Chapter Five: The Narrow Path

In the dim forest, faint cries and curses drifted through the air, accompanied by a heavy stench of blood. Zhao Huai’an crouched behind a massive rock, cautiously peering out.

The forest was dense, and dusk had fallen, so he could barely make out a dozen or so figures gathered in a circle, laughing loudly. The language they spoke was unfamiliar to him.

Suddenly, someone muttered something incomprehensible, and torches were lit. The flickering flames illuminated the scene more clearly.

In a clearing, several Tang warriors lay sprawled in pools of blood, while three survivors knelt, disheveled and exhausted, apparently captured. The group of about a dozen foreign warriors formed a circle around them, mocking the fallen soldiers with contemptuous laughter.

Zhao Huai’an quickly spotted their leader — a man wearing a helmet adorned with feathers and an amber-like forehead guard. The helmet’s neck guard hung over his shoulder armor, trimmed with animal fur at the bottom. Such ostentatious attire clearly marked him as the head.

At that moment, the enemy leader was speaking to a warrior clad in chainmail beside him, who served as an interpreter, translating the leader’s words to the captured Tang soldiers.

Among the captives, one sat cross-legged, grinning with his head tilted; another hung his head silently with hair unkempt; the third trembled, sobbing softly.

“Speak. Where is your reinforcements?” The interpreter spoke broken Chinese with a Shaanxi accent, but received no reply.

Annoyed, the interpreter glanced at the leader, who remained silent. Stepping forward, he struck the defiant captive—the one grinning and turning his head—with the scabbard. Three harsh blows left the man bloodied and battered, yet he endured in silence. The sobbing prisoner shook even more violently.

Behind the rock, Zhao Huai’an observed everything and felt a surge of respect for that brave Tang soldier. “A true hero… such a pity.”

But pity was all he could offer; Zhao knew he couldn’t save them. Even with his modest martial skills, armor, and stamina, he could not possibly take on a dozen foes alone.

He sympathized with the three Tang soldiers and wanted to save them, but charging forward then would be tantamount to rushing to their deaths.

Moreover, beside him was Zhao Liu, an unreliable comrade.

Zhao Huai’an turned to caution Zhao Liu, but saw him trembling violently, gripping a Nanzhao saber with white knuckles and bulging veins. What was he planning?

Meeting Zhao Huai’an’s gaze, Zhao Liu struggled to utter six words: “They are Tibetan.”

Though he said no more, Zhao Huai’an understood. In the late Tang era, the fiercest hatred was between the Guanzhong people and the Tibetans, who had relentlessly harassed the old Qin lands for a century.

Zhao Liu claimed to be from Qishan, likely with family slain by Tibetans—his grudge was personal.

Zhao Huai’an grimaced and pointed at himself. Seeing Zhao Liu’s desperate, hopeful eyes and his nod, Zhao forced a bitter smile.

“Old Liu, you really thinkI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.