Volume One: Flames of War at the Border Chapter Forty-Nine: A Hero Rescues the Beauty

Li Yu invited disaster into his own home, launching a surprise attack on the Chen stronghold.

Li Ling and his wife remained calm in the face of chaos, each leading a group to meet the enemy. Amid the melee, Li Ling fought desperately to open the southern gate and, having succeeded, took his own life. Old Lady Zhen intercepted Li Yu herself at the western gate, seized him with her own hands, and led him up the mountain, upholding justice over kinship, her integrity unyielding.

Though all present had suffered greatly at Li Yu’s hands, they held the elder couple in heartfelt respect. When they saw Old Lady Zhen take her own life, they instinctively bowed their heads in silent mourning.

“Aah—!”

When Li Yu saw his mother commit suicide, he realized his crimes were too great for any hope of survival. Taking advantage of a moment when the guards were off-guard, he kicked one over and ran down the mountain. His hands were tied behind his back, making it impossible to balance; running too fast, he stumbled and fell on the mountain path, only to scramble up and fall again after only a few steps.

He appeared crazed, his fear reaching its zenith, his movements distorted by terror, and he let out strange, incoherent sounds from his throat.

Everyone looked towards He Yu, awaiting his decision. With Chen Jing dead and Chen Qingyun absent, He Yu held the highest rank among those present.

He Yu’s face betrayed no emotion; he nodded slightly.

The guards understood. They drew their bows and loosed their arrows. At the twang of the strings, a terrible scream rang out—Li Yu was riddled like a porcupine.

He Yu asked Ran Yu to watch over the survivors and guard the bodies of Chen Jing and Lady Zhen, while he himself, taking trusted followers, went into the mountains to search for Deng’er and Chen Qingyun.

After questioning over a dozen villagers, he learned that Chen Qingyun had been chased by a detachment of Later Yan soldiers and had fled towards the rear mountain.

The rear mountain was half an hour’s walk away and impossible to reach on horseback. He Yu, fleet of foot, left his companions behind and raced towards the back mountain. Saving lives was like fighting a fire; he pushed himself onward, trees flashing by on either side, branches scraping his face and stinging with pain. Along the mountain path, he saw signs of fighting, with the bodies of maids, guards, and Later Yan soldiers lying together by the roadside.

His heart burned with anxiety as he climbed with all his might. Reaching halfway up, he heard the lewd laughter of Later Yan soldiers from the summit above: “What a lovely little lamb—run, why don’t you run?”

Another soldier chimed in, “No matter how fast the lamb runs, it’s never faster than a hawk—ha! This morsel won’t get away today. Whoever catches her gets the first taste.”

A third laughed lasciviously, “Lady Chen’s soft skin is famous as the beauty of the Chen stronghold. That brat Li Yu would forsake his own parents for her—ha!”

Their laughter grew uglier, sinister and obscene.

He Yu hurried forward. Still dozens of yards from the summit, he saw that, on the mountaintop—no larger than four or five rooms—Chen Qingyun, hair disheveled, sword in hand, was confronting five Later Yan soldiers.

At her feet lay a massive stone, beneath which huddled three maids and three children—two boys, one girl. The maids, all young, trembled with fear. He Yu recognized the children: Chen Jing’s son and daughter, and Li Jun’s only son. Li Jun’s boy was the eldest, just over five; Chen Jing’s daughter was four, her son only two, barely able to walk.

Beside the boulder lay the body of an elderly maidservant, blood pouring from her neck, a long knife discarded beside her. This was Chen Qingyun’s wet nurse, skilled in martial arts, who had protected her mistress up the mountain and perished in fierce combat.

Chen Qingyun, surrounded, threatened, “Stay back! Come closer and I’ll take you all with me!”

“Haha, take us with you? Soon we’ll be sharing your bed, not your grave!” jeered a soldier with slanted eyes.

The others laughed in chorus, their laughter vulgar and evil.

Shamed and enraged by their constant taunts, Chen Qingyun, utterly spent from the fight, steeled herself and raised her blade to end her life.

A soldier shouted, “Lady Chen, stay your hand! If you kill yourself, we’ll cook those children and eat them! And even dead, you’re still a fine lamb—if we can’t enjoy you alive, we’ll play with your corpse all the same!”

The Later Yan soldiers’ taste for human flesh was notorious throughout history; this was no idle threat.

“Shameless!” Chen Qingyun cursed through clenched teeth, retreating step by step behind the great stone.

Chen Qingyun had resolved that, given the peril, her best option was to fight her way to the cliff’s edge and, if forced, leap off with the children. But her foes seemed to sense her intent, circling and pressing in, leaving her little chance of escape.

The three maids understood and each scooped up a child, glaring at the soldiers, faces now set in fearless resolve.

At the height of peril—

He Yu, desperate to delay the enemy, had a sudden inspiration. As he ran, he shouted in faltering Xianbei, “King Zhao commands—return to your ranks at once! Disobey and you’ll be executed on the spot!” His Xianbei was newly learned and rarely used, the accent thick and strange.

The five soldiers hesitated, exchanging glances. “Whose order is that? That accent…? Execute on the spot?” Their advance slowed as they peered down the mountain, searching for the source.

