The grassland stretched out its body beneath the setting twilight. Gale-force winds swept in from afar, and the surging waves of grass washed over the hooves of thousands of sheep. The Murgul River meandered and wound, shallow enough to reveal the sand and stones at the riverbed.
Horses lowered their heads to drink water, while the men stood aside, grooming their warhorses. Years of nomadic life had left the backs of their hands chapped, and the skin on their faces was similarly rough and weathered.
Halba paced anxiously inside the yurt. Mare’s milk wine was warming on the stove, but its cozy, milky fragrance failed to smooth away Halba’s restless agitation. His subordinates guarded the outside of the yurt, not daring to step inside and court disaster.
Inside the tent hung a military terrain map that covered an entire wall. Small flags of various colors marked crucial military intelligence such as marching camps, mountains, rivers, and grain supply routes. Particularly distinctive was the northern side of the demarcation line between Greater Xuan and the nineteen northern tribes namely, where the Black Iron Camp was currently stationed which had half of its space left completely blank, with small flags and bone-carving stylus pens already prepared beside it.
Halba’s fingers were laden with thumb rings, especially the gilded wolf-headed horn-bow ring on his right thumb, which made him look both majestic and dangerous.
He raised a hand to poke at that blank expanse, heaved a heavy sigh, and then swept the tent flap open with a large hand. Outside the door, the warriors immediately snapped to attention, not daring to draw a single loud breath.
Halba turned his head and asked in a gravelly, rough voice, “Has Mr. Han not arrived yet?”
The back of Guolang’s coat curved outward with a distinct bulge. He was short in stature, but his face was by no means that of an ordinary person; deep ravines crisscrossed between his brows, and his sunken eye sockets emitted a somewhat sinister aura. In fact, he looked about three parts similar to Halba.
“Right away,” Guolang reported. “He has already crossed the Murgul.”
Halba twisted his horn-bow ring, pulled down the right sleeve of his lower garment so that it bunched around his waist, and strode toward the military banner post. Colorful strips of cloth were bound into triangles, fluttering in the howling westerly wind. He came to a halt beside the old shaman.
A pair of hands, withered and dry as tree bark, pinched a bundle of mugwort that slowly released wisps of blue smoke. She knelt facing west, with a tortoise shell covered in dense cracks placed before her. The old shaman rattled the bone bells in her hand, muttering incantations under her breath.
She wore a terrifying, grim, green-faced, and fanged mask with long ears on both sides. Through the gaps in the mask, her turbid eyeballs cast a mysterious and unfathomable glance at the supreme leader of the nineteen tribes, Halba.
Seeing her make a sudden grab and fling the tortoise shell down, her chanting grew even more intense. With a final, ringing “clang—” of the bone bells, the shaman scribbled down the divination result and pressed her hand into Halba’s palm.
Beneath the mask, the corners of her mouth twitched against sagging skin, revealing an evil smile.
Guolang ran over to inform Halba that the people had arrived.
Clenching the slip of paper containing the divination, Halba strode into the yurt in big strides. Pulling back the flap to look inside, he saw a tall, slender young man with an immortal, otherworldly bearing standing with his back to him before the military map.
Hearing the sound, the man turned his head and said with a warm smile, “How are your eyes holding up?”
“…Not entirely blinded.” Halba twitched the corner of his mouth, instinctively raising a hand to cover the eye patch over his left eye, and articulated in broken, halting Central Plains speech, step by step: “Those people outside… what are they for?”
Han Yan smiled, seated himself upon the woolen felt carpet, and leisurely poured himself a bowl of mare’s milk wine. Halba most despised this kind of rigid, deliberate posturing typical of Central Plains people, and could not help furrowing his brow.
Han Yan blew lightly on the surface of the wine and said, “Assassins who tried to assassinate Qi Jianshuan. They’re here at your place to dodge the wind for a while.”
“Damn it! I wanted to kill Qi Jianshuan with my own hands! Letting them beat me to it…”
“Qi Jianshuan isn’t dead.” Hearing Halba speak Central Plains Chinese was truly agonizing for his ears, so Han Yan cut him off directly to deliver the news that he found so frustrating, infuriating, and regrettable. “You still have a chance to slowly torture him.”
“Provided you manage to defeat him first.”
Halba found it taxing to listen, but he managed to guess seven or eight parts of it, and flew into a rage on the spot. “I will definitely defeat him! I want to avenge my father!”
