Section Fifteen: Journey to Luoyang (Part Two)

Tang Zhiyu’s words failed to resonate; neither Guo Luquan nor One-Eyed Xu dared to agree with the evidence he presented. In their eyes, Kang Cien’s consistent politeness was nothing out of the ordinary. Rather, they felt they had misjudged him, but Tang Zhiyu, unlike the others, kept a close watch on Feng Xiaobao with the keen eyes of an archer. Through their interactions, he learned much about the young man and formed a bold conjecture…

That night passed uneventfully, disturbed only by the howls of wild wolves and the eerie screeches of night owls.

No night raid came. At that time, most of their countrymen were malnourished and many suffered from night blindness—lacking vitamins and the knowledge to remedy it, people could barely see after dusk, making night attacks unthinkable.

The next day’s journey began quietly. Around noon, two riders appeared to scout them out. Thereafter, every ten li or so, unknown men on horseback or donkeys emerged from the roadside woods, lingering around the caravan, left, right, and behind, cultivating an atmosphere of dread.

The tactic was effective; the Sogdian merchants’ caravan grew increasingly tense.

Kang Cien grew worried—his cargo was worth a fortune: gold and silver wares, gemstones, exquisite utensils. For this, he had specially hired the three wolves of the Silk Road—Guo Luquan and his men—as bodyguards, and secured the backing of a powerful underworld figure from Chang’an. Yet the cargo’s value made it a coveted prize. The predators shadowed the caravan like wolves, waiting for any opportunity to strike.

Under Guo Luquan and Tang Zhiyu’s protection, Kang Cien had even approached the shadowy figures, trying to parley, but they ignored him completely.

That night, as the caravan camped and most had fallen asleep, strange noises and the thunder of hooves repeatedly rose and fell outside the camp—spooking and harrying them all through the night.

“This is a classic war of attrition; ignore them and sleep,” Tang Zhiyu reassured Feng Xiaobao, noticing his unease.

Meanwhile, Kang Cien was already snoring thunderously in his tent, sleeping as soundly as if nothing was amiss.

He could hardly claim not to worry, but he had done all he could—now the professionals would handle the rest. He trusted the three wolves of the Silk Road; he didn’t fear they would slack off, nor did he fear collusion. After all, the Sogdians knew everything about these men. If betrayal ever occurred, there would be others to avenge him.

Others, like Daoist Xuanqing, kept to their usual routines, seemingly unfazed. Feng Xiaobao, curious, asked, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“What’s there to fear?” Daoist Xuanqing replied nonchalantly. “My master never predicted any bloodshed for me in the near future. If there were, he would have warned me.”

Honestly, your master may be remarkable, but you don’t have to mention him every other sentence.

As for Guo Luquan and his companions, they paid no mind to the ruckus outside—back in their tent, they fell asleep the moment their heads hit the pillows. It wasn’t carelessness; night battles were seldom advantageous. The camp had vigilant dogs and heavily armed sentries. Their bedding and pillows were specially designed to amplify distant sounds, allowing them to distinguish between the tread of many feet or few.

The more seasoned guards and caravan hands slept soundly, while the less experienced spent the night tossing and turning—by morning, they sported dark circles under their eyes, yawning as they packed up camp.

Among those with “panda eyes” was Feng Xiaobao, a newcomer, hardly able to adapt to such tension so quickly. Young and fond of sleep, he was exhausted, but at least he didn’t have to drive the wagons and could nap in the carriage during the day.

So the days passed in a fog of half-wakefulness. On the fourth day, shortly after setting out, the caravan came to a halt.

Feng Xiaobao forced his eyes open but didn’t see Xuanqing—his carriage was near the center of the column, right behind Kang Cien’s. By the time he sat up, Xuanqing had returned.

“What’s happened?” Feng Xiaobao asked.

“They’ve torn up the road!” Xuanqing replied with a wry smile.

“What?” Feng Xiaobao was instantly wide awake.

Someone had dug a trench across the road, blocking their path. The caravan’s hands were now busy filling it in, while Xuanqing had already gone to investigate.

“Should we help?” Feng Xiaobao hesitated.

“No need!” Xuanqing replied. “Mister Kang just apologized profusely for the delay. If we went to help, we’d probably scare him even more.”

“Mister Kang is a good man!” Feng Xiaobao said, touched.

“He is indeed,” Xuanqing thought to himself, wondering if Kang Cien had seen through something—he was being almost overly polite.

With many hands, the trench was soon filled, and the caravan moved on. Passing over the trench and maneuvering in a zigzag, they encountered another gap.

“Wow, they managed to dig two oddly-shaped trenches!” Feng Xiaobao exclaimed. One was wide on the left, narrow on the right; the other the opposite. To save time, they’d filled them just enough to get by.

Trenches, new and old, peppered the road—robbers’ favorite trick to hinder travelers, even imperial officials weren’t spared. When the emperor toured the realm, bandits wouldn’t rob, just dig trenches to disrupt the journey.

