From Guo Jing to Linghu Chong: 12 Wuxia Inspired Chinese Names

Jin Yong had a habit of hiding destinies inside names.

Take Li Mochou, one of his most tragic characters. Her name means "no worries" (莫愁)—yet she spends her entire life drowning in unrequited love, poisoning rivals, and dying alone. Or Yue Buqun, whose name translates to "standing out from the crowd" (卓尔不群), a phrase that usually describes someone of exceptional virtue. In reality? He's a backstabbing hypocrite who castrates himself to learn dark martial arts.

This isn't coincidence. For Jin Yong, China's most beloved wuxia novelist, a name wasn't just a label. It was a promise, a warning, or sometimes a cruel joke.

The good news? You can borrow his genius. Whether you're naming yourself, a character in a story, or just want a Chinese name that carries weight beyond its pronunciation, Jin Yong's characters offer a masterclass in meaningful naming. Below, I've organized his most iconic names into four styles—names of chivalry, names of grace, names of tragedy, and names of freedom. Each one carries poetry, history, and personality distilled into two or three characters.

Names of Chivalry: When the Name Is a Vow

Guo Jing (郭靖) is probably the most famous example. His given name, Jing (靖), references the "Jingkang Humiliation" (靖康之耻)—a national trauma in 1127 when invaders captured the Song dynasty capital. Naming a child after a historical defeat sounds strange to Western ears, but in Chinese tradition, it carries the weight of "never forget." Guo Jing grows up to embody exactly that: a man who refuses to abandon his country even when it costs him everything, eventually dying defending Xiangyang city alongside his wife and children.

The character Guo (郭) itself is a common surname, but combined with Jing, it creates a name that feels steadfast and unshakeable. If you want a name that projects reliability, duty, and quiet strength, Guo Jing is the template.

Xiao Feng (萧峰) offers something different. Xiao (萧) is a melodic surname associated with the sound of autumn wind. Feng (峰) means "mountain peak." Together, they suggest someone lofty and commanding—literally a man who stands above others. Xiao Feng is exactly that: a leader among martial artists, a man of overwhelming presence and tragic nobility. He sacrifices himself to prevent a war between kingdoms, dying as he lived—larger than life.

For a name that suggests leadership and gravitas without the heaviness of Guo Jing's historical burden, Xiao Feng works beautifully. It sounds dignified without being stiff.

Hu Fei (胡斐) is lighter. Fei (斐) means "elegant" or "brilliant," often used to describe colorful patterns in jade. But Hu Fei himself is more of a wandering knight-errant—less burdened by nation-states, more focused on personal justice. His name carries a sense of freedom and flair, perfect for someone who wants to project independence rather than institutional loyalty.

Names of Grace: Beauty With Brains

Huang Rong (黄蓉) is the gold standard here. Rong (蓉) means "lotus," but not just any lotus—it specifically refers to the water lily, the kind that floats on ponds with effortless grace. It's a character associated with beauty, but also with resilience (lotus flowers push through muddy water to bloom). Huang Rong is exactly that: stunningly beautiful, yes, but also the smartest character in most rooms she enters. She cooks, she schemes, she fights, and she never apologizes for being better at all of it than the men around her.

As a name, Huang Rong works for anyone who wants to project intelligence wrapped in charm. It sounds delicate but carries steel underneath.

Mu Wanqing (木婉清) comes with actual poetry built in. Her name is lifted directly from the Classic of Poetry (诗经), China's oldest existing collection of verses: "有美一人，清扬婉兮"—roughly, "There is a beautiful person, clear and graceful." Wan (婉) means gentle or graceful. Qing (清) means clear or pure. Combined, they create a name that feels like a line of poetry made flesh.

What's interesting is that Mu Wanqing lives up to her name's cold beauty—she's distant, proud, and not particularly interested in being liked. If you want a name that suggests elegant detachment, this is it.

A Zhu (阿朱) is simpler but no less effective. Zhu (朱) means "vermilion"—a deep red color associated with luck and celebration in Chinese culture. But the "A" prefix is a diminutive, giving the name a soft, intimate quality. A Zhu is warm, loyal, and tragically short-lived. Her name sounds like someone you'd want to know, approachable and genuine.

