Chapter 8: Invincible in the North

“Time is running out?” Zhao Ti frowned at Tong Guan: “I heard Li Xianggong’s martial arts are transcendent—how did he fall ill?”

Tong Guan wiped his tears: “Your Majesty, my adoptive father excels in martial arts, but he has suffered from this illness for years—I do not know its cause.”

Zhao Ti pondered: “Then take me to see Li Xianggong at once.”

Tong Guan hurriedly turned and opened the gate: “Your Majesty, please enter—I shall announce your arrival to my adoptive father.”

Watching Tong Guan sprint inside, Zhao Ti asked Zhou Dong: “Guangzu, how is his martial skill?”

Zhou Dong shook his head: “Your Majesty, I judge Tong Guan’s abilities to be ordinary—he does not seem to practice internal qi at all.”

Zhao Ti said: “Then he hasn’t lied to me. When he was in the palace, I asked him about his martial arts and had him demonstrate—he looked quite plain… By the way, how many adopted sons does Li Xian have?”

Zheng Fu replied: “Your Majesty, it seems he has only Tong Guan.”

“Only one?” Zhao Ti frowned. “Li Xian’s martial arts are extraordinary—he never suffered defeat. Why didn’t he pass them on to Tong Guan?”

Zheng Fu said: “I once heard Tong Guan complain—he says his adoptive father has no disciples, only him as an adopted son, yet he hoards all his potent techniques and refuses to teach them, which grieves him deeply.”

“Perhaps Li’s martial lineage is strictly one-to-one, cautious to the extreme, never passing on the art until the final moment,” Zhou Dong mused. “This kind of transmission is not rare in the martial world.”

“Then if disaster strikes, won’t it be lost forever?”

“Indeed. Many powerful martial arts from ancient times vanished entirely for precisely this reason,” Zhou Dong sighed. “I once heard of a divine sword technique from the Spring and Autumn era—one stroke could pierce three thousand iron-armored soldiers. Today, none remain.”

“That truly sounds divine,” Zhao Ti mused. “Perhaps such arts still survive in ancient caves or ruined sect ruins—just lost to the world.”

Zhou Dong said: “Your Majesty’s reasoning holds merit.”

The group entered the compound and looked around—it was extremely shabby. The house was not small, yet had no adornments, no flower beds, just a few ancient trees growing wild, a dried-up fishpond turned into a gaping pit, a broken jar discarded nearby, moss covering the central path, weeds choking both sides, insects and grasshoppers leaping wildly.

How did he end up like this? Zhao Ti was puzzled. Li Xian was a retired Inspector—his pension should have been ample to maintain this estate. The Song court provided retirement pay; surely it sufficed. Besides, Li Xian was notorious for corruption—this was one reason officials impeached him. He must have embezzled heavily while commanding troops in the northwest—but where was the money?

The compound had three courtyards. When they reached the first courtyard’s entrance, Tong Guan ran out, drenched in sweat: “Your Majesty, my adoptive father wished to greet you personally, but—he can no longer rise from his bed. He can barely change his clothes and sends me to beg your pardon.”

Zhao Ti waved his hand: “Li Xianggong is gravely ill—hasn’t the Imperial Medical Bureau sent a physician?”

“I’ve repeatedly suggested it, but my adoptive father says it’s useless. He forbids me to disturb the Empress Dowager or the Emperor, and insists the world believe he is already dead.”

“Then… take me to see him,” Zhao Ti murmured, puzzled. If truly ill, why refuse treatment?

They passed through two courtyards and arrived at the final chamber. Before entering, a strong medicinal odor filled the air.

“My adoptive father buys medicine himself and has it decocted—he’s taken it for years, but his condition worsens, not improves. Nearly all his wealth has been spent on it.”

Zhou Dong sniffed carefully and whispered: “Your Majesty, these are all premium tonics—blood-nourishing, qi-enhancing, longevity-promoting herbs.”

Zhao Ti considered: If Li Xian truly consumed a thousand-year ginseng root daily, or century-old he shou wu or lingzhi mushrooms, even his vast embezzled wealth would have been exhausted long ago.

But what illness required such remedies? Polite terms called them longevity tonics—bluntly, they were merely life-sustaining drugs.

