At the sight of Hàn Sān Zhōu’s brazenness, Yēfú Zhī’s smile contorted almost beyond recognition.

He truly had not anticipated it — that this bandit had grown so audacious as to believe he was in a position to bargain with the Black Martial Khagan.

So this time, Yēfú Zhī didn’t even bother to respond. He turned and walked out amid peals of laughter.

“Wait.”

Hàn Sān Zhōu pointed at Yēfú Zhī.

“You think you can just walk out of here?”

Yēfú Zhī looked back at him. “You think you can keep me?”

Hàn Sān Zhōu smiled. “You know why they call me *Hàn Sān Zhōu*? Because within three prefectures, I am unmatched.”

He took a step forward.

Yēfú Zhī laughed. “Have you heard of the Black Martial Sword Sect?”

Hàn Sān Zhōu said, “Heard of it. Never seen it.”

He held Yēfú Zhī’s gaze. “Since you clearly cannot make the decision yourself, stay here for now. Send your men back and tell them to bring someone who can.”

As he spoke, he reached out to grab Yēfú Zhī by the shoulder.

*Shhhhk.*

The broad sword strapped to Yēfú Zhī’s back flew free in an instant, slashing toward Hàn Sān Zhōu’s neck.

This was no defensive move — it was an attempt to kill.

Black Martial people had always been supremely arrogant. Those of noble blood from the Eight Ghost Moon Tribes most of all. In their eyes, Central Plains people were little more than two-legged livestock — and these Northern Desert outlaws were livestock that even their own masters didn’t want.

When Hàn Sān Zhōu had shown such insolence earlier, Yēfú Zhī had already made up his mind to kill him. The only reason he hadn’t acted then was the unease of being in enemy territory.

Kuòkě Dí Yèlán’s orders had been clear: use the bandits if they could be used, and if not, do not allow them to become an obstacle to the Black Martial army’s southward march.

Yēfú Zhī had held back, intending to withdraw and summon Black Martial border cavalry to wipe out this bandit gang.

He acted now because Hàn Sān Zhōu had pushed too far.

Sword Masters of the Black Martial Sword Sect were renowned for the broad sword — a heavy, massive blade that ordinary men could not even lift, let alone wield.

The Sword Sect disciples had their own distinctive blade technique — a method that was truly extraordinary.

The slash came down, and Yēfú Zhī’s calculation was that Hàn Sān Zhōu would step back. The moment he retreated, Yēfú Zhī had the follow-up ready: using the sword’s heavy momentum to swing himself outward, then driving a kick into Hàn Sān Zhōu’s neck.

A technique like that — almost no Central Plains martial artist would have ever seen it. Very few could hope to counter it.

But in the next breath, a sharp clang rang out midway through the swing.

The broad sword, halfway through its arc, was caught mid-air. Hàn Sān Zhōu’s palm had risen to meet it — and in the instant before the blade reached his hand, five fingers closed around the flat of the blade. The edge had stopped a chopstick’s width from his palm.

And there it stopped. The sword might as well have been cast in stone, frozen in mid-air.

Yēfú Zhī’s expression changed violently. He immediately yanked to pull the sword back — and found it hadn’t moved a hair.

In the next moment, Yēfú Zhī swung a kick into Hàn Sān Zhōu’s chest. Hàn Sān Zhōu stood exactly where he was, let it land, and took the blow full on his sternum.

A dull *thud* rang out. Hàn Sān Zhōu’s body swayed back perhaps an inch — and then Yēfú Zhī was thrown backward, driven away by the recoil of his own impact.

After that, the feeling in Yēfú Zhī’s leg was a deep, spreading numbness — a sign of how much force he had put into that kick, and how much of it had been thrown right back at him.

Yēfú Zhī was no Grand Sword Master, but he held the rank of Sword Master — this was not a defeat he could simply accept.

He charged back in at once, leaving the ground with both feet, driving both kicks simultaneously into Hàn Sān Zhōu’s chest.

But this charge wasn’t really meant to hurt Hàn Sān Zhōu — it was to recover the sword.

After that first kick, Yēfú Zhī had already worked it out: what Hàn Sān Zhōu practiced was almost certainly the technique spoken of in legend — the Iron Jacket.

As a disciple of the Sword Sect, they might look down on Central Plains people, but they did not look down on Central Plains martial arts. Inside the Sword Sect there was a classified record of Central Plains martial techniques — and the Iron Jacket was described in its pages.

According to legend, when this technique was trained to its peak, the practitioner’s body became as hard as rock. An ordinary sword or blade, even if it landed, could barely leave a mark.

To break the Iron Jacket, there were only two approaches: a divine weapon, or the technique’s single known vulnerability.

Yēfú Zhī understood that to win, he needed the sword back. Without it, breaking through this monstrous defense was impossible.

So the double-footed charge was a feint. As his feet touched Hàn Sān Zhōu’s chest, he crouched on him and grabbed the sword hilt with both hands.

Then his feet drove hard against the chest — trying to wrench the broad sword free.

It was utterly useless.

Hàn Sān Zhōu let him drive against his chest, let him grab the hilt and pull with all his strength. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even bother reacting — just watched, a slight smirk on his face.

The result: Hàn Sān Zhōu was a statue. And Yēfú Zhī, unable to retrieve the sword, ended up hanging there like a paper lantern.

Hàn Sān Zhōu released his grip. Yēfú Zhī dropped — and because he hadn’t expected the release, he couldn’t hold onto the sword. He hit the ground, and the broad sword hit the ground beside him.

