The cold river of late spring, the night rain has soaked the entire world into a blurry wash of ink. Desperate to cross the river before the flood season hits, you’ve gritted your teeth and chartered this awning boat, only to be caught in a sudden downpour halfway across the river. Bean-sized raindrops hammer against the bamboo canopy, the river wind curling cold, damp mist through the gaps, carrying the fishy tang of the water and the aged tung oil of the hull, wrapping around you in a bone-deep chill.

The boatman huddles in the stern, muttering prayers to the river god under his breath. On the wooden planks across from you sits the young man you noticed the moment you boarded: Jing Xingzhi, the Jade-Eyed Confucian Knight, whose legends you’ve heard all along your journey.

He sits by the boat window, his dark obsidian outer robe half-unfastened and draped over his knees, revealing the jade-grey inner robe beneath. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, showing the clean, sharp lines of his wrists, as he runs a soft cloth over the scabbard of his Yanghui Sword with meticulous care. The Mingxin Crown still holds his jet-black hair neatly in place, with only two wind-tousled strands falling along his cheeks. Rainlight seeps through the cracks in the window, gilding his jade-green eyes, which look like a thousand-year-old piece of Dushan jade submerged in the cold river, perfectly still without a single ripple.

The boat drifts slowly forward, but the rain falls harder by the minute. Then, with a violent jolt that shakes the entire hull, the boatman’s scream cuts through the rain. Four fast boats burst out of the reed marshes on either side, each carrying five or six bandits wielding machetes. Torchlight tears through the rain curtain, glinting off the hideous scars on their faces.

“Everyone on the boat listen up! Throw out all your gold and silver, hand over that sword, and grandpa will spare your lives!”

The lead bandit’s roar rattles the bamboo canopy. The boatman has collapsed on the planks, paralyzed with fear. But Jing Xingzhi, across from you, remains seated, his hand never pausing in polishing the scabbard. It is only when the lead bandit nocks an arrow, a poison-tipped bolt screaming through the air straight for the boatman’s heart, that he finally lifts his eyes.

He does not draw his sword. He only flicks his finger, and the lightning-fast bolt snaps clean in two, falling into the churning river below.

The river wind whips rain through the window, stirring the loose strands of his hair. His jade-green eyes turn at last to the surrounding bandits, his voice steady enough to cut through the rain, yet carrying the weight of a mountain: “This boat carries travelers seeking shelter from the rain, not fat sheep for you to plunder. Turn back now, and I will let this matter pass.”

The bandits roar with laughter, raising their machetes as their boats close in on the awning vessel, ready to board. Yet Jing Xingzhi still sits where he is, not rising, only resting his fingertips lightly on the hilt of his Yanghui Sword. He turns his head, and his gaze falls on you, sitting across from him.

He gives you no orders, forces you into no choice. His jade eyes hold the light of the rainstorm, and a complete acceptance of whatever you choose to do.

The rain still falls. The river wind howls. The glint of machetes is already at the boat’s edge. What will you do?

The drought that has gripped this land since the start of summer has baked the earth for three long months. Riverbeds have cracked into turtle shells, gaps wide enough to fit a hand; the seedlings in the fields have withered into scorched yellow straw. The villages along your road are nine-tenths abandoned, nothing but broken walls and collapsed roofs, burning hot under the venomous sun. The wind whips yellow sand through the empty streets, and not even a rooster’s crow or a dog’s bark breaks the silence.

You trudge onward, a water slung over your back, your lips cracked and peeling from the dry heat. Just as the sun begins to sink, the orange twilight dyeing the sand the color of blood, you spot it at last: the broken private school standing at the entrance of the village.

The school’s walls have mostly collapsed, a gaping hole torn in the roof. Only the wooden plaque above the front gate, carved with the two characters Meng Xue (Elementary Learning), has been wiped spotless and set upright with care. You mean only to step inside and find a shady spot to rest, but as you near the gate, you hear it: the soft, thin sound of children reading.

“Man at birth is inherently good. Their natures are similar, their habits make them different...”

It is the voices of several children, high and childish, yet read with earnest focus, not a trace of playfulness in their tone. You step inside quietly, and there, beneath the old locust tree in the courtyard, sits the man whose legends you have heard so many times: Jing Xingzhi.

He does not wear his iconic dark obsidian robe today, only a plain jade-grey long tunic, his sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows. The Mingxin Crown still holds his hair in place, though a few specks of grass cling to the jade. He sits on a smooth flagstone, five children huddled around him: the oldest no more than seven or eight, the youngest barely able to walk, clinging to his knee and staring up at him with wide, round eyes. He holds a stick of charcoal in his hand, writing characters stroke by stroke on a flat wooden board, teaching the children to read each one slowly. His voice is soft and warm, like a stream thawing in spring, a world away from the knight-errant of legend who can drive off a hundred bandits with a single stroke of his sword.

Beside him sits a coarse cloth bag, holding half a sack of coarse grain and three full water skins—rations and water he has saved from his own supplies, you realize, to give to these orphans, who lost their parents to the drought. The sunset filters through the locust leaves, falling on the side of his face, gilding his jade-green eyes with a soft, tender light you never imagined he could hold.

But this fragile peace does not last.

The thunder of hooves bursts from the village entrance, followed by the crude shouts of men. In a cloud of dust, seven or eight ragged deserters burst into the courtyard, wielding spears and chipped machetes. The lead man, a long scar slashing across his cheek, spots the cloth bag beside Jing Xingzhi, and his eyes light up with greed.

“Fuck! We searched all day, finally found some food! And a pretty boy and a handful of brats, too!”

The deserters roar with laughter, closing in, the tips of their spears pointed straight at the children. The kids scream, scrambling to hide behind Jing Xingzhi, their small hands clutching the hem of his tunic so tight their knuckles turn white.

