In Bei Kuangtu’s estimation, the fact that this man had dared to charge toward him at all was something he found difficult to understand.

Where had the confidence come from?

So he paused, just briefly, and did not kill Jia Ruan immediately. He only wanted to ask one question.

“Do I have any quarrel with you?”

He asked.

The reason he asked was this: he reasoned that without the impetus of hatred, a person shouldn’t have the courage to do what this man had done.

Jia Ruan didn’t answer. At this moment, in this moment, he found himself thinking of something else entirely — that he, as it turned out, was not afraid to die.

All these years, he had believed himself a man who feared death above all else. He had played the role of someone who feared death for so long he had grown into the part — the fear had become habit, the habit had become instinct.

In this moment, he understood those who did not fear death.

Even with a hand around your throat, the next breath your last — why did people still do things that seemed foolish and unnecessary, things that might even speed your end?

Hmph.

*Ptoo.*

Jia Ruan spat directly into Bei Kuangtu’s face.

The distance was too close, and it came too suddenly. Bei Kuangtu couldn’t fully dodge; he turned his head by reflex and still caught most of it.

“Now we have a quarrel.”

Bei Kuangtu said flatly, and raised Jia Ruan with one arm — his fingers beginning to tighten.

And at that moment — Yu Jiuling arrived.

Yu Jiuling was not a gifted fighter. He knew this about himself. He had never harbored any delusion of being the kind of man who rode through ten thousand enemies without a scratch — the kind Tang Pidi was, or Li Chi, or this new acquaintance called Dantai Qi, or Xiahou Zuo, or Zhuang Wudi.

He was not that man.

He was also someone who feared death — which was why, he had come to realize, he could run so fast.

He had a sharp tongue because it was the only way he knew to make himself look strong. He simply didn’t want people to look down on him. At least he had one thing he was better at than others.

Jia Ruan was someone he’d barely met. Couldn’t even really call him a friend — the two of them had exchanged only a handful of words since meeting. It wasn’t that Yu Jiuling was the quiet type; it was that the Hanging Blade Sect’s disciples had their own circle. They joked and roughhoused among themselves, and Yu Jiuling hadn’t wanted to intrude. Forcing yourself into their banter would only be awkward. Everyone had their own buried insecurities.

But Yu Jiuling came now. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was fast — nimble enough — and through the hacking and slashing of the brigands, he slipped and dodged his way through to reach Bei Kuangtu’s horse.

No great plan. Just — save a friend.

So Yu Jiuling leapt high, both index fingers thrusting downward at Bei Kuangtu’s eyes. He had decided this was his most vicious technique.

Second option: kick him in the groin.

*Slap.*

Before his fingers could reach Bei Kuangtu’s eyes, Bei Kuangtu’s other hand came up and closed around his throat.

Then Bei Kuangtu looked at Yu Jiuling in genuine astonishment.

“And do I have a quarrel with you too?”

He asked again.

Yu Jiuling couldn’t move with a hand locked on his neck — struggling only made it worse, and he had no way to strike.

So…

Hmph.

*Ptoo.*

Bei Kuangtu’s fury exploded.

He spread both arms wide, then drove them together — ready to smash the two together.

On the hillside, Li Chi and Tang Pidi had no way to intervene. They couldn’t come down — brigands were surging up the slope in waves.

And then — Dantai Qi arrived.

He had carved through the rear of the brigand line, cutting down over a dozen men, and though his strength was nearly spent, he had punched through.

In this moment, the ordinary warhorse beneath him seemed almost to feel a kind of pride.

But as the lance tip was about to find Bei Kuangtu’s back — the tall, massive erma suddenly kicked backward.

That kick caught Dantai Qi’s horse squarely on the neck. The horse that had just barely found its pride let out a cry and pitched sideways.

In the split second before the fall, Dantai Qi vaulted clear, rolling away.

He hadn’t killed Bei Kuangtu — but the erma’s kick had also shattered Bei Kuangtu’s timing, and the two men in his grip were not smashed together.

In the chaos of that moment, senior disciple Jia Ruan marshaled every last scrap of strength and drove both feet into Yu Jiuling’s chest, kicking him clear of Bei Kuangtu’s grip.

Bei Kuangtu’s fury flared white-hot. His right hand was empty now — he reached to his belt and wrenched free a dagger, driving it down at Jia Ruan’s heart.

