Volume One: Immortal Crowns and Heavenly Glory

Chapter One: The Future Lies in the Distance

The bailiff’s office in the White Horse Town county yamen was packed with people. All three shifts of yamen runners had gathered, and even the registrar and the assistant magistrate were present. Normally, there would be strict distinctions of rank and status when handling official business, but at this moment, no one cared about such formalities. Everyone chatted and laughed, making for a lively scene.

There was a small reason for today’s gathering: the county’s reserve constable, James Smith, was stepping down.

Many yamen runners and officials had come together to see James Smith off. A young man returned his badge, uniform, and other items to the office, completed the handover procedures, then turned around and gave a deep, circular bow: “James Smith thanks all the elders and seniors for your care this past year.”

Bowing low and spinning in a circle as he saluted, perhaps he overdid it, for when he straightened up, the youth seemed a bit dizzy, his expression dazed... In truth, even without spinning, James Smith was always like this: his eyes always carried a hint of sleepiness, making him look perpetually a little muddled. But while most people who haven’t slept enough would frown, James Smith always had the corners of his lips slightly upturned, a faint smile on his face, so he didn’t look like someone lacking sleep, but rather like someone about to go to bed, ready to slip into a sweet dream.

In response to James Smith’s thanks, everyone waved their hands dismissively. Some said, “Kid, don’t forget your old brothers when you make it big in the future.” Others said, “Be careful when you travel; the world outside isn’t as peaceful as our little town.” Still others said, “When you get married, remember to bring your wife back for us to see...” The yamen runners were all rough men, not good with polite words, but everyone understood in their hearts that James Smith had it backwards. This past year, it was the youth who had taken care of them.

The chief constable had served for nearly thirty years, but never had there been a year like the one with James Smith: the broadswords were sharpened to a razor’s edge, the shackles were maintained so smoothly, the official horses were fed so robustly, the paperwork was kept so orderly, and the offices, even the jail cells, were cleaned so thoroughly...

James Smith was an outsider, brought to the town by his grandfather when he was still an infant. Old Smith was skilled at making braised meat and marinated eggs, and opened a deli. Though life wasn’t exactly prosperous, it was enough to support the grandfather and grandson comfortably.

To be fair, Old Smith was kind-hearted and friendly, good in every way except one: he was far too protective of his grandson.

When James Smith was five, the head of the mighty Shenwei Escort Agency happened to pass by and immediately saw his potential as a martial artist, wanting to take him as a final disciple. Old Smith refused.

When James Smith attended private school, Teacher Liu thought he had a talent for study and wanted to write a recommendation for him to attend the great academy in the provincial capital. As long as the boy worked hard, it wouldn’t be hard to earn honors in the future. Old Smith refused.

The most outrageous was three years ago, when the county magistrate was promoted and transferred. The magistrate, who had no sons and was very fond of James Smith, wanted to adopt him as a godson and take him to his new post, promising to personally guide him and ensure a bright future. Yet Old Smith still shook his head.

It’s natural for a grandfather to be reluctant to let his grandson leave, but for Old Smith to turn down such rare opportunities again and again—opportunities other families could only dream of—this was no longer just love, but clearly harming the boy’s prospects.

The grandson belonged to Old Smith; no amount of persuasion from others would change his mind. As for James Smith himself, he wandered through his days in a daze, never feeling it was a pity to miss those chances. He read, played, helped his grandfather with chores, and sharpened knives...

Day or night, no matter the place, whenever he had a free moment, he would take a short knife and a whetstone from his satchel and sharpen away with a clang.

The knife was just over a foot long, single-edged, the kind of ordinary butcher’s knife used for cutting up cattle; the whetstone was a plain, black, unremarkable stone. James Smith just kept sharpening, from childhood to adulthood, never tiring of it. Curious neighbors would ask why he was always sharpening his knife, what good it did. James Smith would blink at them, full of puzzlement, and ask in return, “Yeah, what good does it do?”

In a flash, fourteen years passed, and Old Smith passed away.

Though the old man’s passing was sad, the townsfolk felt that perhaps this was a good thing for James Smith; now his future would no longer be held back by his grandfather, and he could make his own decisions.

But to everyone’s surprise, after handling his grandfather’s funeral, James Smith went to the yamen and signed up to be a reserve constable... Unlike the ironclad constables of the capital or major provinces, yamen runners in small towns were privately recruited by the county office, paid a pittance, and the work was both hard and dangerous, sometimes even life-threatening. The saying “carriage, boat, inn, footman, yamen runner” described the five lowest trades in the land—surely not the dream of any youth. Was the boy so heartbroken he’d lost his wits?

But before taking the job, James Smith made it clear to the officials: he would only serve as a constable for one year. After his grandfather’s mourning period ended, he would set out on a journey. Asked where he was going, or if he would return, the dazed James Smith actually shook his head: he didn’t know.

Those who spent time with James Smith understood that the sleepiness in his eyes and the dazed look on his face didn’t reflect his true state; at most, it was... just a habitual expression. How could someone truly half-asleep be valued by the head of the escort agency, the old teacher, the former magistrate, and so many others? How could he have managed the entire yamen so efficiently?