Chapter Three: The Brave and Foolish Young Man

At dawn, the Chizhu tribe was reduced to ashes. All the gold and silver that could be found was taken, and the women and children became spoils of war—slaves.

When Bu Jingxian returned, he startled Baixing so much that the man nearly leapt out of his skin. He was covered in blood from head to toe. The two sisters accompanied him to the Long River, where it took them a full hour and a half to wash the blood and grime from his armor and hair.

At the same time, the state of Chu finally sent troops into Chen. Although this provoked loud condemnation and curses from the other powers, only the state of Qi, to the west of Chen, sent troops to assist—just fifty thousand men. Yan’s army of one hundred thousand besieged Chu for a month without capturing a single city or fort. The state of Wei, separated from Chu by Yan and now embroiled in battle with Zheng, had no forces to spare for assistance.

After years of peace, the world was thrown into ever greater turmoil by the rise of the Black Wolf Army and Chu’s campaign against Chen. Chen lost three cities in quick succession and, in desperation, withheld rations from the Black Wolf Army, demanding they join the fight against Chu or else receive no more supplies. The Black Wolf Army was caught in a dilemma; despite fierce fighting with Zheng’s forces, they feared losing their supply lines and could not sustain a drawn-out war. Reluctantly, they diverted two hundred thousand troops south to aid Chen, momentarily halting Chu’s advance but overextending themselves along multiple battlefronts.

Knowing the Black Wolf Army’s weakness, Chu held back its attacks after the reinforcements arrived, waiting for the Black Wolf Army to be forced to withdraw. For two months, the Black Wolf Army negotiated with Chen and finally secured rations. As soon as the supplies were delivered, they immediately dispatched a hundred and fifty thousand troops to reinforce other fronts.

Chu instantly escalated its assault. Seeing that the Black Wolf Army was unreliable, Chen had no choice but to beg Qi for more troops, promising generous rewards. Only then did Qi agree to send another two hundred thousand men. By then, Chu had already captured two more of Chen’s major cities. Qi had no wish to bleed itself dry fighting Chu and was content merely to help Chen hold on to its remaining territory, refusing to retake lost ground despite Chen’s repeated pleas.

All the martial sects of the various states had thrown themselves into the conflict—leading charges, assassinating enemy generals. Only martial masters could counter other martial masters. The disciples of the Flying Immortal Sect of Zheng poured out in force, leading the martial sects of Zheng to resist their enemies from all four states. For a time, heroes flourished in every land: prodigies capable of defeating a thousand men, even ten thousand, shone like new stars.

In a world once too peaceful for warriors to make a living, martial practitioners now multiplied. Many reclusive masters, unable to resist the urge to test their skills, returned to the world, and more newcomers set out to seek their fortunes across the warring states.

The Black Wolf tribe suffered greatly at the hands of the martial masters led by the Flying Immortal Sect of Zheng. Bitter from defeat, they began to invite martial experts to join them, offering high bounties to attract the world’s finest. Yet, as a barbarian land, they were looked down upon by the great sects; those who came were mostly wandering swordsmen, with hardly a true master from any renowned school among them.

The chieftain of the Black Wolf tribe, Darobi, personally went to the front lines to command the war. Yet, despite his efforts, the attacks yielded no victories worth celebrating.

Each day, he was consumed with worry and anxiety.

Once again, he went to the front to observe the fighting. He watched the soldiers atop the Zheng city walls, each brimming with fighting spirit, showing no sign of weariness. When he thought of the growing dissatisfaction and opposition among the internal tribes at the endless casualties without results, his headache only worsened. The five princes at his side each offered comfort, except for Shaoyuan, the big-nosed, dark-faced one, who never said such things.

After Shaoyuan was brought back to the Black Wolf tribe, Darobi had pinned high hopes on him, thinking he might have learned some formidable skills. But when his men sparred with Shaoyuan, he only made a fool of himself with his clumsy moves. Aside from brute strength, he knew not a single advanced technique from the martial sects!

Darobi was bitterly disappointed and wished to send him away to fend for himself, but in the end, for the sake of Shaoyuan’s late mother, he kept him, though paid him little heed.

