“Stupid William, why don’t you say something?” Emily Bennett suddenly spoke up, interrupting William Carter’s memories. Her hand holding the porcelain cup trembled, almost spilling it all over herself.

William Carter’s eyes darted as he came up with a plan. He put down the cup, cleared his throat, and began, “Back then on the Northern Li grasslands, my master and I accidentally provoked a large tribe, which led to hundreds of cavalry chasing us down. You know old Huang is getting on in years—back in his youth, he could match those tall horses of the grasslands, but now he was quickly surrounded by those Northern Li brutes wielding powerful bows.”

“Although I’m highly skilled in martial arts, old Huang and my master were both burdens. Trying to escape with them was harder than ascending to the heavens. Hundreds of howling Northern Li cavalry, arrows gleaming coldly on their strings—if their leader gave the order, our donkey cart would have been turned into a pincushion. It was a dead end, unless a deity descended from the sky—no one could have saved us.”

“And then?” William Carter deliberately paused, and sure enough, Emily Bennett immediately asked nervously.

“Just then, a streak of white light suddenly shot down from the sky, weaving through the Northern Li cavalry. In just a few breaths, more than a dozen riders fell from their horses, their heads separated from their bodies.”

“A figure in white, whiter than snow, floated down in front of the donkey cart, softly reciting: ‘With every ten steps, one man falls; a thousand miles, no trace left behind.’ He reached out, and that white light landed in his hand—it was a white-sheathed sword.”

“The Northern Li cavalry looked as if they’d seen a ghost and retreated in panic. Some bold ones shot arrows at the cart, but all the arrows mysteriously stopped half a yard outside and then dropped to the ground. The remaining cavalry, seeing this, turned their horses and fled under their leader’s command, not daring to linger. And so, the deadlock was broken.” William Carter spoke with a look of deep admiration, his face alight with excitement.

The reclining The Master suddenly sat up, looking at William Carter and breathing a little heavily. “After ‘With every ten steps, one man falls; a thousand miles, no trace left behind,’ isn’t there another line: ‘When the deed is done, he brushes off his clothes and hides his name and fame’?”

William Carter’s eyes widened in surprise. “The Master, how did you know there was another line?” That was a line from a poem the old man had recited when drunk. William Carter thought it was quite impressive and used it here, but he hadn’t expected The Master to know it too.

Emily Bennett also looked at The Master in confusion and hesitantly asked, “Grandpa, have you also met that white-robed sword immortal?”

“Did that white-robed sword immortal tell you his name?” The Master ignored Emily Bennett’s question and continued to look at William Carter.

“He called himself Samuel Thompson.” William Carter nodded. Judging by The Master’s expression, he felt The Master might really know the old man’s identity. He had asked his master before, but his master always dodged the question.

“Samuel Thompson, Samuel Thompson... Back then, the recluse of Shaoling called him: ‘When his brush falls, wind and rain are startled; when his poem is done, ghosts and gods weep.’ The immortal Samuel Thompson, the sword-and-poetry immortal John Thompson—so he went to Northern Li. No wonder there’s been no news of him in the martial world these years.” The Master sighed with emotion.

“The sword-and-poetry immortal John Thompson?” Emily Bennett softly repeated, then asked in confusion, “Grandpa, is he famous?”

William Carter also looked at The Master in puzzlement. The name John Thompson was unfamiliar to him. That recluse of Shaoling, Du Zimei, was a renowned poet in the world today. For someone to be praised so highly by him—could it really be that drunken, disheveled old man on the grasslands, singing and wielding a sword at the sky?

“Drunk, lying on the clouds, peerless in the world; with a sword in his heart, he longs to question the heavens! Fifty years ago, who in the world didn’t know John Thompson?”

“That autumn, dressed in white, whiter than snow, he strode into Chang’an atop Longyuan. The whole city turned out to see him; the grand avenue of Vermilion Bird was cleared for him alone. Countless noble ladies lost their hearts to him at first sight.”

“The former Emperor Taizong descended from his carriage to greet him, feasted him at a banquet with a seven-treasure bed, and personally seasoned his soup. Do you think he was famous?”

The Master spoke as if reciting a cherished memory, his eyes growing moist and his hands trembling uncontrollably. That was the era of John Thompson, an indelible memory in the hearts of people from that time, representing youth and faith.

“Drunk, lying on the clouds, peerless in the world; with a sword in his heart, he longs to question the heavens!” William Carter softly recited, feeling a surge of heroic spirit rise from within. What grandeur, what passion!

Emily Bennett’s bright eyes also sparkled with admiration. It seemed she, too, was moved by the legendary John Thompson who had stolen the hearts of so many young women.

Could that disheveled old man really be John Thompson? Was his talk of sword-flying not just a lie? William Carter’s heart trembled as he suddenly understood why, after parting with that old man, his master had inexplicably beaten him several times.

“I actually refused to become a disciple of a sword immortal…” William Carter muttered, unsure whether to call himself carefree or just plain foolish. Now he felt that the beatings from his master on the way back were well deserved.

The Master heard this, stroked his long beard, calmed himself, and shook his head with a sigh. “Fifty years have passed in a flash. My hair is white, I am old and frail, yet when I recall the white-robed figure entering Chang’an with his sword, my heart still races uncontrollably. Meeting him was a stroke of fate for you. But I’ve heard he never took a disciple. If word got out that you refused to become John Thompson’s disciple, back in those days, you’d have been drowned in people’s spit.”