This was the same way Zheng Gongru’s man Gao Lu had died — Bei Kuangtu had opened his chest with a single blade and ripped out his beating heart.

Zheng Gongru himself had long since seized the chaos and slipped away to the far side of the hill.

His remaining men — a hundred or so still alive — also saw the opportunity and fled wherever they could, running for their lives without a backward look.

Zheng Gongru glanced back — and at that moment caught sight of Bei Kuangtu on his great horse, drawing the dagger.

In an instant, the image of Gao Lu’s chest being opened flashed before him. He turned away in terror and scrabbled up the slope as fast as he could go.

He hadn’t seen the man on the far hillside was Li Chi. Even if he had, he was past caring — he thought only of surviving.

Li Chi hadn’t seen him either. Li Chi’s attention was entirely on Bei Kuangtu’s side. He wanted desperately to intervene, but had no arrows and no means to do so.

Dantai Qi rose and drove a lance thrust at Bei Kuangtu’s midsection. Bei Kuangtu frowned, shifted his body — the lance tip grazed the air.

But Dantai Qi had calculated this — he had known Bei Kuangtu could evade that thrust. His aim was to buy time, to save a life.

He pivoted the lance head around and swept the flat of it across Jia Ruan’s body, knocking Jia Ruan out of Bei Kuangtu’s grip and sending him flying.

Bei Kuangtu’s dagger drove down — and found nothing.

Now the brigands had closed in from all sides, encircling Yu Jiuling and the others three-deep.

Bei Kuangtu stood at the center.

He swept his gaze around, then asked: “Did I kill someone from your family? Kill someone you knew?”

Dantai Qi drove the lance forward: “You simply deserve to die!”

Bei Kuangtu drew his saber. Six feet of blade.

Dachu garrison troops carried regulation sabers — a little over three feet, not yet four. One could imagine how long and large Bei Kuangtu’s weapon was. And not just long — wide, heavy.

He swept it sideways. It rang against the lance with a crack, and the force was so immense that Dantai Qi could barely hold on. The lance nearly flew from his hands.

“You think the three of you are a match for me?”

Bei Kuangtu said. “Merely three people—”

He had not finished the sentence when a battle cry erupted from the far side, and along the road, over a hundred riders came thundering in.

“Save the senior disciple!”

The Hanging Blade Sect’s youngest disciple Zhen Gen drove his horse forward at a full gallop. From the saddle, both hands swept wide — a fan of silver scattered outward.

Like him, the Hanging Blade Sect disciples riding in behind all attacked at once, their flying blades filling the air like a blanketing storm.

In the sunlight, cold gleams flashed without number.

The brigands hadn’t understood what was happening — they saw a group of riders arriving with no visible weapons, everyone flinging their hands outward as if they were a bunch of fools.

And yet those fools were sending a wave of killing tools across the sky.

The brigands on this flank went down in a swath. By the time they finally processed what was happening, the Hanging Blade Sect disciples had already attacked a second time.

They came riding hard to rescue their senior disciple — and behind them, there was one horse that rode riderless.

Old Yellow.

Outside the mountain cave, the youngest disciple Zhen Gen had looked at his fellow disciples, and almost as one, these Hanging Blade men had said a single word.

“Let’s go.”

They left ten men to protect Gao Xining and the others. The rest grabbed their horses and charged.

And it was somewhere in that rush that they noticed: Old Yellow had followed.

No one could say exactly when it had started trailing the column. It ran behind the formation, laboring hard, the bandage across its chest coming loose — a spreading stain of deep red.

It seemed lonely. But it was stubborn.

At the same time, Dantai Qi’s fallen horse — the one that had been knocked down — struggled to its feet. It moved to Dantai Qi and bumped its head gently against him.

Dantai Qi stilled. Something rose sharply in his throat.

The horse called out once — as if urging him to mount.

Dantai Qi shouted — a raw, breaking sound — and vaulted onto the horse’s back. The horse whinnied, lance tip streaking like lightning, and he drove straight at Bei Kuangtu.

Bei Kuangtu gave a dismissive grunt. He had no regard for Dantai Qi at all.

He pulled the reins; the erma reared up onto its hind legs, seeming in that instant to grow to enormous size.

Using the force of the erma’s downward crash, Bei Kuangtu brought the saber sweeping down — and the blow fell on Dantai Qi’s lance and *sheared through the lance tip*.

