Ding Pu

"Great Hero Ding? I know him, he was incredible!" —In his youth, Ding Pu wandered the world with sword in hand. "That mad old man? Terrible temper, stubborn as a mule!" —But in his later years, he was trapped on an isolated island, pacing restlessly. Perhaps life's path is predestined, but he's never believed in fate. In November of the fifth year of the Qianhua era of the Later Liang Dynasty, it was a freezing winter day. A bitter wind howled across the northwest Gobi Desert, slicing through the air. Young Ding Pu found a collapsed man outside his home, blood soaking his armor—a blinding sight. With great effort, he dragged the man inside. Three days later, the stranger woke, laughing that fate had spared him. He taught Ding Pu martial arts but refused to take him as a disciple. When his wounds healed, he left behind a sword, a wine jug, and a martial arts manual, then vanished like the wind. In the second year of the Tiancheng era of the Tang Dynasty, a new wanderer emerged in the jianghu. They said he was arrogant and stubborn, yet kind-hearted, a gust of northwest wind. Winds stop for mountains, boats halt at shores. But even Ding Pu met the one who made him stay. The wind stilled in Kaifeng City. Shortly after marrying, a Daoist warned he'd bring misfortune to all kin, parents, wife, and children. He scoffed at the idea. Even when his wife died in childbirth as their daughter Ding Mu'er was born, he vowed to protect the girl with everything he had. On Mu'er's full moon, he buried a jar of Daughter Red wine under the courtyard tree, to be opened on her wedding day. He taught her to read, to love her country, and to wield a sword—so no brat from the west quarter would dare bully her... There's no right or wrong in life's choices, but he can't help wondering: Do I regret it? If he'd never stayed in Kaifeng, if Mu'er hadn't taken after him so much, would things be different? Yes, Mu'er was too much like him, and that was a curse. In the fourth year of the Kaiyun era, the Khitans invaded, and Mu'er died saving others. The grief drove him mad for fifteen years, daily waiting for her to come home. Dreams fade eventually. When clarity finally returned, a flood of emotions surged through him, but all he could utter was a sigh. He ached with nostalgia, guilt, and rage. Guilt that his mastery of martial arts hadn't saved his daughter. Rage that madness had stolen fifteen years from him, years he could've spent avenging her. —No, he still didn't believe in fate. There were always paths to vengeance. Look, the northwest wind was rising again.