Chapter Two: Armored

Amidst the mountain forest, the mist was damp and cold, the darkness so dense that no sunlight penetrated. Zhao Huai’an crushed the decayed leaves under his leather boots, sending up splashes of red mud as he walked to a towering ancient tree.

A solitary giant among the woods.

Zhao Huai’an looked up from its base, the massive canopy spreading overhead like a great shield, casting deep shadows around. Such a colossal tree—he wondered how many years it must have taken to grow so tall.

Yet, at this moment, Zhao Huai’an was not filled with curiosity or awe. Instead, his face wore only frustration.

For this was the third time he had arrived here, standing before this familiar towering tree.

Yes, Zhao Huai’an was lost.

Before this, he had come here, only to wander in circles and find himself back at the same spot. Unwilling to give up, he tried another path, only to return again. After exploring three directions without success, he finally gave in.

It was truly uncanny.

Clad in armor and burdened with his pack, Zhao Huai’an’s body, despite its extraordinary constitution, now panted heavily. He chose a protruding root at the base of the tree and sat down, pondering his next move.

Should he follow the sun’s direction?

He looked up, but the dense canopy obscured the sky, making it impossible to see the sun.

Or should he judge by the growth of the trees?

He recalled some wilderness survival knowledge: skilled outdoorsmen could discern direction by observing which side of a tree was more lush, often indicating south.

But he couldn’t help but wonder—who could tell which side was more vigorous in this primeval forest? He had gambled earlier, choosing a thickly wooded path, only to circle back here again.

Now, Zhao Huai’an had to think of another plan.

Yet, beyond this minor problem of being lost, he had made a far greater discovery.

His body was a veritable powerhouse.

He had been wearing full iron armor, weighing no less than sixty pounds, plus his gear and pack, totaling eighty or ninety pounds. Still, he had walked this forest for so long without tiring until now.

What was this? A body made for enduring toil and hardship.

With such stamina combined with his training in weapons and combat techniques, he felt secure.

...

Sitting on the stout root, Zhao Huai’an unfastened the yellow gourd water flask hanging at his waist. It was standard issue for Tang soldiers, used specifically for carrying water.

He shook it lightly but heard no sound. His heart sank.

Still clinging to hope, he opened the stopper and raised the gourd to drink. Yet, only a few pitiful drops fell.

He wanted to slap himself—how had he unknowingly exhausted his water supply?

There were water pools in the forest; he had passed several small ponds on the way. But he dared not drink any of them.

In this dense forest, catching dysentery from contaminated water could be fatal.

Sighing, Zhao Huai’an felt a chill in his heart.

Now he had only one last option: risk going to the nearby river to fetch water.

---

There was one advantage: rivers always ran through valleys—naturally winding pathways.

Following the valley upstream, he would surely find settlements.

But there was a catch: it was dangerous. Walking the valley meant a high chance of encountering enemy troops.

He had been avoiding them by traveling through the forest, but given the situation, he had no choice but to brave the valley route.

After finishing the last two drops from his gourd, Zhao Huai’an slung up his saber, hoisted his pack, and turned right.

...

The sound of rushing water grew louder, quickening his steps.

His saber swept aside withered leaves and ancient vines as he emerged from the trees, revealing the scene before him:

A sheer cliff face with a white waterfall cascading down, spraying mist that drenched Zhao Huai’an’s face.

Already sweating heavily from his trek, the cold mist caused him to shiver involuntarily.

Looking at the waterfall, he thought to himself:

"No wonder I heard the water from afar. I never expected such a grand waterfall here—much larger than the one I saw at Mount Lu in my past life."

Wiping his face, a mixture of mist and sweat soaked his fingers.

Seeing the vast river before him, his thirst deepened, but he did not rush to drink. Instead, he carefully climbed to a higher spot.

A large rock provided cover. Lying prone, he peered around cautiously, confirming no one was nearby before descending.

In moments like this, one’s mind must remain sharp.

Zhao Huai’an wound his way down to the riverbank, took off his water flask, turned his back to the river, and submerged the gourd.