Tong Guan opened the door to the third courtyard. Zhao Ti and his men entered—a parlor, but old and dilapidated, utterly unworthy of the name.

They entered the eastern room. It was spacious, yet still decrepit. The medicinal stench was overpowering, mixed with an indescribable, rotting odor.

At the far end of the room lay a wide bed, upon which an old man half-sat, half-reclined.

Even without rising, his height was evident. His hair was pure white, his face deeply wrinkled like walnut skin, his body emaciated, his spirit utterly drained—he looked like a man of seventy or eighty, on the verge of death.

Zhao Ti raised an eyebrow. In his memory, Li Xian was only in his fifties—how had he aged so drastically?

The old man wore a brand-new purple official robe, clearly just put on—its collar crooked, sleeves uneven, hem crushed beneath his legs.

“Old minister Li Xian bows before Prince Yan. Forgive this old man for his grave illness—he cannot dress properly or perform the proper rites.”

Zhao Ti looked at Li Xian. He had seen him as a child, though by then Li had already left the palace—he had only glimpsed him during an audience with Emperor Shenzong, reporting military affairs.

“No need.”

Tong Guan brought a chair. Zhao Ti sat. “Last night, I dreamed of the late Emperor. He spoke of old ministers, and first mentioned Li Xianggong. He asked how you fared—I did not know, and felt deep shame. Today, upon learning your whereabouts, I came at once to visit.”

“The late Emperor… appeared to you in a dream?” Li Xian trembled violently on the bed, struggling to sit up—his strength failed, collapsing repeatedly. Tong Guan rushed over, supporting him until he could barely straighten his back.

“Yes. The late Emperor also mentioned Wang Daxianggong and others. I answered for each—except for you. He rebuked me: ‘Li Xian served in the inner court, governed the northwest, reclaimed Hehuang, fought bloody battles against the Western Xia—he rendered great service to the state. How could you not know his fate?’”

Zhao Ti spoke slowly—he had prepared these words beforehand. Since Emperor Shenzong’s death, Li Xian had been demoted repeatedly; he surely harbored resentment. If Zhao Ti began by asking about martial arts or demanding techniques, Li would likely refuse—or offer worthless ones.

Li Xian wept profusely, his throat convulsing. He raised both hands toward heaven in reverence: “Your Majesty, your humble servant is gripped by illness and has but a few days left. I shall soon join you again in service—making you wait so long, I am guilty!”

As he spoke, blood trickled from his lips—not bright red, but streaked with faint white luminescence, strangely unnatural.

Zhou Dong whispered beside him: “Your Majesty, Li Xianggong has suffered severe internal injuries—long unhealed. This is no ordinary illness.”

Zhao Ti nodded. He watched Tong Guan rush to a cabinet, retrieve a black pill, feed it to Li Xian, then pour several mouthfuls of broth down his throat—only then did his breathing stabilize.

“I have sullied Your Majesty’s eyes. This dying man has burdened you with a visit—I am truly ashamed.”

“Li Xianggong has rendered great service to the state. If the imperial family neglects you, would that not break your heart? Yet…” Zhao Ti said, “I heard you were called ‘Invincible in the North.’ How did you suffer such grave internal injuries, and why have they never healed?”

Li Xian fell silent for a long while, then said: “Where did you hear this?”

Zhao Ti replied: “I have loved martial arts since childhood. This guard beside me, Zhou, is a disciple of Master Jin of Jintai. He told me of your reputation.”

“A disciple of Master Jin?” Li Xian turned to Zhou Dong, his lips moving as if to ask something, but he stopped. After a pause, he spoke again: “You, Your Majesty, enjoy martial arts? That is rare. May I ask what cultivation method you practice?”

Zhao Ti’s heart leapt—he had intended to steer the conversation toward martial arts. He had not expected Li Xian to ask first.

“I practice swordsmanship—only one technique: the swift sword. The palace has no profound internal arts, so I rely solely on external strength.”

“Swift sword? Without internal qi?” Li Xian studied Zhao Ti, his dull face thoughtful.

Zhao Ti nodded: “Precisely. May I ask what method you practice?”