Several people entered wearing long robes of coarse hemp cloth — the kind worn at funerals, identical in cut, though where mourning garments were pale yellow, these were dark gray. The robes had hoods attached that covered the upper half of the face, leaving only the nose and below visible.

Seeing them, Lai Yihu thought to himself: no wonder his men had said they looked like ghosts. They carried an air of cold yin energy the moment they stepped inside.

The newcomers were all roughly the same height, dressed identically in their hemp robes — if you weren’t looking carefully, you might have mistaken them for multiple copies of the same person.

“Who are you people?” Lai Yihu asked.

Not one of them answered.

After waiting a moment with no response, Lai Yihu’s expression grew distinctly sour. He turned to his subordinates and asked, “Are they all mute?”

His man’s expression was equally unpleasant. He quickly explained, “They mentioned before — they don’t like to talk, and especially that they won’t repeat anything they’ve already said. Doesn’t matter who asks.”

That subordinate of Lai Yihu’s was named Guo Ruren, a trusted aide he had brought with him from the capital when he came to Anyang. Most of Lai Yihu’s affairs were handled by this man.

Though his martial skill was nothing exceptional, Guo Ruren was sharp-minded. Despite having served Lai Yihu for a long time, Lai Yihu had never actually learned much about Guo Ruren’s origins.

Such were the ways of the world — enough to make one sigh.

Long ago, Lai Yihu’s great-uncle, Lai Yong’er, had been an indentured laborer in the household of a wealthy family. Not only him — his parents, uncles, brothers, and many others from the village had all been long- or short-term workers in that household. Workers in name, but in practice little better than slaves, beaten and cursed at will. The village was called Lai Family Village, yet most of the people surnamed Lai were that wealthy family’s common laborers.

That small village sat outside the capital, in the Boye Mountains. Once, the late Emperor had gone to the Boye Mountains for leisure and lost his way. On the road he encountered Lai Yong’er, who was tending cattle for the wealthy household — and from that chance meeting, the Lai family’s fortunes took flight.

That wealthy family was the Guo clan.

Decades had passed. Lai Yong’er was now the exalted Duke of Bao, Commander of the Imperial Guards, and concurrently held the title of Minister of War.

The Guo family, meanwhile, had all become servants and attendants to the Lai household.

Not long after Lai Yong’er rose to office, he returned home once more, and the Guo family members all prostrated themselves on the ground to receive him. He claimed it was to repay some old debt of gratitude — but in truth he swept the Guo family away to serve him as servants.

The Guo patriarch, Guo Gongliang, became the steward of his household. By the time Lai Yong’er was posted to Suzhou as a military governor, Guo Ruren had just been born.

So Lai Yihu had always assumed Guo Ruren was born into indenture within the Lai household.

Seeing Lai Yihu’s darkened expression, Guo Ruren hurriedly explained: “They told me before — they’re from beyond the northern frontier.”

“They all come from a single tribe called the Mohe Tribe. Their numbers are small, but every Mohe man is a born killer.”

“They live in the steppe wastes north of the passes, surviving by battling wild beasts and fending off attacks from larger tribes.”

“These people begin training in the art of killing from the age of three or four. By twelve, each must go out and kill a man — that is their coming-of-age rite.”

Guo Ruren continued, “Their targets are usually people of standing within the larger tribes — dignitaries and nobility, essentially. A great many of them fail to complete this rite and die on that first assassination. Because of this, the Mohe warriors who survive are the strongest of fighters.”

Guo Ruren had spoken at such length that Lai Yihu found himself newly interested in these men. He asked, “Why don’t they like to talk? And why won’t they repeat themselves?”

Guo Ruren answered, “They say the less they speak, the less they expose themselves. Even a voice can become a weakness.”

“What a load of fuss,” Lai Yihu muttered with a curse.

Then he looked toward the Mohe warriors and asked, “How much do you charge to kill someone?”

The Mohe chieftain glanced at him and slowly shook his head. “It varies.”

“How do you calculate it, then?” Lai Yihu asked.

The chieftain reached a hand into his robe. Every one of Lai Yihu’s men tensed immediately.