The labor of filling in the road fell to the caravan hands; the guards stood aside, knowing their turn would come soon enough.

So it went until the afternoon of the sixth day; they’d filled ten trenches that day alone.

Bumped and jostled in the carriage, Feng Xiaobao and Xuanqing finally gave up and walked beside it.

After days of labor by day and harassment by night, the caravan hands looked utterly spent.

Seeing his men so dispirited, Kang Cien pointed to a gently sloping, broad hill in the distance. “Let’s camp there early today.”

The prospect of rest cheered everyone, except Guo Luquan, whose face darkened at the sight of the terrain.

Once past the last trench, Guo Luquan ordered fifty mounted guards into a dense formation, proceeding toward the hill. Twenty more held the rear, herding the caravan’s horses into a tight group, wagons facing outward.

Kang Cien, seasoned as he was, sensed something amiss and summoned his trusted men to form a protective ring around him.

His attendants cast off their robes, revealing gleaming suits of armor and sharp weapons. Kang Cien called out, “Daoist Xuanqing! Young Master Feng! Come join us!”

“Very well!” Xuanqing replied, heading over with Feng Xiaobao.

Feng Xiaobao thought, “There are pros and cons to joining them—the defense is strongest here, but it’s also the likeliest target for the robbers’ assault.”

After joining, Kang Cien asked, “Do you need any weapons?”

Feng Xiaobao retrieved a section of a signaling staff from the weapons wagon—his family had passed down several techniques for its use.

Xuanqing took up a gleaming saber, twirling it with practiced ease.

“Aren’t monks supposed to abstain from killing?” Feng Xiaobao murmured.

“Abstain, yes—but we’re not meant to be killed, either!” Xuanqing replied. “When traveling, if we meet bandits, we resist them as anyone would.”

The robbers they were preparing to confront had already gathered behind the hill. Their leader, a pockmarked man wielding a massive saber, was Li Pockmark, one of the top bandit chiefs along this route. Hearing that Kang Cien was transporting a fortune eastward, he had gathered over a hundred desperadoes for a grand heist.

Did they need some high-minded motive? Not at all.

“Brothers! With this loot, we’ll live in comfort for three lifetimes!” Li Pockmark exhorted.

“Let’s do it!” his men roared in unison.

“Go!” Li Pockmark spurred his horse forward, over a hundred mounted bandits thundering behind him. Cresting the hill, they charged down like a silver torrent.

Brandishing sabers and a handful of heavy lances at the front, their momentum was immense.

On the surface, the robbers held the advantage—rested, with the high ground.

But Guo Luquan, One-Eyed Xu, and Tang Zhiyu had earned their keep at the edge of a blade along the Silk Road. They exchanged glances and smiled.

Tang Zhiyu acted first, unveiling his great bow—though Xiaobao didn’t recognize it, others knew it was a formidable two-stone bow.

A single stone equaled a hundred and twenty jin; a two-stone bow required over two hundred and fifty jin of draw weight—an extraordinary feat for any archer.

He nocked three arrows, barely aimed, and loosed. The bowstring thrummed and the arrows streaked out like shooting stars.

In a flash, three enemy horses screamed and crashed to the ground.

“First take the horse, then the rider”—Tang Zhiyu targeted only the mounts, boosting his hit rate.

The lead trio went down, their riders tumbling in a cloud of dust; two following riders crashed into the fallen horses, all tangled in a heap.

Tang Zhiyu didn’t pause—two more volleys, three arrows each, all hit. Nine horses fell in moments.

The robbers’ downhill charge made them perfect targets, and losing nine mounts triggered chaos—at least five or six more crashed into the pileup, horses unable to stop, men and beasts flipping down the slope. The lucky ones suffered broken heads; the unlucky, broken necks. Before the battle even began, fifteen bandits were out of the fight.

The others swerved to avoid the pileup—their formation broke, speed dropped, and their momentum faltered.

By contrast, seeing Tang Zhiyu’s easy success, the guards cheered. Guo Luquan seized his iron hammer and roared, “Kill!” leading the charge.

One-Eyed Xu was a step behind, wielding a massive saber, eyes blazing as he plunged into the fray.

Tang Zhiyu, meanwhile, put away his bow, picked up a short lance, and spurred his horse at the enemy.

Feng Xiaobao, ever bold, clambered onto the wagon roof to watch the clash.

Sabers flashed; as horses passed, a blade flicked upward—a severed arm spun into the air, blood spraying like a fountain.

Another stroke opened a gaping wound, blood arcing high before falling.

Some were less fortunate—one slash, and a head toppled to the ground.

Even more gruesome, a single blow, driven by the force of the charge, cleaved a man’s torso in two.

In a single round of engagement, over thirty riders fell.

The clang of weapons, the screams, the thud of heavy bodies—together they formed a brutal symphony of cold steel.

Life, like the morning dew, vanished in an instant.