He kept watch, ensuring no danger lurked nearby.

Only then did he remove his helmet, placing his saber, horn bow, and pack neatly to his left before turning back to the water.

He cupped the cool river water, splashing it on his face repeatedly.

Having crawled out of a battlefield strewn with corpses, the blood crusting his face finally washed away.

Staring at his reflection in the water, Zhao Huai’an grinned.

Not bad—a handsome young man indeed.

Just as he allowed himself a small smile, a shout came from upstream.

“Coward! Shameless! You look honest, easy to bully. Three against one!”

Cursing loudly, a man wrapped in a turban and wearing a coarse, blue hemp robe came running down the river valley path.

At the first sound of movement, Zhao Huai’an dropped to the ground. Instead of grabbing his saber, he drew halfway the short sword tied to his right waist.

He observed calmly, hearing the familiar Shaanxi dialect, and began to formulate a plan.

Yet, as he watched, he felt a strange unease.

Indeed, the Shaanxi man was being pursued. Shortly after he appeared, three warriors clad in leather armor gave chase.

Though they spoke a language Zhao Huai’an could not understand, their expressions clearly conveyed their hostility.

They were shouting insults.

But as the Shaanxi man ran toward Zhao Huai’an, he noticed the man clutching a curious object.

What was that? A suona horn?

Before Zhao Huai’an could analyze further, the man shouted at him:

“Countryman, lend me a hand! Behind me are Nanzhao barbarians—deadly and merciless. They won’t spare us!”

The sudden appeal caught Zhao Huai’an off guard. He hadn’t yet figured out how he had been spotted when the three leather-armored warriors halted.

One of them pointed toward Zhao Huai’an, chattering with his companions in a strange tongue.

With familiar Shaanxi dialect on one side and incomprehensible speech on the other, the question of friend or foe was clear.

Zhao Huai’an stopped hiding, grabbed his horn bow, and shot an arrow at them.

From standing to drawing the bow, his movements were fluid and precise. The horn bow, a standard Tang military hard bow, was powerful—fully drawn, it could shoot two hundred steps.

---

The three Nanzhao warriors were only about a hundred steps away—perfect targets.

Indeed, they froze when Zhao Huai’an stood and drew his bow.

But to his embarrassment, the arrow missed all three, landing cleanly in the river with a splash.

After a moment of stunned silence, the three burst into laughter and charged at him.

“Kill this sorry creature!”

...

Zhao Huai’an felt awkward at his own poor shot. How had he missed so badly?

Facing the three warriors armed with short blades, curved swords, and sheathed daggers, he did not flinch. Instead, he drew his horizontal saber.

At this moment, he still had the leisure to call out:

“Brother, there’s a saber by the riverbank—hold it and cover me.”

But no one answered.

The Shaanxi man, without looking back, kept running away, showing no intention to fight alongside Zhao Huai’an.

Zhao Huai’an was stunned. Was this really the simple folk of old Qin? The ancestors of the great Tang dynasty?

Having been here only a day and already tasting such coldness, he felt a pang of grievance.

But there was no time for complaints—the three Nanzhao warriors were upon him.

They were clearly elite soldiers of the Nanzhao army, fully armed like Zhao Huai’an, though without iron armor.

Their steps were swift and tactical: one charging head-on with a spear-sword, two flanking with curved swords and short knives.

Taking a deep breath, Zhao Huai’an sprang back on his heels, blade following his movement, and struck a downward blow at the foremost warrior.

This man wielded a long weapon and posed the greatest threat.

He hadn’t expected Zhao Huai’an to be so fast in armor and instinctively tried to block with his spear-sword.

But in the next moment, the wooden shaft snapped off cleanly, and Zhao Huai’an’s sharp saber severed his neck, blood spurting forth.

With one enemy down, Zhao Huai’an pressed forward, sprinting ahead.

The two flanking warriors, surprised by his speed, turned to pursue.

Suddenly, Zhao Huai’an halted, twisted his body, and swung his saber back toward the right.

The blow came so swiftly the Nanzhao warrior on that side was caught unprepared, the blade striking his skull.

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