Chapter Fifteen: Victory

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The scene was extremely awkward.

Yet Zhao Huaian did not hesitate for even an instant. Before the Tufan soldier opposite him had fully grasped what was happening, Zhao Huaian had already closed in, clamped a hand over his mouth, and driven a cow-bone dagger into his heart.

The man died with a single strike.

But even after dispatching this unexpected interruption in an instant, Zhao Huaian did not dare breathe. He stared tensely toward the tent.

Inside, it was pitch-black. Only the irregular sounds of snoring and teeth grinding rose from within.

Only then did Zhao Huaian slowly exhale. At once, he caught the overpowering stench of sweat and urine, so acrid that his eyes began to sting.

Forcing down his nausea, he suppressed the frantic pounding of his heart and waved his hand. Xianyu Yue and the others filed in, followed by a succession of muffled groans.

The tent was small, housing no more than ten men. There were enough of Zhao Huaian’s people for each of them to watch one opponent, with men left over besides. Thus, the Tufan soldiers had their throats slit at almost exactly the same moment.

The first Tufan tent had been dealt with swiftly—a triumphant beginning.

Just as they were preparing to repeat the same method, a Tufan soldier suddenly appeared around the corner. Beside the tent, he pulled out his manhood to relieve himself.

Before he could finish, he suddenly spotted a group of men inside the camp. Since Zhao Huaian and the others were wearing Tufan armor, the soldier initially assumed that these were companions who had gone out that afternoon and were now returning.

He hummed a greeting, but Zhao Huaian did not understand the Tufan tongue. Fortunately, Sun Tai took over and answered with a string of unintelligible words.

The Tufan soldier was no fool, however. The voice sounded unfamiliar, and when he suddenly saw the men before him draw their blades, his mind cleared at once.

But just as he was about to shout, Xianyu Yue seized the opportunity to rush forward and grab him. With a single thrust, he drove his blade into the man’s chest.

Clean and decisive.

Listening to the Tufan soldier’s dying wails, Zhao Huaian said in a low voice:

“Sixth Brother, Sun Tai, follow me. The rest of you rush into the tents. Don’t bother with anything else. Kill anyone you see!”

With that, Zhao Huaian led Zhao Liu and Sun Tai straight toward the command tent at the center of the camp.

In the end, they would still have to fight a real battle.

…

Zhao Huaian limped forward, moving faster and faster. At his command, the camp finally descended into chaos. Sharp cries of agony tore through the silence, while the snores from the central tent abruptly ceased.

He did not enter through the tent flap. Instead, he led Zhao Liu and Sun Tai around to the side.

Sun Tai cleaved open the tent with a single stroke and leaped inside amid the startled cries from within.

That ferocious decisiveness made Zhao Huaian take another look at him.

Martial skill could be taught, but such ruthless courage was rare. Sun Tai had the potential to become a true warrior.

Once Sun Tai entered, shouts erupted from every direction. Then came his furious roar, the Tufan’s screams, the clash of metal, and the sound of sinew and bone being crushed.

Zhao Huaian did not rush in to support him. Instead, he listened intently from outside until Sun Tai’s roar grew increasingly muffled. Only then did he charge inside without another thought.

The interior was pitch-black. He could barely make out three bodies sprawled on the ground and a Tufan warrior waving a short blade while shouting loudly.

At that moment, two large Tufan men in fur coats had Sun Tai pinned to the floor. He struggled wildly beneath them.

The two men restraining him were also frantic. They shouted to their companions behind them, having no suitable weapons in hand.

But they had not expected another armored soldier to charge inside. Seeing that he too wore their own lamellar armor, the two men let out desperate cries.

Zhao Huaian slashed across, cutting straight through one man’s throat. Warm blood sprayed over his armor. The other Tufan tried to rise, only for Zhao Huaian’s blade to crash down onto his collarbone.

The blade lodged between the bones. Zhao Huaian kicked the man down, then wrenched his weapon free.

