Chapter Two: Journey North

“Do you take us for fools? Damn it, I haven’t even settled the score with you for that kick just now!”

The first to step forward was a man named Bai Fu, a recruit as burly as a bear, with a temper to match. With a roar, he swung his spear at Meng Di’s head.

The others rushed to stop him, but it was too late. The spear, whistling through the air, was about to strike Meng Di’s forehead, causing the onlookers to cry out in alarm.

Meng Di stood motionless, as if paralyzed by fear, but when the spear was just upon him, he reached out and grasped it lightly. The shouts of surprise had barely left their mouths before they turned to gasps of astonishment.

Despite his slender frame, Meng Di seemed to possess boundless strength. Bai Fu strained with all his might, but Meng Di remained unmoved, standing at ease. He said calmly, “I’ll let this go since you didn’t mean to kill me.”

With a flick of his wrist, he sent Bai Fu flying several yards. Turning to the dumbfounded men, he addressed them: “Brothers, heading north seems dangerous, but it isn’t a dead end. Besides, if we go back to Yingdu without having achieved anything, military law will not spare us.”

Li was the first to step forward. “Meng, I believe in you.”

Peng Ji hesitated for a long moment, then joined them as well.

But most of the recruits, already terrified by the Wu army, preferred to take the mountain paths back rather than risk anything further. Still, cowed by Meng Di’s prowess, they dared not protest. As for military law, it felt far too remote for these men, who had barely been trained for half a month before being sent to war.

In the end, only seven people chose to follow Meng Di north. Upon questioning, it turned out that not one of them was a proper farmer. The brothers Xiao Wu and Xiao Liu were hunters from the mountains; Gan Ying was a craftsman’s son; Zhao Miao, a stable hand. The most unusual was Zhong Ying, once a scholar who, angered by the oppression of the powerful, had killed a man in the street and been thrown into a death cell. Pressed for numbers, the conscription officers had added him to their ranks.

Meng Di didn’t mind; his own origins were still a mystery even to himself.

The northern journey was far from smooth. Though the group stuck to small paths, they often encountered Wu soldiers. Once, they ran straight into a scouting party. Fortunately, Meng Di had foreseen such dangers and sent the agile Xiao Wu and Xiao Liu ahead as scouts. At any sign of trouble, they would mimic a bird’s call to warn the group, allowing them to avoid disaster.

By now, everyone had grown accustomed to Meng Di’s uncanny abilities. He could read the traces on the ground to predict the enemy’s movements, and even deduce the Wu army’s supply situation from the droppings of their horses—a feat that astonished even Zhao Miao, the stable hand.

Whenever there was time, Peng Ji would pester Meng Di with questions: “Where is the Great Han? Is it near Yingdu? Are all the people as formidable as you?”

The Great Han? Faced with their curiosity, Meng Di could only smile wryly. He had no idea where it was. Perhaps, he thought, it was hidden deep within his own heart.

After several days of uneventful travel, Li told them they were very close to the Huai River, and the group began to relax.

But then, the unexpected happened—a shrill birdcall sounded from ahead, their agreed-upon signal for danger. They hurriedly hid behind trees. Soon, a breathless figure darted into the woods, calling, “Meng! Meng!”

“Xiao Wu, over here—no need to panic,” Meng Di said, stepping from behind a tree. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a war chariot ahead. Looks like it’s ours—Chu army.”

“Let’s take a look.” The group brightened; at last, their own people.

The war chariot lay overturned at the foot of the mountain. Drawing closer, they saw the four horses had collapsed; several corpses lay beside the chariot, bristling with arrows, clad in the uniform of Chu soldiers.

Peng Ji circled the bodies, muttering to himself: “This one’s the driver—palms torn by the reins. This must be the spearman.” He picked up the long halberd and gave it a few experimental swings. “Yes, that’s the feel. Just like the ones my father used.”

He glanced at a body slumped by the shaft. “That’s the archer—see the quiver on his back. Hey, Meng, what are you doing?”

Meng Di was staring at the long bow in his hands, transfixed by a sudden, overwhelming sense of familiarity.

It was a bamboo bow, taller than a man, crafted with exquisite skill. The wood was darkened by age, but the curves were still smooth and supple, the grip tightly wrapped in silken thread.

Meng Di drew the bowstring gently, and the sensation was so intimate it was as if a long-lost part of his body had returned. Elation surged within him, though he noted the string was a little slack.

“What a fine bow,” Peng Ji marveled, peering closer. “The archer must have been formidable. Meng, this isn’t a hunting bow—it’s a war bow, the kind only soldiers can draw. Without the strength of three or five men, it would be impossible.”

The others crowded around, eyes drawn to the long bow in Meng Di’s hands.

Suddenly, the archer’s body stirred. Li jumped in fright and cried, “He’s still alive!”

At that very moment, an unexpected development: several war chariots rounded the foot of the mountain.

“Run!” shouted Xiao Wu and Xiao Liu, reacting first. Everyone turned and bolted, but the open ground ahead left them nowhere to hide.

Meng Di remained perfectly calm. He picked up a feathered arrow and nocked it to the bowstring. Since touching the bow, a burning will to fight had ignited within him.

The lead chariot charged straight for them, the archer on its left side already preparing his bow.

Meng Di held his breath, slowly drawing the bow until it formed a full crescent. The armored men on the chariot, taken aback, readied themselves for combat.

The chariot drew closer. The archer, sensing he was nearly in range, pulled back his own bowstring. The spearman to his right raised a small round shield before himself.

With a sharp twang, Meng Di’s arrow flew like a comet. Yet, the chariot erupted in laughter a moment later; the arrow, though swift, had flown wildly off course.

Peng Ji hesitated, grabbing Li, who was about to run back. “We’ll be safe if we reach the trees.”

“And what about Meng?”

“Fate decides life and death—we can’t help him now.”

On the chariot, the enemy archer sneered and let loose his arrow, aiming at Meng Di. But Meng Di’s expression was calm as he quickly nocked a second arrow and shot without aiming.

In an instant, the arrow pierced the driver’s gaping mouth. The man slumped over the shaft, dead.

The chariot veered out of control. The enemy archer’s arrow flew harmlessly into the sky.

Meng Di nocked a third arrow and aimed at the second chariot. The driver suddenly felt the reins go slack—the bowstring had snapped them. The chariot lost balance, tipping over and pitching its armored riders violently to the ground.

He picked up several more arrows. By now, the third chariot was approaching from the left. Its archer, steadying his aim, released his arrow.

Meng Di, with casual ease, loosed another shot. In the air, sparks burst into a sudden shower. As the enemy archer stared in disbelief, several arrows bloomed in midair like a flower, and the four horses raced past, pulling an empty chariot—their riders thrown to the earth.

The remaining chariots, witnessing this, swung around in a wide arc and beat a hasty retreat.

For a moment, the open plain was silent save for the fallen, motionless warriors. Alone, Meng Di stood tall, long bow in hand, unshaken and resolute.