Chapter One: The Martial World

To exchange words of hardship upon meeting—this is surely the way of the underworld.

In the old society, most trades within the rivers and lakes could not stray far from the eight minor occupations: gold assaying, painted placards, leather tricks, troupe performance, and willow acts.

These are the so-called “Eight Open Gates,” also known as the “Minor Eight Trades,” each referring to a distinct profession: fortune-telling, storytelling, magic, acrobatics, folk medicine, comic dialogue, swindling, and drum-song performance.

Though all lived by the ways of the underworld, there were still hierarchies among them.

The upper four considered themselves respectable. Fortune-tellers and storytellers, versed in words and characters, were rightly addressed as “Sir.” Magicians could entertain young and old alike. Troupe performers and acrobats were called “Master”—bodyguards, martial artists, or instructors.

The lower four were less dignified. The leather and willow trades were rife with swindlers; comic performers, peddling their wit on the street, often resorted to crude jests; drum-song singers once echoed tunes from houses of ill-repute, best left unmentioned.

Each of the eight trades had its own secrets, its own livelihood. No one could serve two at once. For example, a comic performer could only recount the “eight sticks”—to speak on other topics would infringe upon the storyteller’s domain, an offense not tolerated in the underworld.

These eight open trades, as the name suggests, could see the light of day—on street corners, at temple fairs, everywhere. Even the tricksters rarely crossed the line; so long as the people did not complain, the authorities did not interfere.

In contrast, the secret eight trades were far wilder.

The “Bee, Hemp, Swallow, Sparrow; Horizontal, Kudzu, Blue, Glory.”

Rather than professions, they were methods. As the old saying goes: the open trades rely on words, the secret trades on ruthless hands.

The “Bee, Hemp, Swallow, Sparrow” specialized in fraud and intrigue. Bees worked in groups, hemp worked alone; swallows used women, sparrows posed as officials.

“Horizontal, Kudzu, Blue, Glory” all belonged to one family, a term from beyond the Pass, using plant radicals as their root—“grass” for bandits, to put it plainly, all thieves.

“Horizontal” means “blocking”—at its grandest, these were highwaymen of the greenwood, but in truth, they were just bandits, gathering cutthroats to rule the hills, called “Huzi” beyond the border.

The Kudzu clan was diverse—silver-tongued, able to trick a good man into a limp and still be thanked for it; when faced with tough opposition, they had to handle matters alone.

The Blue clan were all professional gamblers—not those who came up wild, but those with teachers, backing, and the “Eight Generals of the Thousand Doors.” Otherwise, when cheating at cards, if caught by desperate men, one might be hacked to pieces.

The Glory clan were cat burglars—anyone called “Old Glory” was a master thief, also known as “High Buyer” or “Buddha.”

Of course, customs differed between north and south, spring and autumn, and though the general terms of the underworld were widely understood, in the old days, poor communication meant each region had its own terms. If one insisted on precision, they’d have to cross-examine and challenge, following the old rules of the Hongmen. Speak carelessly and one risked a knife in the ribs—not worth the trouble!

In truth, wherever one roamed—in the rivers, lakes, vast plains, within or beyond the border—the universal saying boiled down to eight words:

Trap, deceive, abduct, swindle; take by cunning, seize by force.

In short, the secret trades, unlike the open ones, were not rare, but they flourished most in times of upheaval, when the realm was in chaos.

Who would choose such trades in an era of peace?

…

Now, let us speak of the twenty-eighth year of the Guangxu Emperor, in Liaoyang, beyond the border.

The harshest depths of winter, the wind cut like knives and the frost like swords.

In the southern part of the city lived an orphan, surname Jiang, given name Xiaodao. Thirteen years old, single-lidded eyes, ragged brows, a sharp mouth, and a dry, thin frame.

According to the physiognomy books, such a one was destined to be cold and unfeeling.

Jiang Xiaodao was a born contrarian—treat him kindly and he’d agree to anything; but should he be crossed, he’d turn on anyone, bristling with defiance and resentment, chin raised, ready to curse the world.

Such was the stubbornness of the poor.

Unpleasant as this was, without that stubborn streak, he might not have survived to this day.

A scholar had emerged from the Jiang family generations ago, and ever since, no matter how poor, learning to read had never been neglected, in hopes another scholar might arise.

But how could the poor afford brush and paper? He could only scratch at the ground with sticks.

Counting misspelled characters, Jiang Xiaodao knew three thousand.

He could not write essays, but with those three thousand characters, he could string together biting insults, sparring and mocking with great skill.

In troubled times, human life was as cheap as grass.

Jiang Xiaodao lost his father at ten; his mother, too, passed away last year.

Now he was alone in this world, starving and suffering.

When there was work, he could labor for a bite to eat, but come winter, he could only rely on the charity of neighbors, often left dizzy with hunger.

That night, as usual, Jiang Xiaodao’s stomach pressed against his back, unable to sleep.

At noon, he’d listened to two chapters of Water Margin at the southern market’s storytelling stall, and the tales of outlaws had left him indignant.

Despite the chaos of the times, since ancient days, there had always been traitors and parasites, feasting while others starved.

Jiang Xiaodao could not accept this!

All were born with one head and two legs—why should others eat while he watched, why should others sit while he stood?

In chaotic times, one must live as the times demand.

A starving man would do anything.

After much thought, Jiang Xiaodao resolved upon a crooked path—thievery.

“Anyway, every day alive is just more suffering! Fortune favors the bold; the timid starve, the daring are sated! If I must die, let me die on a full stomach.”

Having said as much, he steeled himself, leapt from the kang, and walked out into the night.

Outside, it was pitch dark, the moon haloed by wind.

Jiang Xiaodao walked the cold streets, pondering—who to steal from?

Not the neighbors! To steal from the familiar would sever all hope of future aid; no one would ever open their door to him again.

If he was to do it, he should aim high!

Liaoyang might not match Fengtian now, but in years past, it was the foremost city beyond the Pass.

The Tang Emperor had camped here on his eastern campaign; the founding emperor of Jin had risen here.

And of those with wealth in the city, Jiang Xiaodao first thought of the rich man Wang Youcai’s estate in the southern quarter.

Quietly, under cover of night, he made his way over, skulking along the outer wall. The grand mansion was indeed impressive!

But the walls were too high for him to climb.

Just as he was at a loss, by sheer luck, he discovered a dog hole beneath the west wall, just big enough for him to crawl through.

“This was left for me on purpose!” he thought, delighted.

He looked left and right, up and down the empty, pitch-black streets, eyes straining till they ached, but not a soul in sight.

Listening for a while, he heard nothing from within the courtyard.

“Ancestors above, spirits in heaven! Xiaodao truly has no other way; to have fallen so far, blame this heartless age first, my parents’ short lives second, and third… third, this family’s wealth—anyway, don’t blame me!”

With a sincere bow, he blew warm air into his hands, then crouched and wriggled into the dog hole.

Parting the dead grass, the first thing he saw was a well.

Thinking he’d slipped in unnoticed, just as he gripped the well to crawl farther, he suddenly felt his ankle seize.

Before he could react, a large hand yanked him out of the dog hole.

Jiang Xiaodao’s heart dropped—caught in the act! Surely they’d beat him to death.

He twisted around, ready to beg for mercy, but before he could speak, a hand clamped over his mouth.

He struggled, but the grip was like iron, holding him fast; try as he might, he couldn’t make a sound.

Through the haze he saw a shadowy figure make a silencing gesture.

“Hush! Brother, which family do you serve? Are you here for the same reason?”