He strode to the front of Sun Tai, holding his saber across his body in a tiger-like stance. Zhao Liu entered behind him and helped Sun Tai to his feet.

The three men formed a triangle, staring fixedly at the remaining Tufan inside the tent.

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As the command tent of the enemy army, this was where the greatest number of Tufan were gathered—more than a dozen in all. Unfortunately for them, they had been unable to put on their armor in the sudden attack and could only snatch up whatever weapons lay nearby. A few were even armed with nothing more than large bones.

Because of his injured leg, Zhao Huaian could only advance slowly. The two men behind him followed step by step.

The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive.

Suddenly, two Tufan men raised their blades and chopped down from above. Zhao Huaian met them head-on and knocked one blade aside. Behind him, Zhao Liu thrust out his spear and drove it into the Tufan’s abdomen.

But after deflecting the attack, Zhao Huaian himself took a slash across the shoulder. Fortunately, the Tufan armor was expertly crafted. The blow merely scraped across the plates and was deflected, losing most of its force.

Zhao Huaian swept his blade upward at an angle. One stroke tore away half the man’s face, exposing a row of ghastly white teeth.

At that moment, Zhao Huaian saw a Tufan nobleman in the distance apparently trying to flee. He moved to pursue him.

But the Tufan warrior lying in a pool of blood seized Zhao Huaian’s leather boot with both hands and refused to let go, staring up at him with unblinking eyes.

Sun Tai had recovered by then. He rushed over and severed the man’s hand with one slash. Pale splinters of bone protruded from the stump, connected only by scraps of flesh.

Blood filled the tent. Stepping over five corpses, Zhao Huaian and the other two advanced relentlessly.

The ten surviving Tufan were forced backward step by step until they were pressed into a single mass, their breathing growing heavier and heavier.

Suddenly, Zhao Huaian—who had still been limping moments before—burst forward. Relying on the armor covering his body, he charged straight into the Tufan ranks without the slightest concern for his own safety.

There was no room to maneuver. Blades surrounded him, striking his iron armor with chilling clangs. Zhao Huaian himself swung his weapon wildly, almost as though he had gone mad.

At that moment, the presence or absence of armor directly determined the victor.

These Tufan warriors were naturally formidable, having been able to remain in the same tent as their commander. Born in the harsh highlands, they were not afraid of death. But they simply had no way to stake their lives against Zhao Huaian.

He was armored from head to toe in three layers: willow-leaf lamellar armor on the outside, chain mail beneath it, and a final layer of leather armor. Even his helmet was fitted with the iron faceplate used by the Tang army.

The attacks of the Tufan warriors were all blocked by iron, while every one of Zhao Huaian’s strikes was lethal. From the moment he charged inside, the Tufan screams never ceased.

After crossing blades with a Tufan warrior, Zhao Huaian twisted his weapon and, following through with the motion, severed two of the man’s fingers.

The warrior screamed, and the blade fell from his hand. Yet he was utterly fearless. Bellowing, he hurled himself toward Zhao Huaian.

Zhao Huaian raised his saber. Its frigid gleam swept out in a half-circle, and one stroke severed the man’s head.

Blood gushed from the warrior’s neck. His running body lost its momentum and dropped to its knees at Zhao Huaian’s feet.

“Huff.”

“Huff.”

Beneath the iron faceplate, Zhao Huaian was drenched in sweat. The surge of adrenaline made his temples throb painfully. Seeing the last Tufan nobleman collapsed on the ground, he walked slowly toward him.

The nobleman was completely terrified. The sight of flesh flying through the air and severed limbs scattered across the floor was more horrifying than even the Asura hell described in the Buddhist scriptures.

Worse still, he was trapped in that hell, and a demon was walking toward him.

Looking at the limp and defeated Tufan nobleman, Zhao Huaian wore an expression of contempt. He raised the saber in his hand and brought it down.

In a flash of cold light, the man’s topknot was sliced away.

