Huduo had a deep contempt for Han Feibao. In his eyes, every person from the Central Plains was a two-legged sheep.

And what of Han Feibao? He was nothing but a puppet two-legged sheep chosen by the Black Wu Empire.

It was an innate disdain — and not one directed only at Central Plains people. As far as Black Wu warriors were concerned, everyone outside their own pureblooded Ghost Moon Eight Tribes was a lesser being. They had even gone so far as to classify the lesser peoples into multiple sub-tiers of inferiority.

Han Feibao’s behavior had now enraged Huduo. Yuan Zhen, his expression cold, drove Huduo away.

“My lord, Huduo is only eager to distinguish himself,” Yuan Zhen said in his most placid voice, offering a word or two of mediation. But Han Feibao’s expression did not soften in the slightest.

“There is one thing you all need to make clear,” Han Feibao said. “When I agreed to this cooperation, I meant *cooperation* — not my surrender to the Black Wu, not my acceptance of their commands, and certainly not any tolerance for Black Wu insolence here.”

Those words left even Yuan Zhen’s expression slightly sour, though his composure ran deeper than his pride. After all, he was not a pureblooded Black Wu man himself. Had he received enough respect within the empire, he would have been holding court in the Black Wu capital right now — not here in the wilderness, liable to be cut down at any moment.

“My lord, nothing like this will happen again,” Yuan Zhen said, swallowing his resentment and ire, and bowing his head in apology.

“You.”

Han Feibao turned to look at the young boy bound to the tree.

“I’ll have someone untie you shortly. Go home.”

The boy was covered in wounds, yet showed not a shred of fear. His eyes were still clear — and through that clarity, the hatred burning in them was plain for all to see.

That hatred sent a chill crawling up Han Feibao’s spine. For just a fleeting instant, he felt the urge to take back his own words.

He knew this look too well.

Back in the northwest, after he had killed his foster father and seized control of the Yong Province army by force — in those days, the old generals of the Yong army had looked at him with exactly this same expression.

So he had killed every last one of them. Not a single one left.

People are complicated creatures, yet there are precious few things a person truly cannot forget no matter how hard they try. Love is one. Hatred is another.

But Han Feibao had already spoken his words, and he had shown his strong side in front of Yuan Zhen. To take them back now would give Yuan Zhen cause for contempt. So Han Feibao resolved to appear merciful, and said to the boy, “If you can’t walk on your own, I can have someone carry you home.”

His men came forward and loosened the ropes binding the boy. The boy could no longer hold himself up. He dropped to the ground with a thud.

He looked at his mother. He raised his arm and stretched it toward her corpse, trembling, yet his voice was utterly calm: “My home is right there.”

Han Feibao let out a short grunt. A sudden feeling of disgust welled up inside him — not only toward this boy, whom he had just magnanimously spared, but toward the hollow mercy he himself had released in that moment.

*Mercy?*

He sighed inwardly. *Back in the northwest — when did I ever show mercy?*

So he let the killing intent take root.

He turned to Yuan Zhen and said, “Whoever brought him here can send him back. But there’s one thing that must be done right: this child cannot be allowed to reveal our army’s whereabouts.”

Yuan Zhen was a sharp man. He understood Han Feibao’s meaning at once.

He looked over at Huduo, who had stepped to one side: “You captured him, so you send him back. Remember what my lord has instructed.”

The corner of Huduo’s mouth curled into a cold smile — directed at the boy, and at Han Feibao alike.

Huduo stepped forward and hauled the boy up by the collar. The boy wrenched himself free with everything he had left.

He breathed — deep, ragged breaths, again and again. He was drawing on his last reserves of strength, building it up through the only means still available to him.

Then he crawled to his mother’s side, and through clenched teeth, enduring the agony, he gathered her body into his arms and stood.

That act earned nothing from Huduo but another cold laugh.

To Huduo’s mind, there was nothing here worth feeling. It was like slaughtering a ewe back in Black Wu territory to get meat, then watching the lamb lie down beside its mother’s carcass.

What was there to care about? People were born to eat sheep. Sheep were born to be eaten.

The boy’s body bore the heavy welts of a severe flogging, yet he bit down on his teeth and forced every last bit of strength from his frame. He held his mother’s body and walked, one step at a time, toward the edge of the camp.

Huduo followed leisurely behind with his men. He was in no hurry, because Yuan Zhen’s eyes had told him: give Han Feibao at least the appearance of face.

Han Feibao had ordered the boy released, so he couldn’t be killed inside the camp, nor beaten again. But once they were out of the camp, in the darkness that swallowed the open land — where couldn’t a boy be put to death?

When they had gone far enough, Huduo glanced back. Han Feibao had already turned and walked away.

So the smile on Huduo’s face shifted — no longer a cold sneer, but a savage grin.

He caught up to the boy and drove a kick into his back from behind, sending him sprawling.

