the sun a merciless blaze. Few people moved along the street. A group of beggars, dressed in tattered rags—numbering more than a dozen—approached him.

“Hey, boy, who gave you the guts to beg on our turf?” The leader of the group glared down at the frail beggar.

The little beggar looked up in fear and stammered, “Master, I haven’t eaten for days! I came from another place—I don’t know your rules here. You can take all this money; just spare me a steamed bun, I beg you!” His face was sallow, his voice trembling with desperation.

“Hmph! Did you hear that, boys? This fellow dares to bargain with me on our territory?” the leader shouted to his followers, who erupted in laughter.

He picked up the iron bowl and saw only a few copper coins.

With a sharp kick, the leader sent the frail beggar sprawling. “Damn it, you call this begging? You’re not even qualified to be a beggar! Just die. Brothers, leave him—let him fend for himself.”

With that, the arrogant gang strode away.

The frail beggar managed a bitter laugh. “Ha… I am nothing but a useless wretch.”

He had wandered here from elsewhere, and now, in this so-called age of peace, it seemed he truly would be left to live or die on his own.

It was not that he did not wish to fight back; but his tendons in hands and feet had long ago been severed for some unknown reason. That he could walk at all was a mercy of fate.

Shuffling in defeat, the little beggar left the town and found shelter in a derelict temple, abandoned and unadorned.

This, perhaps, was his only refuge. Though it was summer, the little beggar felt an unshakable chill. Alone, he curled up in a corner of the dilapidated hall.

As he huddled there, an old beggar with tangled hair emerged from within, heading for the door.

The little beggar watched him intently, hunger gnawing at him until he could not help but call out, “Old sir, could you spare me something to eat?”

“Hmm? You can see me?” The old beggar halted, turning in surprise to look at him.

“Sir, don’t joke with me. You’re standing there in broad daylight—how could I not see you? I’ve seen you come and go for half a month now,” the little beggar replied with a mournful smile. This old man was strange, always emerging from the ruined temple; the little beggar had seen him many times but never spoken. He assumed the old man was as destitute as himself, unlikely to have any food to spare.

The temple was large, and the boy had never explored it to see exactly where the old man resided—he simply knew he was there.

“What? You’ve seen me come and go more than ten times?” The old beggar was stunned, then suddenly delighted, as if he had discovered something marvelous.

The little beggar felt a chill run down his spine at the old man’s words. Was he a ghost? No, that could not be—no evil could enter even a ruined temple. Then why did the old man speak so strangely?

Forcing a bleak laugh, the boy decided he was being paranoid—this old beggar was probably just mad. He fell silent.

The old man, still amazed, circled around him, muttering, “Unbelievable…”

The little beggar, unnerved by the old man’s behavior, pleaded, “Sir, I don’t want any food anymore. Please, just stop looking at me and spare me.”

“Haha, my young friend, not only will I not harm you, I have a great opportunity to bestow upon you!” The old beggar laughed with a touch of madness.

It’s over, the boy thought, I’m about to die and, in my foolishness, have encountered a lunatic.

But somewhere, courage welled up in him. He stood abruptly and, in a tone far too grand for a beggar, shouted, “Crazy old fool, get out of my sight!”

The old beggar was taken aback, then burst out laughing as if he had heard the best joke in the world.

“What is your name, young friend?” he finally asked.

“Since I’m about to die, I have nothing to lose. I have never changed my name or surname—my name is Wu Hong, eldest son of the Prince of Martial Prestige from the capital,” the beggar declared, suddenly spirited.

Had anyone else heard this, their jaws would drop. The late Prince of Martial Prestige had been the nation’s great general at its founding. Rumor had it his son was a useless wastrel, unable to cultivate martial arts, known throughout the capital for his extravagance. When the prince died under mysterious circumstances, his son vanished, believed by many to be dead.

Who would have guessed this little beggar was Wu Hong, the lost heir, now reduced to such a state?

The old man’s cloudy eyes suddenly brightened. “Young friend, do you not wish for vengeance? I imagine that for the prince’s son to end up like this, there must be many reasons.”

The old beggar’s words struck a chord. Wu Hong’s heart blazed with fury—but when he looked down at his feeble hands and body, he felt only despair. He was a starving beggar, his tendons ruined. How could he avenge a blood debt, or uncover the truth of his father’s death?

He sighed and replied with defeat, “Old sir, if you pity me, give me something to eat. If you wish to report me for criticizing the court, do as you please.” He lost all interest, closing his eyes, spirit drained.

