Chapter Fifty-One: The Goddess of Archery

Everyone looked intently and saw that the newcomer was none other than “Little Lü Bu,” Lü Yingbu. His group was a cavalry unit that hadn’t joined the assault on the mountain earlier. When they noticed the bandits were in disarray during the morning’s battle at the third pass, and none of the leaders came out to fight as expected, they immediately realized what had happened and set off in what seemed the most likely direction to pursue.

Not only was it him—several other groups had also caught on swiftly and were searching in various directions. Lü Yingbu was simply lucky enough to find them first.

“Half the spoils!” Yang Chengxian, having just stepped back from the fighting, bargained with Lü Yingbu, “Seventy-thirty in my favor. If you don’t like it, forget it!”

“Heh, without us you’d never have won! We’re helping you out here; splitting it half and half is only fair!” Lü Yingbu replied, certain he had the upper hand.

Did he really think he had the upper hand? Yang Chengxian sneered coldly, “Half and half? Don’t even think about it. Seventy-thirty, take it or leave it. If you don’t agree, I’ll pull my men back right now and let you fight!”

“So you’re hoping to let us exhaust each other and swoop in for the easy pickings?” Lü Yingbu hadn’t expected such bluntness, thinking Yang Chengxian intended to profit as a bystander.

“You’ve got it all wrong!” Yang Chengxian declared righteously. “My brothers are in pursuit of Sima Wang. I don’t know how things stand with them, but for me, their safety is far more important than dealing with these bandits!”

“If you really want to do this, it’s seventy-thirty. We’ll cut the knot quickly so I can go look for my brothers. If you don’t agree, I’ll step aside right now and you can take over, while I go after them!” Yang Chengxian said impatiently.

Lü Yingbu regarded him for a full three seconds, saw his calm, unwavering expression, then noticed the bandits veering off the main road, heading up the mountain. On the spot, he made his decision: “Fine, seventy-thirty! Let’s do it!”

He had no choice. If Yang Chengxian really withdrew, there was no way Lü Yingbu could handle the bandits alone—he’d end up with nothing. Seventy-thirty was still a good profit.

...

The two forces joined, attacking the bandits together, and the tide turned.

“Come on, let’s fight again! Let’s see who’s stronger—Zhang Fei or Lü Bu!” Lü Yingbu shouted at Zhang Yongping, whose arm was already soaked with blood from an arrow wound.

“Bah!” spat Zhang Yongping in contempt, utterly despising Lü Yingbu’s character.

Lü Yingbu was mounted; Zhang was not. Lü Yingbu was unhurt and full of energy, while Zhang was wounded and weary from battle. Yet Lü Yingbu showed no shame, swinging his mighty halberd in a dazzling display of thrusts, slashes, and sweeps. Zhang Yongping did his best to fend him off, but before long, blood from his left shoulder wound had dyed his whole left side red.

His situation was dire—Qiu Shenyang, the “Ghost Axe,” was in even greater danger. Up against the combined swords of Yang Chengxian and Cheng Boxi, he stood little chance, and now Yang Debiao had joined the fray!

If Yang Chengxian and Cheng Boxi pressed their attack openly, their lack of experience still gave Qiu Shenyang a fighting chance. But Yang Debiao was nothing if not cunning and vicious, harrying Qiu Shenyang with every dirty trick—aiming for eyes, hacking at his head, hooking at his backside—making Qiu’s ordeal almost indescribable.

The one faring best was “God of Strength” Tian Shi, but even he had his hands full. His opponent, “King of Soldiers” Yang Deyong, was wielding his staff with all his might, advancing and retreating with precise discipline, his killing technique impenetrable. For all Tian Shi’s strength, he couldn’t break through in a hurry.

After all, Yang Deyong was a true centurion—no small post in early Tang times, and well earned. That a bandit chief could stand against him spoke volumes of his own strength.

Elsewhere, the household guards, Lü Yingbu’s cavalry, and the bandits were locked in a chaotic melee. With the advantage of mounted troops working in concert with the foot soldiers, the attackers pressed on relentlessly, and the bandits began to buckle.

...

Feng Xiaobao was in hot pursuit of Sima Wang. Sima Wang loosed arrow after arrow, but each time, Feng Xiaobao either blocked or dodged—none found their mark.

Such skill impressed even Sima Wang! Since mastering the bow, he’d encountered few who could evade his arrows; this opponent, with his sharp eyes and swift hands, calmly fended off every shot.

But Sima Wang was no fraud, and though Feng Xiaobao looked relaxed, he was on high alert. This was a two-stone war bow—powerful and fast—one careless move, and he’d be shot. This was no game!

Neither man left the road, instead racing along the old Yellow River course. On one side, the mighty river thundered, its roar raising a mist, even painting rainbows along the banks—a breathtaking scene, but neither was in the mood for beauty. They were locked in a deadly struggle.

Both were highly trained, running at breakneck speed, and for now, Feng Xiaobao couldn’t catch up.

Gradually, more travelers appeared along the road, watching Feng Xiaobao and Sima Wang in amazement. Most were wise enough not to approach or ask questions.

This was for the best. Two reckless wanderers did step forward, but before they could speak, Sima Wang shot them dead!

They were no match for him—killing them was as easy as turning a hand.

Feng Xiaobao kept up the chase, growing anxious. He was formidable, but Sima Wang was no pushover either. After half an hour’s run, Sima Wang still showed little fatigue, and Feng’s arm still ached from blocking an earlier arrow.

