Three days after leaving the village, the landscape had grown increasingly unlike anything near Jizhou. Lady Xiahou Yili told them that just ahead lay the inland grasslands.

When the Great Dachu had first been established, the Chu armies had been invincible, and the northern nomadic peoples had been brought to submission. A mountain range had bisected the steppe like a knife, and the inland grasslands were as if a single piece had been cut from the whole of the great prairie.

The grasslands stretched for several hundred *li*. The tribe that dwelt there was called the Nalan.

Over several centuries of separation, the same concepts were now rendered with slightly different pronunciations between the people of the outer steppe and those of the inner steppe.

Originally, the tribes of the steppe had all called the sun “Nalan.” As time passed and division deepened, customs had diverged: the outer steppe had come to call the sun “Nara,” while the inner steppe tribes retained the older usage. This tribe therefore called themselves the Nalan — Children of the Sun.

Lady Xiahou Yili explained that the Nalan grassland herders maintained a fierce wariness, particularly toward the Han people of the Central Plains. They paid their annual taxes on schedule, but beyond that, Central Plains people were forbidden from entering the grasslands.

Entry was treated as invasion. Death was certain.

How this had come to be was no longer possible to trace — most likely they had been badly wronged in the distant past, for in the earliest days they had been known for their warmth and hospitality.

Local officials understood the danger perfectly well. Since the annual levies from the grasslands arrived reliably, the authorities had learned not to ask questions about anything else. The local government maintained a policy of mutual non-interference with the grassland people. Not one official in robes would dare to enter the grasslands casually — in other places, those robes were symbols of power and authority; on the Nalan grasslands, they meant absolutely nothing.

An ordinary Central Plains commoner who wandered in would likely receive a beating and be thrown out. An official who strolled in uninvited should not expect to leave alive — their body wouldn’t even be found.

Even merchant caravans permitted by the Nalan could only enter during a specific window each month; outside that window, no one could approach freely. Approved merchants were kept under close watch for the duration of their visit.

After hearing all this from Lady Xiahou Yili, Li Chi issued strict orders: no one was to enter the grasslands, not even one step.

The Nalan were said to number in the hundreds of thousands. If things went wrong, their two hundred-odd soldiers would not amount to a mouthful for the Nalan cavalry.

As they neared the Nalan grasslands, they again made camp outside a small village. The sky was high and clear, and the temperature was noticeably cooler than in Jizhou.

Jizhou was already beginning to turn muggy with summer’s approach, but here the mornings and evenings still held a genuine chill. The difference went further than that: in the height of summer in Jizhou, even standing in shade offered little relief — the wind itself was dry and scorching. But here, though the sun blazed, the moment you stepped into shadow the breeze that passed over you was cool and refreshing.

That day, Dantai Yajing again sought out Tang Pidi for a bout.

The first time they had fought for twenty breaths — Dantai Yajing had assessed Tang Pidi at seven parts force. The second time for over a quarter-hour — he had assessed eight parts. He knew then that he could eventually defeat this opponent.

The third time, they had not yet reached a quarter-hour when Dantai Yajing called it off — he now assessed nine parts force, which told him the day of Tang Pidi’s defeat might not be far off.

After making camp, Tang Pidi came to find Li Chi.

The two of them stood looking toward the distant grasslands. Tang Pidi said, “The Nalan grasslands hold several hundred thousand herders — fierce fighters, and the local officials don’t dare provoke them. No one knows how many battle-ready soldiers the Nalan can field, or how many horses they have available. If we could establish contact with the Nalan, we might be able to buy horses from them.”

Li Chi said, “Lady Xiahou Yili was very clear — the Nalan permit no Chu people near them. Whether that risk is worth taking…” He glanced back. Lady Xiahou was helping with the tent-raising in the distance. He shook his head. “I don’t want Godmother to come to any harm.”

Tang Pidi nodded. “Then we’ll leave it for later. Remember this place. Next time, I’ll come on my own.”

Li Chi agreed.

Just then, Dantai Yajing appeared again — barely half an hour since the last bout — and his expression was one of settled certainty.

“Tang Pidi!” he called. “I’ve worked out how to break your fist technique. Come — let’s settle this.”

Li Chi smiled at Tang Pidi. “How long do you intend to keep toying with him?”

“It isn’t entirely teasing,” Tang Pidi said. “His martial skill is genuinely formidable — probably comparable to yours.”

Li Chi: “…”

Tang Pidi walked up to Dantai Yajing, smiled, and asked, “Why this sudden confidence? We only just fought.”

Dantai Yajing laughed. “Every time we spar, you’ve been applying more force — just now you were almost at your limit. I’ve been thinking it through, and I believe I can now beat you. Once I do, I can return to Liangzhou. These lands you people haunt are bleak and miserable — poor and broken-down, not a patch on Liangzhou.”

“If you believe you can beat me,” Tang Pidi said, “then by all means, let’s go again.”

This time the bout lasted even less than the third. The second had gone for over a quarter-hour; the third had taken roughly two-thirds of that time; this one lasted barely half a quarter-hour.

Dantai Yajing had entered with perfect confidence — and emerged without a single opening.

“How is this possible?”

He stared at Tang Pidi. “You were clearly nearly at your limit.”

Tang Pidi exhaled softly. “From first bout to last, I’ve always fought at seven parts force. You perceived the force growing greater and greater — but as for why, have you not yet worked it out yourself?”

