Volume One: Flames on the Border Chapter Fifty-Two: Assassination

He had once heard that Murong Kai and his younger brother Murong Shao resembled each other in appearance, both valiant and upright, exuding a grand and profound bearing. Yet upon catching a glimpse today, He Yu was greatly astonished. Murong Kai was gaunt to the bone, his complexion waxen, his eyes dull and lifeless. Judging by his appearance, he seemed gravely ill, unlikely to linger long in this world.

Beneath the bed stood a woman with her hair drawn up in a falling horse bun, her crimson dress sweeping the floor. Her skin was pale as jade, her arched brows dark as ink, her eyes limpid and bright, lips delicate and rosy, and her smile languid yet intoxicating—a kind of languor that stirred the soul with its seductive charm.

From her age, the woman in red was a few years older than Murong Shanshan and Tuoba Yan, possessing the alluring air of a mature beauty. In terms of looks, she was no less than the other two—Tuoba Yan was dazzling, Murong Shanshan gentle, while this woman was captivating with her coquettish grace.

He Yu mused inwardly: Heaven has truly favored the Xianbei Murong clan; men and women alike, all are striking in appearance!

Although Murong Kai had not personally led troops against the Chen family stronghold, as their commander he was the prime target for assassination. Yet the question of how to deal with this exquisite beauty troubled him; to kill her seemed heartless, but sparing her risked exposing his mission.

Torn by indecision, he suddenly recalled the brutal death of Deng’er, and steeled his resolve, cursing himself for his foolishness: “He Yu, have you lost your mind? If this woman in red were anyone else, would you still be so soft-hearted? She’s at Murong Kai’s side—who cares who she is? Just kill her and be done!”

With a gentle motion, he drew a slit in the tent’s felt curtain. The material, made of thick felt and bamboo strips, was tough, but thanks to the keen edge of Jueque, he managed to cut through without a sound. He slipped inside through the opening, ready to strike Murong Kai down, when suddenly footsteps approached—Prince Chenliu, Murong Shao, reeking of wine, barged in.

He Yu was startled. He pulled the curtain and wrapped himself within, hiding his entire form. The curtain was broad enough to conceal a grown man without stifling him, and from the outside, nothing seemed amiss.

He listened as Murong Shao, breath heavy with alcohol, boasted to Murong Kai about the assault on the Chen family stronghold, pride evident in his voice.

After hearing him out, Murong Kai was seized by a violent coughing fit, which the woman in red soothed with gentle pats until he calmed. Then, in a deep voice, Murong Kai said, “Brother, I hear you slaughtered the city at Chen family stronghold. Is it true? My days are numbered, and the duty of command will soon fall to you. But you are reckless and violent, unwilling to study, often killing with your own hands and bullying the soldiers. How can you bear such weighty responsibility like this?”

“Don’t forget, we are sons of Murong Ke, the greatest general of Great Yan. Your actions not only disgrace our ancestors, but also bring harm upon yourself.”

He Yu thought to himself, “It’s said Murong Kai greatly resembles his father and carries the air of a scholar-general. From his words, it’s clearly true. If he were healthy and in command, the assault on Chen family stronghold would likely have caused far less bloodshed.”

Murong Shao scoffed, raising his voice, “You worry too much, brother. War is brutal—how can one be concerned with so many things? Even the late king, in his time, slaughtered cities and prisoners of war.”

Murong Kai, angered by his brother’s refusal to heed his counsel, retorted, “The late king did so only out of necessity—when supplies ran low or there were too few to guard the captives. Never did he kill for amusement.”

Murong Shao argued, “What difference is there? Killing one or a hundred is still killing. Sacking one city or a hundred is still sacking. It’s just the pot calling the kettle black—what’s the point in fussing over details?”

Murong Kai, exasperated, was seized by another fit of coughing. Gasping, he said, “Since you say so, then answer me—how can you, as deputy general, barge into the command tent drunk in the middle of the night without announcing yourself?”

Murong Shao replied, “I was worried about your health, brother. In my opinion, you’re burdened by empty fame, always thinking about being a ‘scholar-general,’ about ‘self-cultivation,’ about leaving a good name for posterity. Chasing after reputation only wears a man out and makes him ill. In my view, war is war—winning is what matters. Scholar-generals and self-cultivation are for the bookish and the scholars.”

“Look at the Heavenly King of Great Qin, Fu Jian. He conquered Yan, pacified Shu, destroyed Dai and swallowed up Liang—peerless in his time. Yet his compassion and love for reputation led to his downfall—his kingdom lost and his life ended in disgrace, a laughingstock for all. I don’t usually dare say such things, but tonight I speak plainly. I only fear honest words fall on deaf ears, brother.”

He Yu couldn’t help but find it amusing: “The elder brother instructs, but it’s the younger brother who lectures him in return. Murong Shao is arrogant and foolish, though his twisted logic holds a grain of sense. He’s certainly not fit to be a great general. If Murong Ke could see this, he’d be turning in his grave. Let’s see how Murong Kai responds.”

He heard Murong Kai strike his bed in anger. “Murong Shao, are you trying to drive me to my death? You’re utterly unreasonable. Guards… quickly…”

But before he could finish, he collapsed, his throat rasping, breath barely hanging on.