Under that immense force, the horse beneath Dantai Qi cried out in grief, front legs collapsing directly to the ground, body tipping sideways and falling — spent entirely.

Dantai Qi rolled clear. He looked at the horse.

It lay on the ground, nostrils heaving, struggling repeatedly to rise — but no longer had the strength.

In that moment, the erma turned toward him, two hind legs lifting high — a vicious kick, straight at Dantai Qi’s chest.

A long whinny — like a dragon’s cry.

Old Yellow leapt high, clearing several heads, limbs extended, that one soaring moment — as though the old yellow horse had become a dragon in flight.

Old Yellow crashed bodily into the erma, driving it staggering sideways. It almost went down.

Old Yellow landed. It turned to face the direction of the erma and raised its head high — like an old general who has seen the end of his days but has returned once more to the battlefield.

Still refusing to bow.

“Old Yellow — go! Get out of here!”

Dantai Qi’s voice had gone hoarse. He had seen it: the bandage on Old Yellow’s chest had torn open at the impact, red soaking through a wide patch.

Old Yellow snorted several times — as if to say: *Young man, are you looking down on me?*

The erma had turned to face it. Bigger by far — it towered over Old Yellow, looking down from above with that dominating gaze.

Old Yellow called out suddenly. The erma seemed provoked by the sound. Without waiting for Bei Kuangtu’s order, it charged at Old Yellow on its own.

In the instant the erma came crashing forward, Old Yellow sidestepped — and drove both hind legs savagely into the erma’s belly.

That kick flipped the erma entirely off its feet.

Old Yellow leapt over it, both front hooves stamping hard on the erma’s skull. Two blows — and the erma’s eyes burst.

Bei Kuangtu was thrown to the ground. He rolled, snatched up the massive saber, and flung it.

Old Yellow had planted its feet on the erma’s shattered skull and now lowered its head, biting into the erma at the eye socket. The erma shuddered violently, all four legs thrashing.

*Thud.*

The saber drove through Old Yellow’s body.

“No!”

Dantai Qi saw it. He lunged forward — but couldn’t reach in time. The blade flew past the tips of his fingers and punched through Old Yellow’s body.

Dantai Qi scooped up what remained of his lance and spun his whole body, hurling it.

Only half the lance tip remained — barely a foot of blade — but it flew in an instant to Bei Kuangtu’s position.

Bei Kuangtu raised his hand. He caught the shaft cleanly.

The end of the lance trembled in his grip.

And in that moment, Yu Jiuling and senior disciple Jia Ruan came from left and right simultaneously, each wrapping their arms around one of Bei Kuangtu’s legs, driving their shoulders against the backs of his knees with everything they had.

Bei Kuangtu lost his footing. He went down on both knees with a crash.

Dantai Qi came sprinting forward and kicked the shaft. It ground along in Bei Kuangtu’s grip — and with a sound like tearing cloth, the half-lance punched through Bei Kuangtu’s chest.

Half the lance tip, all of it now protruding from his back.

Bei Kuangtu looked down at his chest instinctively, as though he could not accept that this had happened. He pulled at the shaft once, twice — but the strength was draining from his hands and he could not stop it.

Dantai Qi turned to look at Old Yellow.

Old Yellow had been run through — but the horse turned its body toward him, struggling against the wound.

Both front legs slowly folded. It lowered itself down, head dropping, lying prone — as if inviting Dantai Qi to climb on.

Dantai Qi ran toward Old Yellow, stumbling, catching himself, stumbling again.

Old Yellow knelt there, snorting softly — *Young man, have you seen now, what I can do?*

Twelve years ago, a young Dantai Qi had been refused when he first asked his father for Old Yellow. He had gone up to Old Yellow in a fury and declared: “One day you’ll be mine!”

Old Yellow had snorted. That had to have been contempt — the horse had looked thoroughly down at him.

Young Dantai Qi had turned and walked away in annoyance — but after a few steps, he heard a sound and looked back. Old Yellow was facing him, and slowly, toward him, it knelt its front legs down.

Now, Dantai Qi fell to the ground before Old Yellow. Old Yellow looked at him — and with great effort, with all its remaining strength, it stretched forward, and pressed its face against his face.

*Little one. I’ve been waiting for you to grow up.*

—