Dantai Yajing’s expression changed abruptly. He understood — or rather, had been made to understand.

Tang Pidi’s seven parts of force had grown.

First bout: Tang Pidi at seven parts, Dantai Yajing at eight — he had thought himself capable of continuing. Second bout: Tang Pidi at eight parts, Dantai Yajing at eight — still thought himself capable. Third bout: Tang Pidi at nine parts, Dantai Yajing at eight and a half — victory seemed within reach.

Just now he had brought his full ten parts to bear — only to find that Tang Pidi was still at seven. But that seven parts now matched his ten.

The color drained from Dantai Yajing’s face. In that moment, something crystallized in him — the meaning of the name Tang Pidi.

*Pidi: a match for all under heaven.*

*Every hero in the world, he can match.*

Tang Pidi spoke without inflection. “You may return to Liangzhou now. You cannot beat me.”

Dantai Yajing was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “I will not leave without a victory.”

“As you like,” Tang Pidi said without concern.

He turned and walked away, speaking as he went. “In this world, there are probably many who cannot best me on a first encounter. There is no one who cannot best me on a first encounter and yet still cannot best me on a second.”

Dantai Yajing watched Tang Pidi’s receding figure, and felt all the self-assurance he had carried through years of achievement dissolve at once.

The old yellow horse offered an ill-timed snort — as if to say: *See? Your turn at last.*

Li Chi watched Tang Pidi return. “He’ll probably find life rather pointless for a while.”

Tang Pidi smiled. “He’s not the only one.”

Li Chi smiled and shook his head, thinking: *And there he goes, making himself look effortlessly formidable again.*

“Warhorses…”

Tang Pidi gazed toward the distant grasslands, and spoke as if to himself. “My wish: ten thousand elite cavalry.”

Li Chi groaned. “Do you have any idea how much that would cost?”

“Work harder,” Tang Pidi said.

Li Chi accepted this with a resigned sound. Then he exhaled and said with a rueful smile, “That’s… a lot of pressure.”

Tang Pidi thought for a moment. “South of the Nanping River there are more waterways — light, fast boats — warhorses are of limited use there. Counting only the north: if I halve my ambitions, five thousand elite cavalry would give you the entire northern frontier.”

Li Chi laughed. “Five thousand warhorses, five thousand fierce soldiers — the silver required would be several million taels at minimum.”

“Your problem,” Tang Pidi said lightly.

Li Chi nodded. “Consider it agreed.”

“How long?” Tang Pidi asked.

Li Chi thought. “Five years.”

Tang Pidi was silent for a moment, then let out a somewhat dissatisfied sigh.

Li Chi glanced sideways at him. “Five years, and I’ll already be working at full capacity.”

“Then what’s the remaining ninety parts for?”

“The remaining ninety parts,” Li Chi said, “are for looking down on you.”

Tang Pidi: “…”

Any stranger who overheard this exchange would have concluded these two young men were simply unhinged — what kind of person speaks so casually about five thousand elite cavalry, about dominating the northern frontier, as if arranging a game of house?

Just then, a plume of dust rose from deep within the grasslands. Tang Pidi saw it and his expression shifted — he turned and called out a warning. The hundred warriors immediately mounted up, unstrapped their bows, and readied themselves for battle.

The distant dust drew nearer. Sure enough: cavalry. These fierce riders of the steppe wore no unified military dress, yet their bearing required no uniforms to announce itself. They came at a gallop, overwhelming as a tide.

Several hundred riders thundered up. At their head was a young man of perhaps twenty-some years. He reined in at the edge of the grasslands and said nothing — only stared at Li Chi’s group with cold, measured eyes.

Tang Pidi murmured to Li Chi, “They’ve spotted our party and come to warn us off. As long as we don’t make any sudden moves, they won’t act first.”

As if on cue, the horseman at the front raised a hand, pointed at their group, and spoke in stilted Central Plains speech, one word at a time: “Come close — die — all die.”

Li Chi turned to Tang Pidi with perfect seriousness. “How do you say ‘do you sell horses?’ in the steppe tongue?”

Tang Pidi said: “Are you certain you want to ask that?”

“Why not?”

“Because showing interest in their horses will make you look like a thief,” Tang Pidi said. “It’s not that their wariness is unreasonable — it’s what Central Plains merchants did in the early days. They would visit the steppe pretending to be buyers, asking whether this or that was for sale, getting the herders to show them around while quietly memorizing the locations of everything. Then they’d come back in the night and steal. So if you ask whether his horses are for sale, he’ll think you have designs on them.”

Li Chi considered this. “Fair point. Five thousand horses would be very hard to steal quietly. Too much noise.”

Tang Pidi let out a short laugh. “Anything else you’d like to say to them?”

Li Chi said, “How do you say ‘get lost’?”

Tang Pidi: “…”

At that moment, the young rider at the head of the group noticed something at Tang Pidi’s waist — a small steppe knife, a gift from the chieftain of the tribe Tang Pidi had lived with for over a year in the outer steppe.

The horseman raised his hand and pointed directly at it, his tone leaving no room for interpretation: “That — give to me.”

Tang Pidi sighed. He turned to Li Chi. “What was it you just asked me?”

Li Chi: “Hm?”

Tang Pidi looked at the horseman. “Get lost.”

Li Chi: “Oh…”

—