His father had died beneath Qi Jianshuan’s sword, and even his own eye had been punctured by Qi Jianshuan. This destined the two of them to be mortal enemies for the rest of their lives, locked in a struggle until death.
“Give me the garrison map of the Black Iron Camp!”
Impatient and unable to wait any longer, Halba rushed up to the unperturbed Han Yan, glared at him fiercely, and thrust out a hand.
“There’s no rush. The Black Iron Camp hasn’t returned to Qi Jianshuan’s hands yet, and no one can accurately predict the shifts before the war breaks out. With changes this drastic, even if I gave it to you now, it might not necessarily be useful by then.” Han Yan set his bowl down, leaned backward, and sighed helplessly, “Can’t you stand a little further away from me?”
Halba hesitated for a moment, then obediently retreated a few steps, though his expression remained fierce and menacing.
“What did you ask the shaman?” Han Yan straightened his posture.
Halba answered, “When to start the war.”
“And when is that?”
Halba kept his mouth shut and said nothing.
Han Yan cast a calm glance at his retainer. Wuyang strode up to Halba holding his sword, and said flatly, “Give it to me.”
Halba stared at him for a moment, then suddenly burst into laughter. With a single punch, he sent Wuyang flying. Although Wuyang used his sword hilt to deflect the majority of the force, Halba’s fists were heavy and massive, and blood still welled from the corner of Wuyang’s mouth. Wuyang raised his head with a vicious, cold glare, preparing to lunge forward in retaliation when Han Yan barked, “Stop this instant, both of you!”
“Halba! Don’t push your luck too far! Our defeat last time was not what I desired, and you have no need to vent your grievances upon me!” Han Yan raised his eyes sharply, his tone powerful. “Precisely because the defeat was so disastrous, we can no longer afford to lose. I am formulating a strategy, and everything is under my control. Launching the war after autumn gives you time to fatten your horses, while also giving me time to sweep away internal hazards.”
“You,” Han Yan stood up abruptly, sweeping his sleeve away with cold detachment, “do not ruin my plans.”
Halba chuckled with a sinister edge in the northern tongue, “Traitors come to no good end.”
Not understanding the language, Han Yan furrowed his brow, turned to look at him, paused for a moment, and said, “I came here today for two reasons. First, I’ve brought those people and left them with you; you’d best keep them around, since they’ve all crossed swords with Qi Jianshuan before… Don’t look at me with that kind of gaze—the northern border is vast, and news will be intercepted by you before it even leaves your camp; I have no need to go to such elaborate lengths.”
Halba offered no comment.
Han Yan drew a breath and continued, “Second, to bring you a piece of intelligence. Zhongzhou will soon dispatch a new general to the Black Iron Camp. You can take advantage of the window where the new general is unfamiliar with his troops to launch small-scale incursions. Morale in the Black Iron Camp is currently depressed, and they are already ripe for collapse; trying to rebuild morale after suffering a few more defeats will become a thousand times harder. Furthermore…”
Han Yan paused for a fraction of a second, glanced sideways at Wuyang, and beneath that silent warning, Wuyang respectfully presented a roll of xuan paper before retreating to the side.
“Contained within here is Qi Jianshuan’s recent status. He is growing increasingly vigilant, and future intelligence might not be gathered as comprehensively as this. It did not come easily; find a reliable translator to read it to you.”
Now, whenever Halba heard any news concerning Qi Jianshuan, he acted as though he were going insane. He gripped the paper tightly, his fingers digging deep indentations into it.
Han Yan gave a slight “tsk” and drawled leisurely, “There is someone named Yun Zhensong, and Qi Jianshuan is quite… attached to him.”
The scope of interpretation for this “attachment” could be broad or narrow, but since Han Yan specifically brought it up, he must have had his own deep intentions.
Halba only wanted to destroy Qi Jianshuan and make him taste the grief of losing his closest family and loved ones!
Impatient to wait any longer, he called Guolang into the tent and shoved the paper straight into his arms. “Read it to me!”
Han Yan shook his head and sighed as he left.
Collaborating with a crude, reckless, and simple-minded barbarian like Halba who possessed all limbs and no brains was Han Yan’s absolute last resort.
The northern horses were tall with well-developed leg muscles, particularly their extraordinarily large nostrils, which would rhythmically dilate when they galloped, expelling hot vapor that could blind a man’s vision.