A long pursuit meant a likely escape. If Sima Wang got away, Feng would have earned himself a deadly enemy—a master archer who could shoot him from the shadows at any moment. The thought alone made his scalp prickle.

Just then, the sound of hoofbeats arose—a single rider approached like the wind, mounted on a rare rouge-red horse.

A rouge horse—as the name suggests, a crimson steed, famed in ancient times and bred in the Western Regions. Lü Bu himself rode one—his Red Hare, the Rouge Horse—its coat blazing like fire from head to tail, not a single stray hair, ten feet long, eight feet tall, roaring as if it could leap into the sea.

The horse before them now, even if not the Red Hare itself, was still a creature of extraordinary spirit. Feng Xiaobao, who knew a thing or two about horses, could tell at a glance that this animal was superb—sleek, graceful, running as if cushioned by air, beyond compare, likely worth three to five thousand strings of cash at auction! (Feng’s own horse had only cost a mere one hundred and fifty.)

The horse bore a female rider, who swept past Feng Xiaobao like a whirlwind. “What a horse!” he exclaimed.

He admired both horse and rider. The woman was dressed as a knight, her face half-hidden beneath a hat, her riding attire accentuating her alluring form as she galloped by, leaving behind a captivating silhouette that made Feng Xiaobao’s heart race.

But what stunned him most was when she nocked an arrow on horseback, her posture graceful and heroic, and loosed a shaft at Sima Wang!

Sima Wang’s scalp prickled—a deadly threat had locked onto him.

Without thinking, he spun around and shot back!

The woman fired at the same time. Both arrows screamed through the air, colliding mid-flight!

Again they drew. Both shot a second time—and again, the arrows clashed and fell, neither gaining the upper hand. Clearly, their bows were evenly matched.

Feng Xiaobao was dumbfounded! Arrows meeting in midair was a rare feat, yet here it happened as if it were as common as cabbages in the market.

Realizing his opponent was a master archer, Sima Wang let out a shout, summoned his full strength, and fired a powerful shot!

The woman replied in kind—their arrows met again. This time, an astonishing scene unfolded.

The woman’s arrowhead was evidently superior. The two arrows collided with great force, and her shaft split Sima Wang’s arrow clean in two. His arrow halves fell, while hers continued on, only embedding itself in the ground some distance further.

Feng Xiaobao’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Was this for real? If he hadn’t seen it himself, he’d never believe it—such odds were astronomical.

Sima Wang’s heart sank.

He had encountered a formidable foe.

The woman didn’t pause. She urged her horse forward, shooting arrow after arrow at Sima Wang.

Sima Wang was undaunted, returning fire as best he could.

Feng Xiaobao watched, dazzled by the spectacle—a contest of archery at its highest level: shooting from both sides, twisting in the saddle, firing back-handed, loosing strings of arrows in quick succession, and employing techniques he couldn’t even name. Both archers displayed the full range of their art.

This time, there were no more mid-air collisions; instead, they dodged each other’s shots, seeking any opening to strike. Arrows whistled back and forth, the air filled with a constant, piercing hiss.

Suddenly—

Sima Wang faltered and stopped.

He had run out of arrows—his quiver was empty! He’d brought five quivers that day (ten arrows each), and had he been mounted, he’d have carried twice as many. Feng Xiaobao’s pursuit had already cost him nearly a full quiver.

Forty left, but his opponent was mounted… On horseback, one carried ten quivers as standard; so did she.

Sensing the pressure lift, the woman wasted no time and unleashed her ultimate technique.

She nocked three arrows at once, forming a triangle, and loosed them in a single volley!

Sima Wang drew his protective knife, twisted his body, and slashed with lightning speed, deflecting all three arrows in the blink of an eye.

But another three arrows followed!

Sima Wang parried them again with the same quickness.

Then another three!

This time, they came staggered. As Sima Wang braced himself to block, the last arrow, shot with greater force, overtook the first two—clearly, the third was the strongest and fastest.

Sima Wang’s concentration wavered. While he had seemed to parry the earlier volleys with ease, the truth was, he’d already exhausted his strength, as if he’d fought a grueling battle. These arrows were no mere playthings!

Now, caught off guard, he could only raise his knife to defend.

The first arrow—the strongest—he barely managed to block, its force nearly overwhelming him. With what little strength remained, he deflected the second, but the third arrow was unstoppable.

A black shaft struck him squarely in the chest!

From the side, Feng Xiaobao saw it all as if the world had slowed to a standstill, reminiscent of those moments in films when the hero is wounded—was Sima Wang, perhaps, the story’s protagonist?

But the river flowed on, the mountains could not hold, and the Yellow River rolled eastward—all returned to normal.

Sima Wang fell backward, his eyes perhaps glimpsing the many innocents who’d died by his arrows.

He had lived and killed by the bow; how many had perished at his hand? In the end, his fate was to die by the arrow—retribution, fitting and inescapable.

Watching Sima Wang, Feng Xiaobao sighed, “How needless it all was.”

For reasons he couldn’t name, Feng Xiaobao felt a pang of sympathy—like the fox mourning the rabbit.

Those who swim best drown in water; those who play with fire are burned. Such is life’s immutable truth.

Feng Xiaobao asked himself, “The road to the throne is paved with bones, filled with resentment and heavy karma.”

“Perhaps I should do good with one hand, and evil with the other!” he mused silently.

Suddenly, he felt a chill—he saw the female archer, who had just slain Sima Wang, now aiming her bow at him!

Could it be—?