Suddenly, Zhao Huaian caught the smell of urine. Already nauseated by the stench of sweat and blood, he grew furious when the sharp odor struck him as well. He slammed the pommel of his saber into the Tufan nobleman’s nose.

The man howled. Blood smeared his chin, but he did not dare move an inch.

After cursing him as a useless coward, Zhao Huaian kicked him onto his back. Then he seized the man by the collar and dragged him out of the tent.

By now, the camp was in complete disorder. Many Tufan soldiers had crawled out of their tents, panic-stricken.

After sweeping his gaze across the camp, Zhao Huaian shouted to Sun Tai behind him:

“Tell him to order all the Tufan to surrender.”

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Sun Tai was still somewhat dazed. He shouted at the nobleman in the Tufan tongue and even slapped the man across the face with his hand.

The nobleman cried out to the camp in panic.

No one knew what he shouted, but the Tufan resistance grew steadily weaker. In the end, they truly did cast aside their weapons one after another and kneel on the ground.

Looking at the Tufan nobleman’s ingratiating expression, Zhao Huaian shook his head and ordered Sun Tai and the others to bind all the prisoners in the open space at the center of the camp.

In this night raid, he had ultimately emerged victorious.

…

But Zhao Huaian’s joy lasted only a moment.

He saw Lao Mo kneeling on the ground, supporting a gravely wounded Yi tribesman. His face was filled with grief and helplessness.

Zhao Huaian’s heart tightened. He hurried over to ask what had happened.

When Lao Mo saw him approaching, he hastily raised his head and pleaded:

“Master, save him. Please, save him. He’s a good man.”

Zhao Huaian crouched down to examine the wound. The man’s most fatal injury had pierced straight through beneath the armpit, one of the weak points in the armor. Great streams of blood poured from the wound, impossible to staunch.

The Yi tribesman’s face grew increasingly pale. He could feel his life slipping away. At last, he resigned himself to death and weakly told Lao Mo his final wishes.

Both of Lao Mo’s hands were covered in blood. He listened, nodding miserably.

His voice faded into silence. This man from the mountains had finally returned to the mountains in death.

At that moment, Lao Mo could hold back no longer and burst into loud sobs.

By then, Sixth Brother and the others had lit the torches throughout the camp, illuminating the central clearing.

Only now could Zhao Huaian clearly see the tribesman’s face. He recognized him—he and Lao Mo belonged to the same tribe. Unlike Lao Mo, who had no wife or children, this man had a family.

Zhao Huaian sighed and patted Lao Mo on the shoulder.

“What were his last words?”

Lao Mo sobbed, his shoulders trembling. In a hoarse voice, he said:

“He wanted me to take the silver Master gave me back to the village and have a silver bracelet made for his child.”

As he spoke, Lao Mo could no longer contain himself. He cried out:

“But the village is already gone! It’s gone! He never knew. Those Tufan destroyed the village long ago!”

Sobs rippled through the crowd.

The atmosphere grew even more oppressive when Zhao Liu and the others carried two more bodies out of another tent.

These two had also been Yi tribesmen. Though they had been wearing iron armor, they were ultimately weaker physically. The Tufan had pinned them to the ground together, crushed their eyeballs with their bare hands, and finally killed them with daggers.

Zhao Huaian turned his gaze toward the group of Tufan prisoners in the center. There were sixteen of them, nearly as many as Zhao Huaian’s own force. But once they had lost their courage and their leader, they were no different from cattle or sheep.

However, when the camp torches were raised and the prisoners saw that the enemy who had raided them numbered only a dozen or so—and that most of them were lowly Yi tribesmen—their eyes began to flicker.

Xianyu Yue and the others nearby kept them firmly subdued. Then Zhao Huaian walked over and hauled two Tufan men out of the crowd, one in each hand.

The Tufan behind them all shuddered. They lowered their heads and dared not look up again.

The two men dragged out had fingers stained with blood. Seeming to understand what awaited them, they began to writhe and struggle frantically.

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