Names of Tragedy: When the Name Is a Burden

Yang Guo (杨过) might be Jin Yong's most psychologically complex character. His name is literally "Yang's fault" (过 means fault or mistake). His father, Yang Kang, was a traitor who died disgraced. When Guo Jing takes the orphaned boy in, he names him Guo—"to overcome" or "to correct"—hoping the child would redeem his family's honor.

Think about carrying that. Every introduction, every business card, every time someone asks "what does your name mean?"—you're reminded of your father's sins before you've committed any of your own. Yang Guo spends two entire novels wrestling with this legacy, veering toward darkness before eventually choosing his own path. The name is heavy, but it makes his eventual redemption meaningful.

As a name for real life? Probably too loaded. But as a study in how Chinese naming can carry narrative weight, it's perfect.

Li Mochou (李莫愁) is the inverse—someone whose name promises peace but delivers chaos. Mochou (莫愁) literally means "don't worry," a classic Chinese wish for a carefree life. Li Mochou starts as a promising young martial artist but becomes a poison-wielding maniac after being abandoned by her lover. Her name becomes bitter irony: the woman called "no worries" is consumed by them.

Xiao Longnü (小龙女) is different. She has no given name—just "Little Dragon Girl," a title given by her enemies that she never bothers to correct. The name is mysterious, otherworldly, deliberately detached from normal human society. She lives in an ancient tomb. She eats only honey and fish. She's not quite real, not quite human—and her lack of a proper name reinforces this. If you want a name that suggests ethereal beauty and emotional distance, Xiao Longnü is the model (though you probably want an actual given name rather than a title).

Names of Freedom: The Daoist Ideal

Linghu Chong (令狐冲) has my favorite name in all of Jin Yong's work. Linghu (令狐) is an ancient, aristocratic surname that feels almost mythical. But it's the given name that shines: Chong (冲) means "to rush forward" or "to be empty"—it carries both the sense of energetic movement and Daoist emptiness, of being unburdened by worldly concerns.

Linghu Chong is Jin Yong's most libertarian hero. He joins a martial arts school, falls in love with the wrong person, gets framed for crimes he didn't commit, and generally refuses to play by anyone's rules. His name fits perfectly: he's always moving forward, never stuck, never weighed down by convention. The character sounds like wind and water—unstoppable precisely because it doesn't resist.

If you want a name that suggests independence, creativity, and a healthy disrespect for authority, study Linghu Chong.

Ren Yingying (任盈盈) pairs well with him—literally, since they end up together. Yingying (盈盈) comes from an ancient poem describing water brimming to the edge: "盈盈一水间，脉脉不得语"—"a river brims between us, we gaze but cannot speak." It suggests fullness, completion, quiet abundance.

The irony is that Ren Yingying spends most of her novel as a ruthless cult leader, commanding assassins and plotting political maneuvers. Only later does she reveal the gentleness her name suggests. If you want a name that projects hidden depths—strength masked as softness—this works beautifully.

Feng Qingyang (风清扬) is simpler but no less evocative. Feng (风) is wind. Qing (清) is clear. Yang (扬) is to rise or to spread. Put them together: "clear wind rising." He's the old master who appears briefly to teach Linghu Chong a secret sword technique, then vanishes back into the mountains. His name sounds like someone who was never really part of the human world to begin with—more spirit than man.

For a name that suggests wisdom, detachment, and effortless mastery, Feng Qingyang is hard to beat.

The Art of Borrowing

Here's what I find fascinating about all these names: Jin Yong didn't just make them up. He pulled from history, from poetry, from philosophical texts, and from the deep well of Chinese literary tradition. Guo Jing's name comes from a national tragedy. Mu Wanqing's comes from the oldest poetry collection in Chinese literature. Linghu Chong's embodies Daoist principles thousands of years old.

When you choose a name from this tradition, you're not just picking characters that sound nice. You're connecting to a cultural conversation that's been going on for millennia. You're choosing what values you want associated with you—loyalty, grace, resilience, freedom—and wrapping them in sounds that have carried meaning for generations.

A name is more than what people call you. In Jin Yong's world, it's a destiny written in two characters. Choose yours carefully.