Volume One: Flames of War at the Border Chapter Fifty-Three: Encounters in Unexpected Places

Murong Lin’s arm was numb and weak; he knew he had encountered a formidable enemy. Cunning and clever, he understood that brute force would not win, so he circled around tables and beds with He Yu, all the while shouting loudly for help.

He Yu, frantic with urgency, could not overtake Murong Lin in the chaos; he could only hack wildly, chopping apart all the furniture in the tent.

Seeing the situation turn dire, Murong Lin spun around and sliced open the tent with his curved waist blade—its edge cold and green as water, its hilt a golden deer’s head with a ring in its mouth, exquisitely crafted—and prepared to flee. He Yu’s heart stirred: “Could this be the legendary Deer-Slaying Blade, the national treasure of the Murong clan of the Xianbei?”

Murong Lin was nearly gone when He Yu summoned his inner strength and lunged, thrusting his sword straight at Murong Lin’s back. The blow was like thunder, and He Yu fully expected to take Murong Lin’s life with it. Yet, when the tip struck, it failed to penetrate. Murong Lin’s cloak split, revealing a suit of dark, gleaming armor beneath—armor of unknown make, capable of withstanding the thunderous strike of the mighty sword.

Though the blade did not pierce, its force was transmitted through the armor; Murong Lin’s throat grew sweet, and he spat blood, terrified, his soul nearly fleeing his body. Wailing like a ghost, he ran circles around the tent, spraying blood as he vanished into the darkness, relying on his familiarity with the terrain. He Yu, missing his mark, chased closely behind.

Once Murong Lin escaped, the camp’s guards had no further hesitation; arrows and spears flew, and in moments heavily armored soldiers with long shields and spears surrounded He Yu like a wall of stone.

He Yu was alarmed; it was too late to dive beneath the carts, so he darted about the camp like a headless fly. He cursed inwardly: “My cover is blown, enemy forces are gathering; if I do not escape now, I’ll soon have no grave to be buried in.”

Dodging left and right, He Yu ended up at the grain store. In a moment of desperation, he grabbed a torch and set a pile of fodder alight. This grain had been stolen from Chen’s stronghold, not yet transported away, and tonight the southeastern wind was fierce. The fire caught the wind and spread rapidly.

He Yu shouted, “White nomads are killing! The white nomads are killing—wake up, run for your lives!”

The laborers sprang up in terror, fleeing in all directions, some cunning enough to set more fires as they ran to further distract the enemy. In the blink of an eye, flames shot skyward, burning out of control.

Bang—bang bang—bang—

Gongs sounded throughout the camp, and a herald waved his flag, shouting, “All units hold position! Archers ready! Shoot anyone who moves without permission!”

The command was absolute. Bowstrings twanged, cries of pain rang out, and many laborers and soldiers of Later Yan fell under the arrows as they raced through the fire, while the rest stood frozen, not daring to move.

He Yu had hoped to use the chaos of the fire to slip away, but the Later Yan army was strict and disciplined, responding swiftly and methodically; for the moment, no one dared act rashly. Yet with the fire raging, it was clear the assassin could not be caught—the priority was now to fight the flames.

If He Yu did not leave now, when would he? Seizing the opportunity, he crouched and slipped beneath a large cart, orienting himself and crawling forward.

He crawled past dozens of carts until he reached an open expanse, beyond which lay the boundary of the camp. The carts encircled the tents but did not connect directly to the outer perimeter; regardless of direction, escaping meant crossing a stretch of open ground.

He Yu regretted bitterly: “I was too careless, thinking only of how to infiltrate for the assassination, not how to escape. In two hours, dawn will break and I’ll be a living target—what now?”

Trapped, he could only await his fate. With no better plan, he resolved to risk everything. Emerging from beneath the cart, he crept toward the open ground.

He had barely taken thirty steps when a night sentry shouted, “Password?”

He Yu had no idea what the password was, so he mumbled something, feigning calm and continuing forward.

“Password?” The sentry barked again, this time harsher.

He Yu repeated his trick, muttering a vague reply and quickening his pace, hoping to bluff a few more steps and then suddenly dash forward, risking everything on a single charge.

Just as he moved, a gong sounded from ahead, arrows whistled through the air, and countless feathered shafts flew toward him. He Yu cursed inwardly, dodging to the side, careless of any traps or snares in his panic.

“The assassin is here—catch the assassin!”

“Catch the assassin! Catch the assassin!”

Amid the clangor of drums and gongs, armored soldiers began to encircle him. Murong Kai’s forces were well led; his men responded to threats without panic, each holding their post and guarding the passages. Once the enemy was spotted, they doggedly pursued, making escape impossible.

He Yu had already suffered earlier, and only escaped thanks to the fire. Now, surrounded again, he had no fire to rely on.

He frantically ran between tents, desperate, when suddenly pain shot through his feet. He staggered, then pain struck again in his other foot. He reached down and discovered both soles pierced by iron caltrops. These caltrops, forged of fine steel, each had four sharp spikes of varying lengths, always with one pointing upward—perfect for setting obstacles.

He Yu nearly despaired, his feet too painful to walk. Nearby, he saw a large tent surrounded by carts; guards were positioned further away, fewer than at Murong Kai’s quarters.

He Yu thought, “This tent is odd—not likely a common soldier’s quarters. In my dire situation, I’ll seize a hostage first.”