At the start of the war, Darobi entrusted command to his three most capable sons, but within three months, all were assassinated by the Flying Immortal Sect’s masters. In grief, Darobi led the tribe’s top fighter, Ka’er, personally to the battlefield, bringing along his other sons. It would have been unfair to leave Shaoyuan behind, so he counted on him to kill a few enemies with his brute strength, thinking that even a mere foot soldier was better than a useless fool.

Along the way, Darobi realized Shaoyuan truly was a dullard and lost interest in him, scarcely exchanging a word.

Shaoyuan followed obediently every day, with neither the intention to curry favor nor to win his father’s affection. He ate when others ate, walked when others walked, drank when others drank. Now fully grown, his siblings, though they looked down on him, no longer bullied him as they did in childhood—at most, they mocked or ridiculed him from time to time.

This time, Shaoyuan accompanied Darobi to inspect Zheng’s defenses at the front. While the other brothers each offered their opinions, Shaoyuan remained silent.

Suddenly, the gates of Zheng’s city burst open, and a cavalry force charged out, shouting to capture Darobi, the enemy chief.

They quickly turned their horses to retreat, only to find their path blocked by a group of Zheng martial practitioners. It was night, and Darobi had never expected to be recognized by Zheng’s forces. With Ka’er off on another front, panic set in. His sons fought valiantly, but fortunately the martial practitioners were not especially formidable; after a brief clash, reinforcements arrived and surrounded them.

Just as they thought they were safe, Zheng’s cavalry swept through the ranks of Black Wolf soldiers like a scythe through grass, surrounding Darobi and his party. The Black Wolf troops fought desperately to break the encirclement but could not; only then did they realize the cavalry were disguised martial practitioners from Zheng!

Darobi was no stranger to battle. Sword in hand, he fought bravely. In the chaos, his sons were scattered, but what angered him most was seeing one son slip away with the rescuing troops, caring nothing for his father—hoping, Darobi realized, for his death so as to inherit his position.

All the cavalry targeted Darobi, and with more and more Zheng soldiers pouring from the city gates, he had no choice but to abandon his reinforcements and flee. As he glanced back, he saw that foolish son, Shaoyuan, sticking close to him, swinging an iron club and sending seven or eight pursuers flying.

“Stay close! We’ll circle back that way,” he shouted.

But Shaoyuan replied, “That’s the main road. If the pursuers charge, I won’t be able to hold them off and Father won’t escape. If we keep running forward, there’s a gorge—I can block them there while you return to camp for reinforcements.”

Darobi was taken aback, surprised that this dull boy had the courage to risk his life to cover his father’s retreat. In that moment, he felt that the money spent sending him to North Spirit Mountain had not been wasted. If nothing else, at least the boy was filial.

“Good,” Darobi said, casting a glance at his clumsy son, who only turned to fend off the pursuers. For the first time, he was moved, thinking that had he known of Shaoyuan’s loyalty and filial piety, he would never have treated him so coldly in the past. Even if he was useless, so long as he was filial, he was still Darobi’s son. And Darobi feared not the burden of one more son!

But before they reached the gorge, a group of infantry poured out to block the wide path. Hearing the shouts of battle, Shaoyuan rushed ahead to help. When he saw his father’s horse stabbed to death, he leapt off his own, broke through the Zheng soldiers, and shielded Darobi with his own body against the swarm of enemies.

Darobi saw spears and swords raining down on Shaoyuan and swung his weapon to defend him, but the enemy was too many, and the cavalry—being martial practitioners—were exceptionally strong. He couldn’t block all seven swords. He thought Shaoyuan would be wounded for sure but, to his astonishment, the blades and spears struck Shaoyuan’s neck and shoulders without drawing a single drop of blood.

Shaoyuan paid it no mind, bracing himself against swords and spears, then gave a mighty push—before him, dozens of soldiers toppled like cut wheat.

“Father, go now!” he shouted, grabbing Darobi’s arm and running, glancing back for pursuers.

The two ran all the way to the gorge, where Shaoyuan planted himself at the entrance.

“Father, go call for reinforcements. I’ll hold them here!”

Amazed by his son’s strength and resilience, Darobi couldn’t help but ask, “When did you master the impenetrable body of steel and stone?”

“I don’t know,” Shaoyuan replied. “Maybe their strikes are just too weak, or their blades are dull.” As he spoke, the Zheng soldiers caught up. Shaoyuan, alone, braced against their combined assault, and with another surge of strength, sent dozens of men tumbling back.