William Carter saw this and said no more, instead turning to look at Emily Bennett, curling his lips as he said, “The people of Beili are people too. Over the years, many cities have sprung up on the grasslands. Most of the nomads roaming the plains are simple folk who yearn for freedom. Only when there’s truly no grain left to survive the winter do those tribes, big and small, raid the borders of Dawan under the command of the Beili royal court. Those are the ones who truly devour people like wolves.”

Chapter Nine: He Has a Sword to Question the Heavens

“Stupid Mingyuan, cut the nonsense and get to the point.” Emily Bennett raised her delicate fist with a hint of threat and said, “Tell me everything about the martial world you encountered on your journey north into Beili. I heard there’s no real martial world in Beili at all—just a few insignificant sects, all lapdogs of the Beili royal court. Where would a White-Clad Sword Immortal come from?”

William Carter was secretly startled, not expecting Emily Bennett to know about this. On this trip to Beili, though he’d pretty much traveled all over the grasslands—and that scruffy old man who freeloaded for over half a month barely counted—William Carter really hadn’t met many people like those from the martial world.

But of course, William Carter wouldn’t let it show. Thanks to years of storytelling practice for Emily Bennett, he deliberately put on a look of disdain and scoffed, “That’s just self-deception from some brutes of the Central Plains, or tall tales made up by storytellers. You actually believe such jokes? Have they ever been to Beili? Would they dare enter the Beili royal palace? My master and I have traveled all over the grasslands and met all the top experts of the grassland’s martial world.”

Emily Bennett wasn’t afraid of Master Zeng and loved to bully William Carter, but she did have a certain inexplicable respect for the old Daoist Henry. Sure enough, as soon as William Carter mentioned his master, Emily Bennett fell silent.

Seeing this, William Carter picked up his teacup, took a sip, cleared his throat twice, and officially began recounting the thrilling martial adventures of his trip to Beili.

To call it a recount was a stretch—it was mostly made up on the spot. After years of being honed by Emily Bennett, William Carter was a master at this, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he could spin a tale at a moment’s notice.

When making up stories, you have to mix truth with fiction. If there’s not a shred of truth, anyone with half a brain would immediately know it’s a lie. Emily Bennett was no fool—in fact, she was an exceptionally clever woman. Though she’d loved practicing swordsmanship since childhood, she’d read nearly every book in the academy’s library.

So when William Carter spoke of the customs and people he saw in Beili, not a word was false—even Master Zeng tilted his head and listened with great interest.

But as for all the encounters with martial experts, flying swords filling the sky, crossing rivers on a single reed, and the like—those were pure fabrications by William Carter. Still, with his vivid storytelling, expressive face, the occasional long sigh or gasp of surprise, he was far more skilled than the average tavern storyteller.

Emily Bennett listened with wide-eyed amazement, sometimes clenching her fists, sometimes covering her mouth, her expressions wonderfully animated—there were a few times when William Carter almost couldn’t hold back his laughter.

Master Zeng just smiled knowingly. Though he didn’t know martial arts and wasn’t part of the martial world, with his experience, he could certainly tell that William Carter was making it all up. But he didn’t expose him—after all, their meals depended on this storytelling, and he was eager for Emily Bennett to be satisfied.

William Carter talked until his mouth was dry, and only after half an hour did he finish most of his tale about the Beili martial world. Emily Bennett, still unsatisfied, for once poured a cup of cool tea for William Carter and handed it to him, asking expectantly, “You said you met a White-Clad Sword Immortal on your way back from Beili. Who was that, really? Could he really take a man’s head with a flying sword, just as you said?”

William Carter took the cool tea, sipped it slowly, and put on an air of calm composure—though in his mind he was quickly figuring out how to deliver the climax of this story. Whether or not he could satisfy Emily Bennett—success or failure—depended on this moment.

But what troubled William Carter was how to turn that old man with a sword sheath on his back, even scruffier than his master, into a sword immortal in white, as pure as snow, who could take a head with a flick of his finger. That was no easy task.

Back on the grasslands, that old man had once shown off his flying sword skills for a roast lamb leg, beheading a sheep with a single strike—but a sheep is just a sheep, after all. Later, the old man taught him a flying sword technique—the same flicking sword move he’d used at the gate of Tongyuan earlier. Even now, William Carter felt it was just a parlor trick, nothing impressive.

But every time the old man got drunk, his demeanor would change dramatically—wielding his sword, composing poetry, spouting wild words, his swordplay grand and unrestrained, so much so that William Carter sometimes thought he might really be a master.

Yet every time he sobered up, he’d become a different person again—never washing his face, always talking about men and women. He’d go on about how delicate the women of Chang’an were, how bold the women of the grasslands, how exotic the women of the Western Regions—his image in William Carter’s mind would plummet right back to rock bottom.

He was, without a doubt, the most interesting person William Carter had met on this trip to Beili. Traveling together, William Carter had grown quite fond of him, and when they parted, the old man even said he could take him as a half-disciple. But since the old Daoist Henry was right there at the time, William Carter had righteously refused.

Later on the road, though, William Carter was inexplicably whipped a few times by Henry, and to this day he still has no idea why. He could only chalk it up to his master suddenly losing his mind.