Sun Yanwan listened to the wind and snow outside the inn door and shivered, drawing his shoulders in closer to the fire.
He had transmigrated to this world five days ago. To this day, he still didn't know where exactly he'd ended up, nor had he fully adjusted to his new identity.
This body was barely eleven or twelve. His father had been a scholarly man, so instead of naming his son after animals like other villagers—names meant to bring luck—he had given him a cultured name: Su Nanqiao. It came from a six-character poem in this world: "Warm winds scatter flowers, travelers rush across the Southern Bridge."
Su's father had left years ago to take the imperial exam and never returned. His mother had since passed from illness. With no one left, his clan elders sent him to work at a large northern inn to earn his keep. He was still an unpaid apprentice, responsible for carrying dishes and drawing in customers. Each day was hard, full of scoldings and exhausting labor.
It was the middle of winter, and business was slow. The inn was shut for the night. The boss and senior staff had all gone to rest. Only Sun Yanwan was left to watch the door, just in case a guest arrived. It was a bitter task.
His head drooped again and again, fighting off sleep. He thought to himself, "When spring comes and the flowers bloom, I'm heading south no matter what. I'm not staying in this dump forever as a lowly errand boy. I didn't transmigrate here for nothing. I'm going to make something of myself."
Suddenly, rapid hoofbeats echoed from the south. A chaotic rush—at least twenty or thirty horses—came galloping up and stopped at the inn. A knock followed immediately.
Startled, Sun shook his head to wake himself, stood, and opened the door.
Snow whipped into his face. Dozens of men dismounted amid the wind and snow, some with swords, others with weapons strapped to their horses.
The leader was tall and lean, his face pale gold in the firelight. He carried a long sword on his back and wore a thick robe. His eyes glinted like cold lightning—razor-sharp. A single glance from him sent a chill through Sun Yanwan's body.
Forcing a smile, he said, "Honored guests, come inside quickly before the cold bites deeper. I'll fetch some hot water to warm you all up."
The golden-faced man nodded slightly and said nothing to the lowly servant. He led the group inside.
Despite the snowstorm, two men remained outside to guard the horses. Clearly, these were seasoned men of the jianghu.
The inn's brazier still burned, offering more warmth than the world outside.
Sun Yanwan served tea and asked, "How many rooms will you need, sirs? Would you like hot food brought to your rooms, or will you dine here?"
A burly, bearded man barked, "Quit talking. Bring out anything hot—we'll eat quickly and move on."
Sun was shocked. "Traveling at night in weather like this? One slip and even skilled men could break their necks."
But he dared not speak such ominous words. He smiled and nodded, then rushed to wake the cook and other staff.
The cook cursed at being disturbed, and the assistants grumbled quietly. But with the sudden arrival of guests, the inn grew lively.
Sun busied himself running back and forth. As he worked, he observed the men. "They look like martial artists. Could this be a wuxia world? Maybe I'll get to learn kung fu!"
But he was just a servant—no background, no status. Even if he begged these warriors, they'd likely scold him for dreaming too big. The thought made him sigh inwardly.
This inn had been running for decades, and its staff was efficient. In no time, hot soup and food were served. Though there were no fresh vegetables, a boiling meat broth was good enough.
The guests, famished, didn't complain. They devoured their food, regaining energy. The bearded man muttered, "Brother Hu, we should go. Can't let that brat get too far."
The golden-faced man nodded and tossed a silver ingot. "Keep the rest." Then he rose and led his men outside.
Sun caught the silver. "In stories, servants always grin here. But in real life? The boss will take this. I'll be lucky to get a few coppers."
He stood respectfully to send them off—when a young voice cried out: "You chased me all this way. Tonight, I'll start by killing a few of your horses!"
A horse neighed. Heavy thuds followed. The warriors' faces changed.
Before they could react, the door exploded inward with a crash.
A youth stepped in—wrapped in coarse cotton and a thick felt hat, holding a saber streaked with frozen blood. Cold radiated from his form.
Though young and alone, he stood like a warrior holding a pass against an army.
The men rose. Those with weapons drew them. Others turned to grab arms from the horses outside—but the boy blocked the door. Fear flickered in their eyes.
Sun Yanwan was awestruck. "Who is this kid? What's his background?"
The golden-faced man flipped his wrist. His sword leapt to hand, spinning into a flurry of six or seven dazzling arcs. Cold light enveloped him. "You little bastard—die!"
The youth surged forward like a fish in water, weaving through the sword light. His speed was unbelievable. He closed the distance and slashed three times.
Hu's sword was as solid as a mountain. He blocked all three, the clash fierce. In seconds, the two exchanged blows like wind and lightning.
Sun was entranced. "So it is a wuxia world. That sword style? We don't have that back on Earth."
The bearded man stepped up, pulling two short spears from a leather case. He locked them together into a twin-headed spear and lunged like a tiger.
The youth laughed, stepping back half a pace. "So the Hu clan relies on numbers, huh?"
Hu narrowed his eyes. He howled suddenly, his blade erupting with a foot-long green glow that writhed like a serpent.
One slash—and the youth's saber shattered in two.
That green aura was razor-sharp. It could slice through iron like paper.
Something extraordinary had just begun.