But the man only produced a strip of sheepskin, and held it out.

Guo Ruren hurried forward to take it, then passed it along to Lai Yihu.

Lai Yihu looked it over and burst out laughing.

“Well I’ll be damned — a pack of frontier savages, and they’ve actually got a price list for killing people. Guo Ruren, come take a look at this.”

Guo Ruren leaned in and read it, then laughed as well.

“Common folk with no martial ability — five taels of silver apiece. Fighters and soldiers — twenty taels. Minor officials — a hundred taels. Senior officials — five hundred taels…”

At that, Lai Yihu roared with laughter. “These northern barbarians are something else — don’t they know we have more officials in the Central Plains than you can count? In their eyes, there are only ‘minor officials’ and ‘senior officials.’ They have no idea what any of the actual ranks are. Truly from a crude and uncivilized place.”

When Lai Yihu had laughed himself out, he looked at the Mohe chieftain and asked, “How much to kill a general?”

The chieftain answered, “One thousand taels.”

Lai Yihu was taken aback. The sheepskin had no listing for a thousand taels — five hundred was the highest. So he said, “Do you think I’m a fool to be swindled? A senior official is five hundred taels, so why does a general cost a thousand?”

The Mohe chieftain answered with perfect seriousness: “A general is senior. More senior than an official.”

Lai Yihu blinked, then broke into roaring laughter until tears streamed from his eyes.

He turned to Guo Ruren and said, “These savages are truly something — they think a general outranks an official! Ha ha ha ha…”

The Mohe chieftain paid no attention to whether he laughed or not, simply standing there and waiting.

When Lai Yihu had finally laughed himself dry, he said, “If Ding Shengjia knew he was only worth a thousand taels of silver, he’d probably explode with rage.”

Then, as if something amusing had just occurred to him, he said to Guo Ruren, “Aren’t there still quite a few men of the jianghu outside? Bring in the few you said were impressive — I’d like to have a look at them too.”

Guo Ruren said, “Only some of them have arrived today. Many more haven’t come yet.”

Having said this, he turned and hurried out.

As a servant went, he was genuinely conscientious. Whether or not he knew it — the Lai family had once been servants in his own family’s household — he seemed to have completely adapted to his identity as a servant of the Lai household.

Before long, Guo Ruren led a crowd of jianghu figures inside.

These men of the jianghu, each with their own reputation, were not ones to simply defer to each other. While waiting outside, they had all been sizing one another up with thinly veiled disdain — but the moment names and affiliations were announced, something shifted.

People of the jianghu, especially those belonging to established sects and schools, cared just as much about pedigree as anyone else.

It was like scholars: if you said you’d been educated at some private village school, people would look down on you. But if you said you came from the Jizhou Four-Leaves Academy, even officials would be a touch more courteous.

Scholars make a point of their teachers and schools — men of the jianghu were no different.

The first thing they compared was whose school had the more resounding name, whose sect was the greater one.

Take the ones who’d just come inside — the Iron Shock Sect of Seven Treasures Mountain had sent over a hundred men, appearing quite formidable. But once they’d announced their schools outside, they knew to be deferential toward the people from the Ruyi Sect.

The Ruyi Sect had sent only thirty-some men, yet the Ruyi Sect was said to have nearly five hundred disciples in total. The Iron Shock Sect of Seven Treasures Mountain had just over a hundred members all told — and they’d sent every single one.

The leader of the Ruyi Sect delegation was Yao Tangshan, a man of considerable renown in the Yuzhou jianghu.

Even the Iron Shock Sect’s Wan Fudi, upon seeing Yao Tangshan, called him “Senior” — in terms of generational seniority, he addressed him as a martial uncle.

Lai Yihu said, “I want to use you all for certain tasks, but I have no way of knowing who among you is the most capable.”

He looked toward the most powerfully built man — Wan Fudi — who looked formidable at first glance. He stood a full head taller than an ordinary man, built like a wild ox. In the bitter cold, he wore only a sleeveless vest, both arms bare, his limbs thicker than most men’s thighs, and his muscles — roped and defined in visible cords — were naturally imposing.

