Chapter 1

Zhang Min felt certain he couldn’t get away this time.

He had been thinking simply before: the Yellow Turban rebels had already been put down this year; even if there were still roving bandits, the area under the emperor’s control would be safe. So although there was an official post-station where he could rest, he stubbornly insisted on traveling at night through the Stone-Gate Gully and only stopping at the ferry crossing.

His reason was simple enough. The post-station was only twenty li from Luoyang, and many traveling merchants stopped there, so the inns did a brisk trade and charged high rates. For his three or four servants, lodging alone would cost at least two or three hundred coins.

Besides, the spring equinox had passed and the days were growing longer — what sense was there in checking into an inn at the mid-afternoon hour just to grab a bite?

If he could endure two more hours of hardship and reach the ferry and its camp, the escort duty would be finished. The medicinal herbs he was carrying were destined for Zhu Jun in Henan; the ferry would have military officers to receive the goods. All he needed was an extra torch on the road, and at the ferry he could spend a few dozen coins to buy the soldiers two bowls of wine, secure an empty tent in the camp, sleep his fill, and even save the fodder for the two donkeys. What could be better?

But those daydreams dissolved instantly now and turned into unending regret.

The bandits across from them were not many. In the wavering torchlight on the mountain track he could just make out three men in ragged clothes, each holding a saber with a ringed hilt.

The weather was no longer bitterly cold, yet in the flickering light he could still see that the men’s blackened hands were covered with scars and frostbite.

Both sides of the Stone-Gate Gully were strewn with broken rocks and barren hills; people rarely passed here. Even if he shouted for help now, no one would hear.

Still, in chaotic times people were forced into banditry; these men might not necessarily want to take their lives.

For the moment, the only tactic was to beg for mercy and see what happened.

“Sirs, sirs — the donkey cart is heavy and clumsy; it cannot bear being driven on like this,” he hurriedly pleaded. “If you want money, I have some to spare. Why not take the cash and be on your way?”

The bandits exchanged glances. “What have you got on that cart?” one asked.

There was a great epidemic now; these medicines were hotly sought after. If they were lost here, the authorities would make him make good the loss with his own family’s property.

This load of herbs was worth at least ten thousand coins. Even if it didn’t utterly ruin his family, it would be a crippling blow.

Zhang Min’s face still throbbed with pain, but he knew he couldn’t afford to lie. Forcing a smile, he answered honestly.

“Some ephedra, capillaris, pulsatilla root…”

Sure enough, the leader’s expression changed. “Medicinal herbs? You’re hauling medicine, and still dared to travel at night?”

“The officials were pressing me hard,” Zhang Min replied. In the firelight their faces weren’t entirely clear, but he knew well enough what sort of words would please them. “I had no choice… how could I dare disobey the orders?”

His tone, full of pleading and grievance, made the three men fall silent for a moment before one finally spoke.

“In that case, hand over a few thousand coins, along with all your provisions.”

A few thousand coins was no small amount. Although Zhang Min’s heart ached, he still felt relief. At least the cartload of medicine was spared.

More importantly, their lives were spared as well.

Acting quickly, he fetched flatbread and dried meat from the cart, along with a skin of cheap wine, and offered them. As expected, the leader uncorked the wineskin, sniffed it, and even let out a laugh.

“The gentleman is clever.”

Of course he was clever — with both fortune and life on the line, how could he afford not to be?

He handed over five thousand coins and even threw in a few bags of herbs, finally coaxing the men into preparing to leave. But just as things seemed settled, an unexpected mishap occurred.

It was all thanks to his dull-witted servant. Unable to bear seeing his master spend so much, the boy muttered softly under his breath:

“These are Governor Zhu’s military supplies — how dare they be so brazen!”

The leader of the bandits caught the words. His steps halted. Slowly, he turned back.

“Which Governor Zhu?”

Zhang Min frantically waved his hand to silence the servant, but the latter clearly didn’t understand the gesture.

He even seemed to think that invoking the name of such a great figure would frighten the bandits into returning the thousands of coins.

“Of course—Governor Zhu Jun!”

……………………

In these times, countless warlords claimed to be suppressors of rebellion. But of those who fought the Yellow Turbans and never once lost a battle, only two generals stood out: Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun. At Changshe, they had cut down tens of thousands of Yellow Turban rebels, earning the title “renowned throughout the realm.”

—Yet that reputation meant something only to the gentry and scholars.

The torchlight flickered along the desolate mountain path, casting shifting shadows over the bandits’ faces.