With this in mind, he pressed himself to the ground and carefully crawled around the caltrops toward the tent.

Outside the tent, He Yu used his sword to cut a slit and slipped inside. There he found a single lamp glowing, curtains hanging low, an ornate carved bed against the wall. The furnishings were exquisite, with carpets on the floor and an indescribable fragrance in the air. It was clearly not a man’s quarters, more like a lady’s boudoir.

“Could it be the families of Murong Kai, Murong Lin, or Murong Shao?”

“Murong Kai is strict—he would never bring family into the camp.”

“Or perhaps abducted women serving as camp prostitutes—Xianbei armies are known for kidnapping civilians?”

“No, the tent’s furnishings are finer even than Murong Kai’s; abducted women would not receive such treatment.”

He Yu was still pondering when he heard soldiers outside shouting, “The assassin clearly ran this way—how could he have vanished?”

“He can’t have gone far—keep searching!”

“King Zhao’s orders: If the assassin is found, kill immediately—no prisoners!”

He Yu cursed inwardly, “Murong Lin has wised up—knowing live capture is difficult, he’s after my head. I’ll take a hostage first.”

He scrambled toward the bed and saw a pair of delicate embroidered shoes—clearly a woman’s. He Yu was stunned, uncertain what to do next.

Just then, the silk curtains stirred, and a face of breathtaking beauty appeared.

He Yu had no time to think; he thrust his sword forward, laying it across the young woman’s fair neck.

“Don’t move!”

“Ah—!”

“Murong Shanshan!”

“He Yu!”

“How could it be you?”

“How did you come here?”

Both spoke at once, then realized the truth together.

Murong Shanshan was the Princess of Later Yan; her presence in the army was perfectly normal.

As Murong Shanshan was a woman, her guards could not be stationed too close, remaining outside the circle of carts. Murong Kai’s guards, by contrast, were posted just inside the carts, close to the main tent. The number of guards was not fewer, but the radius larger and the spacing wider.

He Yu thought, “If not for this, I would never have had a chance to approach the main tent.”

Murong Shanshan sat upright on the bed, a glass lotus lamp at her bedside, reading a book.

Ancient Chinese glass was rare; this lamp was crystal-clear and exquisite, and only the royal family could obtain such a piece.

Tonight, Murong Shanshan was dressed in palace attire, her black hair cascading over her shoulders, clothed in moon-white robes with wide sleeves and a broad collar revealing a stretch of snowy skin. Her brows were unpainted yet dark, her face unpowdered yet pale, her lips pressed like cherries, long lashes fluttering, eyes like spring water, her beauty glowing softly.

Murong Shanshan lowered her brows and smiled lightly, “He Yu, have you looked enough yet?” Her jade neck flushed, shy beyond measure.

“Ah, yes, enough—no, not enough... I…” He Yu’s handsome face reddened, his words tangled, thinking, “He Yu, you lose your composure every time you see a beauty—last time with Tuoba Yan, too. Shameful.”

Murong Shanshan, suppressing a smile, said, “So He Yu, are you holding your sword to kill me?”

“Ah, no… no…” He Yu hurriedly withdrew his sword, sheathing it, and bowed, “There is Shanshan in the south, gentle and fragrant; Your Highness’s peerless beauty is awe-inspiring. Forgive my offense.”

Murong Shanshan, accustomed to flustered admirers, was still pleased by He Yu’s words, smiling, “It’s nothing. I just learned about the incident at Chen’s stronghold, but even if I had known earlier… I…” She faltered, unable to find the right words, her lovely eyes glancing nervously at He Yu.

She was the beloved only daughter of Murong De, Prince of Fanyang, pillar of Later Yan, rarely leaving the palace. This time, visiting her cousin Murong Kai, she finally had an opportunity to venture out—and met He Yu, to whom she was immediately drawn, caring deeply about his feelings.

He Yu replied calmly, “Even if you had known about Chen’s stronghold in advance, it would not have changed anything, so you need not blame yourself. I do not hold it against you.”

Murong Shanshan sighed, “At least I would have tried to warn you sooner… We are friends at first meeting; calling me ‘Your Highness’ is too formal. Just call me Shanshan.”

He Yu considered, then responded, “If so, let me call you Lady Murong.”

Murong Shanshan nodded, brushing aside her hair, then noticed the caltrops in He Yu’s feet and exclaimed, “He Yu, how did you get hurt? Come sit here!” She patted the bed, her concern evident.

He Yu’s sword-brows knit as he spoke frankly, “The pursuers are fierce; escape is difficult. I meant to seize a hostage, but found you instead. This place is not safe for me to linger. I must take my leave.”

He paused, then continued, “Should I meet misfortune tonight, I beg you to send word to my mentor Ran Yu at Lianyun Fortress.” With that, he turned to go.

Just then, voices sounded outside, “Ninth Sister, are you resting? There’s an assassin near your tent—I’ve come to check.”

Whip cracks followed, soldiers’ cries, and Murong Shao’s loud scolding, “Useless dogs! Only a few of you guarding the princess’s tent—how can I feel secure? Pass the order, add more men immediately!”

Armor clashed, the sound of heavy guards gathering. He Yu heard Murong Shao’s voice and his hair stood on end; he drew his sword, ready to fight his way out.

In his panic, a soft, warm little hand reached out and gently took his right hand, pulling him toward the bed.