Lai Yihu fixed his gaze on Wan Fudi, but Wan Fudi immediately bowed and said, “To answer the General — when it comes to martial skill, Martial Uncle Yao is naturally the superior.”

Men of the jianghu valued reputation, and Yao Tangshan could tell Wan Fudi was giving him face. He smiled and said, “Sect Master Wan is too modest — your iron-body conditioning technique is perhaps unrivaled under heaven. If I were truly to exchange blows with you, I’d have no certainty of coming out on top.”

Wan Fudi quickly replied, “Senior, what are you saying? When Senior was already roaming the jianghu, I was still nursing at my mother’s breast. Whether in martial skill or in reputation, I am far your inferior.”

Yao Tangshan laughed heartily. “You’re being far too modest.”

The two of them began trading compliments, and Lai Yihu thought to himself: this is exactly the same mutual flattery we do in official circles.

He pointed toward the Mohe warriors. “They kill people and have a price list. Never mind price lists — do you dare kill people?”

At that question, Yao Tangshan first blanked, then looked over at Wan Fudi.

Wan Fudi thought to himself: you cunning old fox, trying to get me to stick my neck out again.

But he also knew — when doing business for these officials, you had to show the right attitude.

So he bowed and said, “We can. If we’ve taken service with the General, we are the General’s men, and naturally follow the General’s orders.”

Lai Yihu said, “All right then — never mind who the target is for now. I’ll put out three thousand taels of silver for someone’s head. Let’s see who steps up first.”

Wan Fudi glanced at Yao Tangshan, who was already looking back at him.

Wan Fudi said, “Senior is getting on in years — I had better be the one to take this.”

Yao Tangshan said, “How can you put it that way? You may be young and bold, but your experience in the jianghu is shallow. This is the first task the General has set — can you guarantee you’ll see it through? I think you’d better step aside.”

Wan Fudi said, “Senior, those words sting a little. I’m a junior in the jianghu, that’s true — but hasn’t Senior not walked the jianghu for some years now? I’ve heard you haven’t practiced your kung fu for over ten years?”

“Nonsense!” Yao Tangshan said in fury. “I haven’t stopped practicing at all — and even if I truly hadn’t trained in ten years, I could still cripple you with a single finger.”

Wan Fudi said, “Senior is a person of seniority, and the Ruyi Sect a great school — it would be better to maintain some dignity.”

Yao Tangshan’s expression grew worse and worse. He looked at Wan Fudi and asked, “Are you asking for a match?”

Wan Fudi said, “I’m not being greedy for those three thousand taels — I’m thinking of the General as well, worried that your advancing years and diminished strength might delay the General’s affairs. If you truly want a match, I’d be glad to receive Senior’s instruction — only, Senior, I wonder whether you still have the strength to break through my iron-body conditioning.”

Lai Yihu thought to himself: now this is entertaining. One moment they were a senior cherishing his junior, a junior respecting his senior, and now the moment three thousand taels of silver entered the picture, the two of them were at each other’s throats.

Just then, the Mohe chieftain seemed to have grown impatient. He had been waiting a long time, and he evidently did not like to wait.

He turned around and walked, expressionless, to stand before Wan Fudi. Wan Fudi was half a head taller than him and looked down at him with a glance. “What do you want?”

An instant later, the Mohe chieftain raised his hand and stepped forward — and a hole appeared at Wan Fudi’s temple, bleeding.

Another instant later, the chieftain turned back — and a hole appeared at Yao Tangshan’s throat, bleeding.

Both men collapsed. They lay face to face on the ground, looking at each other, their blood mingling together.

The Mohe chieftain returned to his original position. He looked at Lai Yihu and said, “Pay.”

Lai Yihu was startled — this was the first time anyone had killed someone in front of him.

His face went somewhat pale, and then somewhat angry.

He said, with a mild fury, “I never told you to kill them. On what grounds are you demanding payment?”

The Mohe chieftain remained expressionless as he replied, “I want a deposit for killing the General.”

He gestured toward the two corpses on the ground. “These two cost nothing. Too weak.”

—