The leader glanced at his two companions, then reached into his tunic.

He drew out a filthy, tattered strip of yellow cloth—its color still faintly visible.

The other two did the same, tying yellow scarves around their heads.

…Disaster!

“You should know,” the Yellow Turban leader stepped forward and said coldly, “it isn’t that we meant to go so far—but you brought death upon yourselves!”

On the eastern road of Guangyang Gate, this petty functionary, known among his neighbors for his eagerness to help others, saw the ferocious expressions before him and realized there was no escaping death today.

As the Yellow Turban rebels advanced with ring-hilt sabers in hand, he should have turned and fled. But his mind went blank, his legs turned to water. He had no strength to run—he couldn’t even think about how his wife and children would live on after him.

When the first Yellow Turban rushing at him was pierced through by an arrow, Zhang Min had no idea what had just happened.

He only followed the bandit’s collapsing body downward, his own knees buckling as he dropped to the ground.

But the two remaining Yellow Turbans were clearly men long used to licking blood from the blade’s edge, seasoned and experienced. With a few shouted cries, they immediately tossed down their torches and bolted into the roadside undergrowth.

So much time had been wasted on the road that dusk was already falling. In such deepening gloom, unless one was a battle-hardened warrior of the great clans accustomed to blood and war, ordinary folk could scarcely make out anything in the night.

Thus, under the hook of the crescent moon and the vast darkness, once the bandits cast away their torches, Zhang Min could no longer track them at all.

But the unseen archer clearly could.

The insects had not yet begun to sing; only the terrified shivering of a few men broke the silence. Then—before they could even rise to their feet—came the shrill whistling of arrows, two or three in succession tearing through the air just above their heads!

From the thicket came several dull thuds, as though heavy bodies had fallen.

By ordinary reasoning, such a marksman—able to see clearly in the dead of night—had to be some great hero. How could such a man take interest in two mere carts of common medicine? But Zhang Min’s mind was blank; he flattened himself against the ground, not daring to move. Only when the figure stepped from the trees into the reach of the firelight did he finally dare to lift his head.

It was a very young man, no more than seventeen or eighteen. He wore a plain short tunic, his hair bound with a strip of coarse hemp cloth. Aside from the finely made bow he carried in his hand and the ring-hilt saber at his waist, there wasn’t a single ornament on him—not a jade pendant, not a perfumed sachet, nothing of value at all.

His looks were ordinary, unremarkable. His clothing was rough and poor. But judging from that archery alone—and the keen sight that pierced the darkness—Zhang Min could never believe he was a man of humble birth.

When the youth drew closer, the petty official noticed that he bore something on his back: a long object wrapped in black cloth and tied fast with hemp rope, over five feet in length, one end broad—about a foot wide—the other tapering to a blade-like point.

Of course, now was no time for detailed inspection. Zhang Min scrambled up in haste, hurried forward, and dropped to his knees in a bow.

“Benefactor!”

“This cart,” the youth asked, “what’s inside?”

His voice was hoarse, harsh and grating like sand scraping against stone, as though he had shouted far too long and now could barely force out sound.

Zhang Min hastily smiled to placate him. “Some ephedra, capillaris, pulsatilla root…”

“What things?” the youth pressed.

Realizing that the youth didn’t recognize the names of the herbs, Zhang Min hurried to explain,
“They’re just medicinal plants.”

Although he had never witnessed true battlefields drenched in blood, he still had some small ability to read people. From the youth’s expression and tone, he could tell this was not a bloodthirsty killer. Thus, he became cautious and calculating, trying in every way to protect his cart of herbs.

The youth seemed to have no interest in the medicine. He bent down, picked up one of the bandits’ ring-hilt sabers, and then began to search the corpse over and over.

But these were Yellow Turban outlaws—desperate poor men with no hope of survival. How could they have carried any spare wealth? And if it was money he wanted, wasn’t the cart of medicine right there for the taking?

All the youth found was another ring-hilt saber. Yet he showed no disappointment, straightened up, and walked into the brush to rummage further.

Zhang Min looked on speechlessly as he went through the other Yellow Turban corpses.

In the end, the youth had gathered two ring-hilt sabers, a spear, and two badly damaged short blades—along with the bag of wuzhu coins the bandits had taken.

Carrying this pile of items, he came back and stood before Zhang Min, first handing him the money.

Zhang Min froze, too stunned to react. The youth frowned, shoved the coin pouch directly into his arms.

“Do you take these iron weapons?” he asked.