Murong Shao leaned over, calling softly, “Brother, brother, what’s wrong? Say something! Please, just say something!” There was no trace of fear in his voice—rather a note of schadenfreude.

He Yu guessed, “Murong Kai must have disciplined Murong Shao harshly in the past, so his brother resents him, even wishing him dead.”

The woman in red asked gently, “Prince Chenliu, should I call for the imperial physician?”

Murong Shao replied, “Prince Taiyuan is gravely ill—he can’t endure the disturbance. Best let him be.”

Suddenly, he grinned slyly, “Do you know why I came here so late?” The woman shook her head, “I do not. Did you come to visit Prince Taiyuan?”

“Ah, not at all. Life and death are fate’s affair—no one can intervene. To be frank, I came for the beauty!” With that, Murong Shao lecherously seized her delicate hand.

She struggled a little but could not free herself, then pointed at Murong Kai on the bed, “But Prince Taiyuan…”

Murong Shao glanced at the bed and laughed, “Prince Taiyuan is asleep. I’ve been longing for you night and day—I can’t wait any longer…” In his drunken lust, he pulled her into his arms, eager to carry her away. Seeing Murong Kai motionless, the woman ceased to resist, letting Murong Shao carry her off.

He Yu cursed inwardly, “This peerless beauty is Murong Kai’s concubine—by rights, Murong Shao’s sister-in-law. His elder brother isn’t even dead, yet he blatantly steals his brother’s wife—he’s worse than an animal.” Fearing Murong Shao might escape, He Yu decided to act.

He yanked the curtain aside and leapt out, sword in hand. Murong Shao, lost in his debauchery, was startled out of his wits by the sudden appearance of a living man, nearly collapsing on the spot. His grip loosened and the woman in red fell to the ground.

“Murong Shao, your death is at hand!” He Yu shouted, thrusting Jueque straight at Murong Shao’s throat.

Startled by the ferocity of the attack, Murong Shao instinctively dodged to the side, grabbing the woman in red and hurling her at He Yu. In his panic and desperation, he flung her bodily towards the sword.

He Yu’s hand grew instantly slick with blood as the sword pierced the woman’s chest; she gave a slight struggle, then died. He Yu tried to withdraw his blade, but in his haste it would not come free. Desperate, he grabbed a porcelain bowl and smashed it over Murong Shao’s head, shattering it and leaving Murong Shao bleeding.

With a wail, Murong Shao ducked and darted out through the very slit He Yu had made earlier. By sheer luck, he found the way out and escaped. Outside the tent were armored guards—his escape would turn the tables, putting He Yu at a disadvantage.

He Yu, stunned by the failed attack, kicked the woman’s body off his sword and rushed to Murong Kai’s bedside, ready to finish the job. But Murong Kai’s mouth hung open, eyes bulging—he was already dead.

With Murong Kai gone, there was no need to strike again.

Suddenly, alarms blared outside the tent, soldiers shouting, “Assassin! Catch the assassin!” With Murong Kai’s fate uncertain, the guards dared not shoot arrows into the command tent.

He Yu thought quickly, “The assassination has failed—this is no place to linger. I have to escape.”

Grabbing a brush from the desk, he hastily wrote on the tent: “He Yu of Jinling shall kill all Murongs.” Finishing, he slashed the tent open with his sword and dashed out.

No sooner had he emerged than a blade whistled toward his neck. He Yu parried with Jueque and counterattacked, hearing a scream as a guard fell dead.

He dared not tarry—dropping to the ground, he rolled beneath a wagon. Spears rained down, pounding the wood above him, sending dust cascading down.

The night was dark and the wind fierce, visibility low. Bows and crossbows were unwieldy in such conditions—heavy spears were the weapon of choice for night battles.

He Yu was secretly alarmed: “Murong Shao had barely escaped when, in the blink of an eye, spears were already flying—these Later Yan soldiers are well-trained and quick to react. Had I hesitated a moment, I’d have been skewered.”

As torches closed in, He Yu crawled swiftly beneath the wagons, only to be blocked by another tent at the end of the line. Without hesitation, he slashed the tent open and slipped inside.

Within, the light was bright and the furnishings much like Murong Kai’s quarters. A man in his forties was donning armor—pale-faced with a fine beard, long brows and slender eyes, a prominent nose and wide mouth, tall and imposing, with arms so long they nearly reached his knees.

He Yu quickly deduced, “This is my other enemy, Prince Zhao, Murong Lin.” After searching high and low, he had stumbled upon him by chance.

Delighted, He Yu shouted, “Murong Shao, let’s see where you’ll run!”

The man started, instinctively replying, “I am not Murong Shao—I am Prince Zhao, Murong Lin…” Realizing something was wrong, he fell silent, drew his saber, and attacked.

Murong Lin did not recognize He Yu, nor know his prowess. Confident in his martial skill, he saw no reason to flee.

So it was Murong Lin!

He Yu leveled Jueque and met the attack head-on—a ringing clash resounded as Murong Lin’s saber was thrown high, tearing his palm, though the blade did not break.

Remembering his earlier mistake, He Yu had put his full strength into the strike, yet Jueque could not sever Murong Lin’s weapon, nor knock it from his grasp. Clearly, Murong Lin’s saber was no ordinary steel, and his own martial skill was exceptional.