Wandering Swordsman |

However, this scene was witnessed by a middle-aged swordsman who happened to be passing by. He stood not far away, his gaze sharp, dressed in a simple robe, with an ancient longsword hanging at his waist. His face was calm, but his eyes revealed a barely perceptible anger. He slowly walked towards the young beggar, his steps light, seemingly attracting no attention from anyone.

The setting sun cast its golden rays across the street, illuminating the swordsman's figure like a guardian, silently descending upon the tranquility after the clamor. He slowly approached the young beggar, gently extending a hand and asking softly, "Young man, are you alright? Do you need any help?"

The young beggar looked up, a flicker of surprise and confusion in his eyes, but he quickly lowered his head again, seemingly unwilling to accept help from any stranger. His hands trembled slightly, his fingers digging into the ground, his mind in turmoil. The middle-aged swordsman did not press the issue, but simply stood there quietly, waiting for the beggar's response.

Then, the beggar began to gather the scattered copper coins on the ground. He picked up each coin with utmost care, as if these scraps of metal were his only means of support. Seeing this, the middle-aged swordsman frowned, then raised his hand to stop him, saying, "Young brother, are you not a member of the Beggars' Sect? Why are you letting them bully you like this?"

The young beggar paused for a moment, then shook his head. He looked up at the swordsman, his eyes showing a hint of trust, but mostly confusion.

The middle-aged swordsman continued, "Since you're not a member of the Beggars' Sect, haven't you considered leaving this place and seeking a new path elsewhere?"

The young beggar thought for a long time before finally speaking, "This place is very close to the village where I used to live."

The middle-aged swordsman asked疑惑地问道, "Since it's so close to your village, why are you begging? Where are your parents?"

Perhaps the middle-aged swordsman's question touched a nerve with the young beggar. His expression turned sorrowful; he stopped what he was doing, gazing into the distance as if recalling something. "Three years ago, a plague swept through the village, infecting everyone, including my family..." His voice trembled slightly. "However, for some reason, I was the only one who survived that disaster without contracting the plague. I hate God for that; I hate that He left me alive but took all my loved ones away..."

The middle-aged swordsman listened quietly, without interrupting him, simply standing silently to the side, giving him a chance to speak.

The young beggar continued, "Therefore, I've also had extreme thoughts—wanting to end my own life. But every time I was ready to die, I would remember my mother's last words..."

At this point, the young beggar choked up, tears welling in his eyes, but he managed to hold them back. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tried to calm himself down. After a while, the young beggar regained his composure and continued, "I promised my mother that I would live a good life. To make it easier to go back to the village to pay respects to my mother, I come to this town from time to time to beg for food."

After hearing this, the middle-aged swordsman gazed into the distance, seemingly lost in thought.

He recalled his own childhood experiences, those lonely and difficult days, which were strikingly similar to the experiences of the young beggar before him.

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but sigh and slowly said, "Young brother, how about this! I happened to be traveling without any attendants this time. Why don't you come with me and become my disciple and attendant? In return, I will teach you some self-defense skills. Although you may occasionally sleep on the streets, it's still better than you continuing to stay in this town as a beggar."

Upon hearing this, the beggar stopped crying and looked at the swordsman with surprise, asking, "Why did you choose me?" The middle-aged swordsman smiled and said, "You are quite pleasing to my eye." After a moment of stunned silence, the beggar immediately knelt down and kowtowed to the swordsman before him, saying, "Master, please accept Shen Mo's bow."

The middle-aged swordsman watched the young beggar perform the apprenticeship ceremony, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. He reached out and helped Shen Mo up, his tone tinged with approval: "Your name is Shen Mo? That's a nice name. How old are you?"

Shen Mo replied, "Master, I am twelve years old this year, thirteen by the traditional Chinese age reckoning."

Upon hearing this, the middle-aged swordsman's face showed a thoughtful expression, and he muttered to himself, "He was about this age when he encountered that incident..."

Shen Mo was puzzled by the middle-aged swordsman's words, but he didn't ask any questions and just stood silently to the side.

The swordsman seemed to sense Shen Mo's curiosity, but he didn't explain much. He simply patted Shen Mo's shoulder gently and said in an encouraging tone, "Shen Mo, from today onwards, you are no longer a beggar. I will do my best to teach you so that you will become a true man in the future."

As night fell, the two walked along the street. The middle-aged swordsman's steps were steady, and Shen Mo followed closely behind, his heart filled with gratitude. A gentle night breeze carried a slight chill, but Shen Mo's heart was warmed.

"Shen Mo, before you leave, is there anything you haven't finished here?" the middle-aged swordsman asked as he walked.

Upon hearing this, Shen Mo hesitated for a moment. Thinking that he shouldn't delay his master's schedule, he lowered his head and whispered, "Master, there's nothing to do..."

Having roamed the martial world for many years, the swordsman naturally saw through Shen Mo's insincerity. So he slowed his pace, turned to look at Shen Mo, and said encouragingly, "Speak freely. If there's anything you haven't done before leaving here, just say it. There's no need to hide anything from your master."

Upon hearing his master's words, Shen Mo stammered, "...Master, I want to go back to the village and bring my mother's memorial tablet with me."

The middle-aged swordsman nodded, saying nothing more, but patted Shen Mo on the shoulder to show his support.

As night deepened, moonlight spilled onto the country road, illuminating the path ahead for the two. Shen Mo's heart was filled with complex emotions, a mixture of reluctance to leave his hometown and anticipation for the future.

Finally, they arrived at Shen Mo's village. What greeted the swordsman's eyes was a scene of ruins; only the occasional howl of a wild beast broke the silence of the night amidst the crumbling walls. Most of the houses had collapsed, overgrown with weeds, making the place appear desolate and tragic.

After leading the swordsman through several dilapidated wooden houses, Shen Mo finally arrived at his own doorstep.

Although the door was long since decayed, Shen Mo still recognized this as his former home. Entering the house, the swordsman looked around. The house was simple, the walls bare, yet it was impeccably clean, which further changed his opinion of Shen Mo. In the center of the room stood a worn table, upon which rested a memorial tablet. The inscription on the tablet, though crudely written—clearly the work of someone who had never practiced calligraphy—was written with such care, each stroke filled with longing for family. The swordsman understood that this memorial tablet must have been made by Shen Mo himself.

Shen Mo carefully picked up the memorial tablet, holding it in both hands as if it were the most precious treasure in the world.

Looking at Shen Mo's devout expression, the middle-aged swordsman felt an indescribable emotion welling up inside him. He stepped forward, gently patted Shen Mo's shoulder, and said, "Shen Mo, if your mother were watching from heaven, she would surely be proud of you."

Shen Mo raised his head, his eyes filled with gratitude. He held the memorial tablet tightly in his arms, as if it were his only solace.

After Shen Mo carefully wrapped the memorial tablet again, layer upon layer, he put it into his own bundle and said, "Master, let's go."

The middle-aged swordsman nodded, and the two left the house that held Shen Mo's childhood memories. In the night, their figures gradually disappeared, leaving behind only an empty, dilapidated village, appearing particularly desolate under the moonlight.