“I said…”

Hàn Sān Zhōu looked down at Yēfú Zhī sprawled at his feet. “When I said I was unmatched within three prefectures — you thought I was boasting?”

He straightened up, still looking down. “Go back. Take my meaning to your Khagan. If he is willing to enfeoff me as a King, I will lead the Blood Floating Tower as your vanguard. If he is unwilling — well, after you return, you can go ahead and send your Black Martial border cavalry to come for us.”

He pointed outward.

Outside stood a very tall, thick flagpole. Atop it flew a great black banner with three blood-red characters: *Xuè Fú Tú* — Blood Floating Tower.

Yēfú Zhī’s expression was at its darkest. By now he understood exactly how fearsome this man was, this outlaw he had held in contempt.

He even felt that this man could stand level with the Grand Sword Masters of the Sword Sect.

Such talent — and yet he had ended up an outlaw in the Northern Desert. One could only say that Central Plains people truly were poor at making use of the people they had.

In Black Martial, a person of such cultivation would have been taken in by the Sword Sect. And if the Sword Sect could not take him in, the Sword Sect would have him killed.

“Go,” Hàn Sān Zhōu said, waving a casual hand, then turned and walked back to his seat.

Having been so thoroughly humiliated, yet with no recourse, Yēfú Zhī could only rise, retrieve his broad sword, and stride out with a face like iron.

Xiāo Tíng hurried after him, walking alongside him, nodding and smiling and saying something all the way out.

But Yēfú Zhī wanted only to leave — to be out from under the mocking eyes of these bandits — and paid Xiāo Tíng’s words no mind.

After Yēfú Zhī was gone, Xiāo Tíng turned back into the wooden hall and looked at Hàn Sān Zhōu, sighing.

“General, what was the point of that? Humiliating the Black Martial man so — it’s not likely we’ll see any benefit from them now.”

At that, Hàn Sān Zhōu couldn’t help but laugh.

“Strategist Xiāo, I won’t claim to outthink you on most things — but when it comes to understanding the Black Martial people, I know them better.”

Hàn Sān Zhōu sat down and reached for the leather wine flask, unstopped it, tilted his head back, and poured a long glugging stream.

The wine was the steppe’s fermented mare’s milk — mild enough at first, the kind that could fool you. It was because of that mildness that it was so deceptive. The drink had a fierce delayed kick. A normal man, convinced at first it wasn’t strong enough, would drink more — and before long it would go to his head, leaving him with a splitting headache into the next day.

But Hàn Sān Zhōu drank it like water — because he never drank water. To him, wine was water.

The flask was large, easily holding five jin. He tilted his head back in one long go and emptied half of it.

“Strategist Xiāo,” Hàn Sān Zhōu said, wiping the corner of his mouth. “These Black Martial people have always respected power above all else. If you can’t show them what you’re worth, it doesn’t matter how fine your words are — they’re worthless. What I did just now was simply make sure they could see what I can do. It wasn’t humiliation.”

He laughed. “You know me better than anyone. If I’d actually wanted to humiliate him — would he have walked out of here in one piece?”

Xiāo Tíng sighed. “Even so, it’s hard to say. The Black Martial people have always been proud beyond measure. He’ll go back stinging from what happened — and if he adds a few flourishes in the telling…”

Before he could finish, Hàn Sān Zhōu was already laughing. “If he adds flourishes in the telling, the Black Martial people will want me even more. Gain one man like me — a man who could lift an enemy general’s head in the thick of ten thousand troops — and they’d think it more than worth it.”

Hàn Sān Zhōu fell quiet for a moment, and something cold and fierce flashed across his eyes.

“Ten years ago, I had no choice but to leave the Central Plains and take up banditry here. It may look like freedom, like no one dares to cross me — but that humiliation has never left me. I will go back. I will always go back.”

Hàn Sān Zhōu lifted the flask and tilted his head again, draining the rest of it in one go.

“The man who shamed me — I will repay him ten times over.”

He set the flask down and rose to his feet. “Drank some wine, body’s warm. Come on, let’s go bag a few yellow deer and roast them.”

He strode out without looking back.

Xiāo Tíng watched that broad retreating figure and let out another sigh. He had nothing left to say, so he quickened his pace and followed.

Walking, he turned it over in his mind: if they truly managed to ride Black Martial power back into the Central Plains, then this general of his, who had swallowed his bitterness for ten years — would he become a beast let loose from its cage?

Hàn Sān Zhōu… back in the day, he had truly shaken the martial world of three entire prefectures.

—

As for Yēfú Zhī — humiliated, his chest packed tight as a mountain of stone, he seethed the whole way. Yet he was not a man without composure.

By the halfway point of the return journey, he had changed his mind.

He had started out intending to go back, request Kuòkě Dí Yèlán’s permission, and send border cavalry to annihilate this gang of bandits root and branch.

But now he was thinking: a man of such fierce and exceptional power — if he could truly be made to serve the Black Martial side, would that not be a magnificent thing?

In the secret letter Yuán Zhēn had sent back to the Black Martial Khagan, he had written about the Níng army’s generals — how more than a few of them had the courage and strength to stand against ten thousand men alone.

He had named several: Tang Pǐdí, Dàntái Yājìng, Xiàhóu Zhuó, and others…

Yēfú Zhī thought: if Hàn Sān Zhōu could be sent against these Níng army generals, whatever the outcome, not a drop of Black Martial blood would be spilled.

With that thought settled, he urged his horse to a gallop, rushing back to seek an audience with Kuòkě Dí Yèlán.

—