The Useless Prince and the Honest Disciple
The Imperial Palace was loud with music that afternoon. Wine cups clinked. Dancers spun in bright silk. In the middle of it all, sitting lazily on a cushioned chair, was Xiao Yuchen, the first son of the Emperor.
He looked bored. He always looked bored.
“Another cup,” he said, waving his hand at a servant. “And bring more of those honey cakes. The ones from this morning were too sweet. I want them sweeter.”
A young official nearby shook his head quietly. Everyone knew the stories. The First Prince cared only about food, wine, and pretty things. He had no interest in politics. No interest in the sword. No interest in ruling.
His two younger brothers were different. They trained with generals. They studied strategy. They smiled at nobles and made alliances. People said it was only a matter of time before one of them took the throne instead — and no one seemed to think Yuchen would even try to stop it.
Yuchen let them think that.
He smiled at the dancers. He complained about the wine. He yawned through court meetings.
But late that night, when the palace finally went quiet, he changed his clothes, slipped past the guards through a path only he knew, and disappeared into the mountains behind the palace.
There, in a hidden courtyard surrounded by old pine trees, an old man was already waiting. He did not look impressive — thin, plain robes, calm face. Only his eyes were sharp, like a blade wrapped in cloth.
This was Gu Hanxiao. The world called him the Heavenly Veiled Sword. Almost no one had seen his face in twenty years. Almost no one knew he was still alive.
“You’re late,” Gu Hanxiao said.
“I had honey cakes to complain about,” Yuchen said, pulling off his outer robe. Underneath, his arms were lined with old training scars.
“Weak excuse.” The old man drew his sword. “Again. From the beginning. Show me the fourth movement.”
Yuchen’s lazy smile disappeared. His stance changed. His eyes sharpened.
For the next three hours, under the moonlight, the “useless prince” trained harder than any soldier in his father’s army.
“Your footwork is improving,” Gu Hanxiao said afterward. “But you still rely too much on cleverness. A clever sword can still be broken.”
“Then teach me to be both clever and unbreakable,” Yuchen said, breathing hard.
The old man almost smiled. Almost. “That is the work of a lifetime, boy. Not one night.”
Far from the capital, on a green mountain called Xinjian Peak, a very different young man was waking before sunrise.
Shen Lian did not come from a poor family — his father was the Imperial Minister — but he had chosen to leave the comfort of the capital to study at Sword Heart Sect. Many people thought he was foolish for it.
“You could have studied under a general,” his father had said. “You could have had an easy path into the court.”
“I don’t want an easy path,” Shen Lian had answered. “I want to understand the sword. Not just how to use it — why it matters.”
Sword Heart Sect was known for one simple belief: *The sword follows the heart.* If your heart was honest, your sword would be honest. If your heart was corrupted, your sword would eventually fail you.
Shen Lian believed that with his whole chest.
His master, Jian Wuchen, was a respected elder of the sect — strict, quiet, and fair. He did not believe in shortcuts.
“Again,” Master Jian said, watching Shen Lian repeat the same basic strike for the hundredth time that morning. “Your form is still uneven on the left side.”
Shen Lian’s arms were shaking. Sweat dropped from his chin. “Yes, Master.”
He struck again. And again. His palms were blistered. His legs ached. He was not the most talented student on the mountain — there were disciples who learned faster, who had better natural talent. Shen Lian knew this.
But he did not stop.
By the time the sun rose fully over Xinjian Peak, Shen Lian had already trained for two hours. Most of the other outer disciples were still asleep.
“You’ll hurt yourself training this hard,” said Ah Fu, a fellow outer disciple and one of Shen Lian’s few close friends. “Nobody expects you to master everything in one year.”
“I don’t want to be the best in one year,” Shen Lian said, finally lowering his sword. “I just don’t want to look back one day and think I didn’t try hard enough.”
Ah Fu laughed. “You’re too serious, Shen Lian.”
“Maybe,” Shen Lian admitted. But he picked his sword back up anyway.
That year, word spread across the martial world: the great sects were preparing their best disciples for the next Martial Tournament, to be held near the capital.
Shen Lian and Yuchen were both too new to be chosen. They were only outer disciples, just months into their training. Neither of them would be allowed to compete.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t watch.