The mad beggar seemed unfazed by Wu Hong’s attitude. He squatted down and asked, “What if I could give you the power to take your revenge?”

Wu Hong’s eyes flashed open, sharp as a blade. “What did you say? You can give me power?”

Day and night, Wu Hong dreamed of vengeance. But with his injuries, only the intervention of a traveling doctor had saved him from death; his tendons had been crudely repaired, but he was still crippled.

The old man’s words struck him like a bolt of lightning. In desperation, people will grasp at anything—Wu Hong trembled with excitement. Could this old man be one of those hidden masters spoken of in legend?

“Take a look, young friend,” the old beggar said, producing a pile of books from who knows where and spreading them out carefully on the ground.

Wu Hong peered at them and forced a bitter smile. “So you’re a bookseller, old sir? Don’t tease a wretch like me.”

The old man introduced each title with great vigor: “This is the Six Veins Divine Sword, the pinnacle of martial arts—cultivate true qi until you can project invisible sword energy to kill without a trace. This is the Northern Sea Divine Skill… the Sunflower Manual… the Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms… the Nine Yin Manual… the Buddha’s Palm…"

On and on he went.

Profound Mysteries
Kunpeng Transformation Technique

Heavenly Gang Thirty-Six Forms
Earth Fiend Seventy-Two Arts
The True Teachings of the Sunlike Tathagata…
The Supreme Art of Heaven and Earth…

Each title was more domineering than the last, and the old man explained the essence and stages of every book.

“Stop, stop, stop! Old sir, I’m not interested in your ten-for-a-copper books. If you really want to help me, just give me a steamed bun!” Wu Hong interrupted, exasperated.

He was truly helpless. This old man, failing as a bookseller, now chose to peddle his wares to a beggar. Wu Hong regretted striking up conversation in the first place.

“Don’t be hasty, young friend. Here, I have half a bun. Eat first—if you agree to buy my books, that will suffice,” the old beggar said, producing half a bun—bearing strange teeth marks, not even human.

Wu Hong didn’t care. He snatched the bun and devoured it hungrily.

He was starving. He had come to this remote town to escape the eyes of the authorities and the Prince’s household, only to be reduced to this—on the verge of death from hunger. This half-bun was nothing short of salvation.

As he choked down the dry bread, tears streamed down his face. Once, he had known nothing but luxury—when had he ever looked twice at a humble bun?

He coughed, nearly choking, and gratefully accepted a cup of water from the old man. He cared not from where it came—he gulped it down eagerly.

“Well, young friend, have you decided? These are supreme manuals, some capable of making one a god or a Buddha. But I sell only one volume to the fated person—no more. Choose wisely,” the old man said.

Wu Hong scoffed inwardly. The old man’s talk was just a ruse to get him to buy a book, all that nonsense about fate and only selling one. But then, he reflected—the old man had saved his life with that half a bun. In any case, he owed him a debt.

Otherwise, he would have been forced to fight dogs for scraps, like other beggars. Though he had fallen so low, Wu Hong could never stomach such indignities.

That was why, even as a beggar, he never kowtowed or thanked those who gave him alms—his pride remained unbroken.

With sudden strength, Wu Hong leapt up and knelt, knocking his head three times on the ground. “Sir, thank you for the half bun. It could not fill my belly, but it saved my life! I would love to buy your books, but I have not a single coin.”

He braced himself for the old man’s anger and bowed his head, silent. But the old man began to pace, frowning. “Hmm, you are truly destitute. This is difficult. I never give my books away lightly.”

Suddenly, the old man’s eyes landed on the red string around Wu Hong’s neck, from which hung a piece of green jade, half-concealed by grime.

Wu Hong followed his gaze and his face changed. That jade was his late father’s only keepsake to him, the sole relic of the Prince of Martial Prestige.

He had once hoped to stage a comeback with that piece of jade, but fate had not favored him. He still carried it, but no one would have guessed such a treasure hung around the neck of a beggar—no one had ever tried to steal it.

But now the old man had seen it. In earlier days, Wu Hong would never have considered selling the jade or exchanging it for silver—even to save his life.

Yet the old man’s actions today—the half bun, the cup of water—had saved him. Whether the man was a fraud or truly wanted to sell his books, what use was a worldly trinket to him now? Dead, everything would be lost, his body likely picked clean by wild beasts.

Wu Hong was a decisive man. In one swift motion, he tore the jade from his neck and handed it to the old man. “Sir, for saving my life, please accept this as a gift. Forget the books—find someone else to buy them.”