In the blink of an eye, He Yu darted onto the summit. His mad dash had left his chest heaving, unable to speak for a moment.

Chen Qingyun, seeing He Yu, was overwhelmed with relief, tears spilling down her cheeks. In her agitation, her grip loosened and her sword clattered to the ground; she hurried to snatch it up.

The five soldiers, realizing He Yu was alone, recognized the ruse. Three continued to guard Chen Qingyun; two strode toward He Yu, grinning wickedly.

Seeing He Yu covered in blood, gasping and exhausted, they dismissed him as no threat.

“Yah!” they shouted, raising their blades together.

He Yu’s eyes didn’t even flicker. With a casual swipe, his sword flashed—striking the right-hand soldier’s neck. The giant blade, heavy and broad, sliced through flesh and bone, cleaving head and shoulder in one blow, blood spraying everywhere.

Even as the left-hand man’s sword descended, He Yu raised his own, meeting the attack. The enemy’s blade snapped in two against He Yu’s, and, stunned, he had no time to react before He Yu’s kick sent him crashing into a pine tree; a branch pierced his chest and left his corpse hanging among the needles.

In a few swift motions, He Yu had slain two men. The remaining three, realizing they faced a formidable foe, charged at him with howls of fury.

After a day of battle, He Yu’s mastery of the Nine Swords of King Qin had reached a new level—their brilliance lay in adapting to circumstance, finding form in formlessness.

As the three attacked, He Yu advanced, suddenly dropping low, pivoting on his right foot, left hand braced on the ground, his right arm sweeping the sword in a brilliant arc.

“Ah—!”

“Ah—!”

“Ah—!”

The three soldiers screamed in unison; their legs had been severed below the knee, six limbs scattered across the ground as their torsos writhed in agony.

With a single move, He Yu dispatched his foes, then strode to Chen Qingyun.

She looked up at him, her savior, and suddenly all her strength left her. Her spirit relaxed at last, her vision darkened, and she collapsed forward. She had fought on with the weak and helpless at her side, driven only by sheer will; with rescue at hand, her body at last gave out.

He Yu caught her in his arms, speaking softly, “Don’t be afraid, Lady Chen. The Xianbei fiends have been slain.”

Resting in his embrace, Chen Qingyun gazed up at the blue sky, her fear and panic gone. “You’ve come, at last… if you hadn’t, I…”

He Yu gently wiped the blood from her cheek, revealing skin as pale as egg white. “Don’t be afraid, Lady Chen. Where is Deng’er?”

Chen Qingyun froze, tears welling in her beautiful eyes, her lips trembling so she could not speak.

He Yu’s heart sank, a premonition of misfortune seizing his throat.

A little maid, glancing nervously at He Yu, stammered, “Lady Deng’er stayed behind to cover our retreat—she killed several of the barbarians herself. We… we never knew she was so skilled. But there were too many of them, and in the end… she was driven to a cliff. She… she couldn’t escape… so she jumped…”

The last hope was shattered in an instant.

Letting Chen Qingyun slip from his arms, He Yu saw a white glare before his eyes; his vision blurred, and all sound faded away. His mouth gaped, Adam’s apple bobbing, but no sound came out. He felt utterly hollow, on the verge of collapse.

“He Yu!”

“He Yu! What’s wrong?”

“Captain He!”

“Captain He!!”

“Captain He!!!”

Chen Qingyun struggled to sit up, supporting He Yu, her cries thick with tears.

The three maids, faces ashen, burst into weeping.

Their wailing dragged He Yu back from the brink.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, shaking his head and slowly rising. Drawing his sword, he strode toward the three Later Yan soldiers writhing on the ground.

He shed no tears; he could not even feel his sorrow—in that moment, he thought only of killing those three, believing that only enemy blood could ease his anguish.

As He Yu advanced, the three soldiers, sensing death’s approach, dragged themselves backward with their hands, terror contorting their faces.

“Die!” He Yu roared, his voice echoing through the mountains like a wounded beast venting rage and hatred. He lunged, both hands gripping his sword, stabbing wildly at the dying enemies.

As the enemy’s hopeless cries faded, blood spurted high, splattering He Yu’s head, face, body…

When the last foe fell, He Yu collapsed on his back, staring skyward. The memories of his half-year of wandering flashed before his eyes like a film, ending on Deng’er’s lovely face. Silent tears gushed down like a breached dam.

But the perilous situation allowed no time for mourning. The dead were gone; the living must go on—even if only for vengeance.

Recovering himself, He Yu struggled to his feet, lifted the old nurse’s corpse, and led Chen Qingyun and the maids, who carried the children, step by step down the mountain. In his heart was a single thought: Revenge! Revenge!! Revenge!!!

Halfway down, Ran Yu arrived with his men, having gathered and buried many of the stronghold’s dead along the way.

Deng’er was always thoughtful and filial—Ran Yu had been deeply fond of her. Learning of her fate, his eyes brimmed with tears as he struck a massive pine by the path, shaking down a shower of needles. Through gritted teeth he vowed, “If the Murongs are not destroyed, I am no man!”