“Look at you, so careless — you’ve gone and dropped your ewe… oh, my mistake, your *mother*.”

Huduo laughed. In the moonlight, he saw the hatred flare in the boy’s eyes as he looked back.

He didn’t care. This boy’s life would be dealt with by his own hand shortly. Not now — he hadn’t finished having his fun.

The boy gasped, looked down at himself. His bare chest was a ruin of wounds and dried blood. With great effort he pulled his torn clothes back over his body. He didn’t want his blood to stain his mother’s face.

Teeth clenched, the boy lifted her into his arms again and walked on.

“You’re too slow,” Huduo said, strolling along behind him. “At this pace, your mother’s body will have gone cold and stiff by the time you get anywhere — hard as stone. The stray dogs won’t want her.”

The boy turned to look at Huduo again. Huduo smiled pleasantly. “But I could find you a good stray dog before your own body cools down.”

The boy stopped looking at him and walked on with resolute steps.

“I’m a kind-hearted soul,” Huduo said. “You’re hurt and moving so slowly — it’ll exhaust you to carry her all the way. Let me have the horse help transport the body.”

Before the boy could resist, Huduo kicked him down again. He waved a hand to his men, had a horse led over. “Tie the body to the horse. Give him a hand.”

His Black Wu soldiers laughed along. One of them pinned the boy to the ground while another lashed his mother’s corpse to the horse’s back.

Then the soldier mounted, gave the horse a sharp crack of the whip, and the horse screamed with the sting of it and bolted across the open field, dragging the body behind it.

Huduo turned to the boy with a grin. “Now your mother is faster than you. You’ll need to run to keep up — go on, chase her. Otherwise you’ll be bringing her back to you piece by piece, and you might not even get a full set.”

The boy got up and chased after the horse, running in a lurching, stumbling sprint, pitching forward onto the ground only to scramble back up and keep running.

The Black Wu soldier whooped and howled with laughter, driving the horse on ahead. When the gap grew too wide, he’d pull the horse up and wait. The moment the boy nearly reached the body, he’d spur the horse forward again.

—

Somewhere in the darkness.

A Ning Army scout gritted his teeth and looked at his squad leader. “I’m going. If I die, help me deliver the bereavement to my family — make sure it gets to my mother.”

He was already rising from the grass, but his squad leader had moved first.

He was the squad leader, and every soldier who wore Ning Army colors knew: the only privilege that came with higher rank was to charge first into danger and retreat last.

The squad leader rose to his feet. In the moonlight, he raised his repeating crossbow and fired shot after shot at the Black Wu soldier on horseback.

The soldier had not expected an ambush this close to camp and was completely off his guard. He took several bolts in quick succession and toppled from the saddle.

The squad leader rushed forward, crossbow in his left hand, right hand drawing his dagger, and in an instant severed the ropes binding the body.

He turned to find two of his scouts already sprinting toward the boy.

The two scouts grabbed the boy and helped him away, falling back.

But Huduo had already reacted.

“Insolent dogs!”

Huduo exploded with fury and swung his crossbow up, firing at the three figures.

One scout glanced back, then grabbed the boy and placed him on his comrade’s back. “Go!”

Then he turned his own body between the boy, his comrade, and the enemy.

The battered boy lay across the scout’s back, looking behind him. He saw that young soldier — barely older than himself — spread his arms wide, shielding him with his body as best he could.

“Don’t worry about me…” the boy tried to call out. But where did he find the breath?

The young scout, in that moment, even turned back and smiled at him. “It’s alright. We’ll get you out of here.”

But behind him, the bolts came — one after another after another, each one finding its mark.

After seven or eight hits, the young scout’s legs finally gave out. He went down.

The boy called out in a ragged voice, struggling, desperate to go back and save the one who had fallen for his sake.

And in that moment, he saw a powerful figure come crashing through.

The squad leader reached them, hoisted his wounded comrade onto his back, and ran hard.

Ahead, another scout used his crossbow to return fire, keeping Huduo’s bolts at bay long enough to cover them.

A fifth scout bent down and shouldered the boy’s mother’s body.

Four men, three of them carrying someone — and the last scout fell in at the rear without hesitation.

The boy felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. He bit through his lip to keep from losing consciousness.

The moonlight wasn’t bright, but he forced himself to use whatever pale light it gave him to memorize every face.

*They are immortals.*

*They are immortals who can die.*

By now Huduo had reached a full-blooded fury. He sent a man running back to call for reinforcements while he himself mounted up and gave chase.

The Ning Army scouts had hidden their horses in a dry ditch some distance away — they hadn’t dared ride in too close — so the horses were at least two li away from them now.

And death was less than two li away.

Huduo drove his horse forward in pursuit, loading new bolts into his crossbow as he rode.

The running figures ahead were, to his eyes, nothing but prey.

—