…Zhang Min still couldn’t react. He truly couldn’t process it.

Neither could his servants.

They all stared blankly at the youth and the dirty weapons in Zhang Min’s arms.

If the boy needed money, why hadn’t he simply kept that bag of coins?

With archery like his, who would dare demand anything of him?

At last Zhang Min spoke up:
“This money can serve as a token of gratitude—to repay Benefactor’s great kindness. What do you say?”

The youth stared at him for a while.

He seemed to want to reach out and take the pouch of coins, but in the end he restrained the urge.

“Do you take these iron weapons?”

……………………

Benefactor’s way of thinking was truly unusual. Still, Zhang Min quickly nodded.
“Yes, yes, I’ll take them.”

“What price?”

I don’t know, Zhang Min thought. In fact, he did know roughly what such things were worth, but he couldn’t imagine what use he would have for them, nor at what price he ought to buy them.

Yet since this youth had saved his life, and clearly had no designs on the cart of medicine, why not simply give him the pouch of money as thanks?

“…How about five thousand coins?”

The youth glanced at the weapons in his arms, then back at him.
“For this pile of broken scrap, why would you offer five thousand coins? What sort of man are you, that someone would entrust you with work?”

…Zhang Min began to suspect this youth was from some great aristocratic family, cast out purely because of that mouth of his.

For he spoke in a manner so irritating it was unbearable.

And Zhang Min had never in his life heard a voice more unpleasant than this youth’s.

The young man’s surname was Lu. By his own account, he was merely a hunter. His hometown had been destroyed by the Yellow Turbans, and he had drifted here in hardship. He lived in a hut deep within the Stone-Gate Gully, surviving by hunting and now and then ambushing bandits to trade for a little salt and rice.

When speaking of his past, the youth always paused in awkward places, making it obvious that every word was a lie—but this only strengthened Zhang Min’s suspicion.

He must be the young son of some noble family, whose household had been destroyed in the Yellow Turban chaos, reduced now to such a state.

When asked his name, the youth hesitated for a moment, as if thinking, then said:
“Lu Xianyu (Salted Fish).”

……………………He must have misheard.

“Xuan Yu (Hanging Fish)?”

The story of Yang Xingzu of Mount Tai, who once hung up a fish to refuse a bribe, was a celebrated tale of integrity. And Qingzhou had suffered the Yellow Turban rebellion most severely. This youth must surely have come from Qingzhou!

“Mm.” The youth froze for a moment, then shifted his gaze aside. “Xuan Yu.”

Having asked his name and place of origin, seeing that he was still so young and living alone in the desolate mountains, Zhang Min couldn’t help but feel pity for him.

As the two talked on, though the youth still addressed him formally as “you,” Zhang Min quietly changed how he addressed him.

“Why trouble yourself so, worthy younger brother? Why not live where people dwell?”

The youth thought for a moment. “I don’t know how to farm.”

“With your skills, younger brother, surely you could find a better post?”

The youth’s eyes—cold as ice water—fixed on him. “What kind of post?”

“For example… serving in the army for the country?”

He shook his head. “I’m not suited to the ranks.”

“Then… if you were to enter the service of some lord, with archery like yours you would certainly be valued highly.”

The youth thought for a while, then shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m timid. I couldn’t handle that kind of work.”

…What kind of reasoning was that?

Could it be that with such skill in arms, he was all the more afraid of dying?

But Zhang Min had his own calculations. He still had two more months of service, hauling medicine to the ferry. Who could guarantee there wouldn’t be more trouble along the road? If he could win this youth over—whether as a close friend or simply a neighbor he could call on—it would be of great help.

So he absolutely could not just let him walk away. Zhang Min thought it over. There was, in fact, one job—dirty and tiring, and to aristocrats it might sound menial—but the wages were reliable, with extra allowances besides. For ordinary commoners, it was actually a fine opportunity.

“Well then,” he said carefully, watching the youth’s expression, “I have an old acquaintance inside Guangyang Gate, on East Fourth Street. He runs a butcher’s shop. They slaughter pigs and sell meat every day, and he’s in need of a strong arm to help.”

Truth be told, with Benefactor’s archery, if he enlisted—even without dreaming of a marquisate—at the very least he’d be assured a post as a standard-bearer. And if he could just fix that unbearable way of speaking… he might even become a commander someday! Why on earth would he need to work as a butcher’s hand, chasing pigs all day—

The youth’s eyes lit up. “That’ll do!”

…So that was all Benefactor aspired to. Zhang Min finally understood.