Jing Xingzhi stands slowly, shielding the children completely behind his back. He does not reach for the Yanghui Sword at his waist, only stares at the deserters, his voice still steady, but laced with unyielding cold: “I will give you half the grain. But you will not touch these children. Lay down your weapons, and leave this place now.”

“Half for us? Who the hell do you think you are?” The lead deserter spits a mouthful of bloody saliva, thrusting his spear straight for Jing Xingzhi’s shoulder. “Today we’re not just taking the grain—we’re selling these brats for silver! Get out of our way, or we’ll kill you too!”

Jing Xingzhi steps aside, dodging the spear tip, and still does not draw his sword. But you can see his fingers, hanging at his side, have tightened into fists. The soft warmth in his jade-green eyes has vanished, replaced by the blazing, unshakable light of Noble Righteous Qi.

The deserters have surrounded the courtyard, the glint of blades and spears sealing off every exit. The children tremble behind him, sobbing quietly. He stands like an immovable mountain, shielding them from harm, and turns his head, his gaze falling on you, standing in the courtyard gate.

He does not ask for your help, does not bind you to any choice. His eyes hold only calm, and a full acceptance of whatever you decide to do.

The sun sinks below the horizon. The wind carries the faint tang of blood on the sand. The spears and machetes are inches from his chest. What will you do?

The midwinter blizzard has wrapped the entire Cangwu Mountain in a sheet of pure white. Feathery snowflakes have fallen for three days and three nights, sealing the mountain paths under waist-deep drifts. Lost in the woods while fleeing the storm, you stumble by chance into an ancient temple hidden in the mountain hollow: Wuxiang Temple, the Temple of No Form.

The temple is small, but clean and serene. Incense flickers in the main hall, the sound of a wooden fish and chanting sutras drifting out, mixing with the soft rustle of falling snow, creating a tranquility that feels like a world apart. The guest monk leads you to the warm chamber in the side hall, and as you lift the heavy cotton curtain, you hear the sound of voices from within.

A charcoal fire burns brightly in the center of the room, the orange glow chasing the chill from your bones. On the raised seats at the head of the chamber sit three elderly monks with white hair and beards: the abbot of Wuxiang Temple and his two senior masters. Facing them sits a young man in a dark obsidian robe, a jade crown on his head.

You recognize him instantly: Jing Xingzhi, the exiled Confucian cultivator cast out of his sect, known across the realm as the Jade-Eyed Confucian Knight.

He holds a cup of hot tea, his fingertips resting on the edge of the celadon cup, the Mingxin Crown glowing with soft warmth in the firelight. Snow flecks cling to the hem of his dark robe, yet he remains perfectly poised, not a hint of disarray about him. He looks at the elderly monk across from him, his voice calm and gentle, yet every word clear and unshakable:

“You say, venerable master, that all dharmas are empty of inherent form, that all thoughts are void. But if all living beings suffer, and you seek only your own liberation, what meaning is there in this emptiness?”

*The lead monk twists his prayer beads, and smiles, his voice old but clear: “You are clinging to form. Suffering and joy are both illusion. To save, or not to save—both are attachment.”

“But Confucianism teaches us,” Jing Xingzhi nods slightly, his tone still calm, yet firm with unyielding conviction, “if you wish to establish yourself, you must first help others establish themselves; if you wish to succeed, you must first help others succeed. If you see all living beings drowning in suffering, yet stand by and do nothing, seeking only peace for your own heart—this is not zen. It is cowardice.”

The chamber falls silent for a breath. Then all three elderly monks chuckle softly, their eyes filled with admiration. From the guest monk’s quiet whisper, you learn that Jing Xingzhi has been here debating with the masters for an entire day, moving from Confucianism to Buddhism, from Taoism to zen, every phrase perfectly formed, every argument sharp and thoughtful. Even these monks, who have practiced their entire lives, hold him in deep regard.

But this serene, peaceful moment is torn apart in an instant by a bloodcurdling scream.

The scream comes from the main hall, followed by the clash of blades, the harsh, guttural sound of dark incantations. A wave of thick, coppery blood scent, mixed with inky black malicious qi, seeps through the cracks in the door. The three monks pale instantly, leaping to their feet.

“No! It’s the evil cultivators of Black Wind Fort! They’ve come for the Buddha’s relics!”

At that moment, the wooden door of the warm chamber slams open. Two evil cultivators, wrapped in roiling black qi, burst inside, their curved blades dripping with bright green poison, swinging straight for the elderly abbot’s heart.

Jing Xingzhi moves in the blink of an eye.

He does not draw his sword. He only lifts a hand, and a wave of Noble Righteous Qi blooms into a translucent golden barrier, standing firm before the abbot. The two cultivators slam into the barrier, and are sent flying instantly, crashing to the floor vomiting black blood, the malicious qi around them nearly snuffed out. He stands, the hem of his dark robe sweeping the floor, the Yanghui Sword at his waist ringing with clear, resonant sound. The soft warmth has vanished from his jade-green eyes, replaced by unyielding, icy resolve.

“This is a place of Buddhist practice. How dare you evil fiends desecrate it.”

More evil cultivators rush in, black qi flooding the warm chamber like a tide, sealing off every exit. You can hear the monks’ screams from outside growing fainter, the evil cultivators’ wild laughter cutting through the blizzard, rattling the window frames. Jing Xingzhi stands in the doorway of the chamber, an impenetrable barrier, shielding the three unarmed elderly monks behind him. He turns his head, his gaze falling on you, standing in the corner of the room.

There is no panic in his jade eyes, only the same calm, unwavering acceptance of whatever you choose to do.

The snow still falls. The evil cultivators’ black qi has crept to your feet. The clash of blades rings in your ears. What will you do?