The sunlight bathed Han Yan in a lazy warmth as he leisurely controlled his horse, refraining from letting it break into a gallop.
Wuyang followed closely by his side, step for step.
“Why did Your Master bother making this trip?” Wuyang asked, thoroughly puzzled as he gazed at Han Yan.
Han Yan let out a soft laugh and replied, answering the question with another statement: “With a single fire, the Huayuan Pavilion vanished from this world.”
The Huayuan Pavilion had once been a flourishing, immensely popular pleasure house. Its interior decoration was the epitome of extravagant luxury, and its women each excelled in their own specializations, with physical beauty being the least remarkable of their charms.
Before the previous Emperor died, he handed him a painting and whispered with his dying breath: “The woman on this… is your mother…”
Han Yan searched for a long time, ultimately finding only a city that had been emptied out and the desolate, vacant Huayuan Pavilion.
Han Yan reined in his horse, its front hooves rearing high into the air before slamming heavily back down to kick up a shower of grass clippings. Fixing his gaze upon Wuyang, Han Yan said, “Those assassins came from all corners of the country the Central Plains, the Western Regions, and the northern borders. They knew the officials I stationed at every post station throughout Zhongzhou. The moment official documents and imperial edicts left Zhongzhou and reached the first courier route, a copied transcript would be delivered to my hands that very night. Qi Jianshuan has already begun investigating. Fortunately, I moved quickly, burning down the building before Qi Jianshuan could react, leaving him not even a single piece of wood. Otherwise, who knows how much of the truth behind the Huayuan Pavilion would have been dragged out into the light.”
Han Yan’s gaze stretched out into the distance, extending so far that it had no resting place. No one could tell with whom he was making eye contact in his subconsciousness.
“Those assassins were delivered into Halba’s hands; to guard against me, that lot won’t even have a single hair drift out of the grassland.”
“And furthermore,” Han Yan recovered his focus, offering Wuyang a gentle smile—a smile that could be described as elegant and benign, yet the words he spoke next made one’s blood run cold, “I don’t trust a single soul. I only trust myself.”
With a resounding thud, Gongsun Lin dropped to his knees right at Qi Jianshuan’s feet, looking precisely like someone who had just encountered his long-dead biological father—weeping bitterly while laughing madly all at once. Yun Zhensong quietly stepped back, putting some distance between himself and Qi Jianshuan to return to Qi Yan’s side, picking up the sword and watching Gongsun Lin as though observing an absolute fool.
Qi Jianshuan struggled to pull away, but Gongsun Lin clung to him with even greater desperation.
With a solemn expression, Li Yan watched the absurd spectacle unfolding before him without uttering a sound or making a single move.
His brow furrowed deeply, Qi Jianshuan stared down at the half-dead Gongsun Lin writhing at his feet. Feeling both helpless and speechless, and thoroughly irritated by the howling blend of tears and laughter, he kicked Gongsun Lin away with a sharp shove and commanded coldly, “Get lost.”
Unable to hold it in any longer, Yun Zhensong burst out laughing. If it were just a smile, it would have been fine, but this chuckle completely broke his defenses. Leaning against the backrest of Qi Yan’s wheelchair, he bent his waist with soft laughter. Qi Jianshuan was startled at first, but then found himself smiling in amusement at this carefree, innocent, and bright demeanor of his.
The atmosphere in the courtyard instantly lightened. By the end of it, Yun Zhensong had laughed so hard he ran out of breath and wound up choking himself, coughing repeatedly for a long spell. Qi Jianshuan raised a hand to pat him on the back, his movements so natural it was as though the two of them did this all the time, and Yun Zhensong didn’t feel the slightest bit improper about it either.
Gongsun Lin stared in dumbstruck astonishment, scrambling back up to his feet. “Who is he?!”
In his anxiety, he failed to control his tone, rendering it rather impolite.
“Alright, stop making a scene,” Qi Jianshuan said.
Yun Zhensong instantly lost his nerve and stopped laughing on the spot, even suppressing his coughs significantly as he cautiously raised his eyes to steal a peek at Qi Jianshuan’s well-defined jawline.
Sensing his gaze, Qi Jianshuan lowered his head to look back, and found himself momentarily at a loss for words. “…I wasn’t talking about you.”
What the hell? thought Gongsun Lin in stunned disbelief. Who on earth is this person? How on earth did he manage to train General Qi into this kind of state?!