The night was as black as pitch-dark ink, the thick, heavy blackness pressing down on people’s heads, inexplicably making them feel suffocated. Han Zhengqing glared with malevolent eyes at the several Tatars before him who had chattered on endlessly with a basket of swaggering nonsense yet still refused to shut up. After a long moment, he laughed coldly: “Are these words your own, or did your Grand Preceptor send you to tell me this?”

Before he had even finished speaking, expressions of extreme disdain appeared on the Tatars’ faces. One cursed in broken Chinese: “Two-legged sheep!”

Another also looked at Han Zhengqing with an arrogant demeanor: “You Han people are the most cunning and untrustworthy. You agreed to attack together, yet withdrew troops midway. Our Grand Preceptor is very angry, you fool!”

The evil fire in Han Zhengqing’s heart surged upward relentlessly, the sinister gloom in his eyes becoming even thicker and more obvious. He lowered his hands and snorted coldly: “Who are you? What did you just call me?”

“Two-legged—”

Han Zhengqing’s patience ran out. Before the man could spit out the word “sheep,” he suddenly erupted, stepped onto the table, flew out, landed in front of him, and grabbed his throat: “Two-legged sheep?”

He smiled gloomily, his expression part mockery, part ridicule: “You called me a two-legged sheep?” The smile on his face instantly vanished, and with force in his hand, he choked the man until his face turned red and his neck thick, unable to utter half a word.

The other several Tatars hadn’t expected Han Zhengqing would actually attack. For a moment they didn’t react, and by the time they did, Han Zhengqing had already made his move. Their companion’s life was in his hands. Exceptionally furious, they couldn’t care that this was Han Zhengqing’s territory. With an angry roar, they rushed forward together.

Han Zhengqing didn’t take them seriously at all. He didn’t even turn his head. As the palm wind struck from behind, he slightly shifted his body sideways, extended his foot and fiercely kicked that Tatar, ruthlessly sending him flying onto the table. Then, still gripping the original man’s throat, he bent down, causing the person behind to lunge at empty air. Finally, he threw the Tatar in his hands—who was like a beheaded puppet—like throwing a sandbag, knocking down the last Tatar who had rushed up, sending him falling backward to the ground.

He had already closed in aggressively, stepping one foot on the Tatar who was struggling to get up, pressing down hard. The person under his foot immediately spat out a mouthful of blood and soon lost all signs of life.

They really thought he was easy to bully—one after another coming to make trouble for him. He smiled as he turned his gaze toward the only remaining person, the one who was still alive because he had fallen beside the table. He said softly: “Go back and tell your Grand Preceptor—if he’s willing to let his younger brother replace him as Grand Preceptor, he’s welcome to keep making trouble with me. I’m not afraid.”

“What should I fear? If I withdraw the troops from Qingzhou Prefecture, it won’t be me who dies. Even if I die later, you Tatars will die first.” His gaze suddenly became fierce and terrifying: “Get lost!”

Having sent away this pack of infuriating dogs, Han Zhengqing sat in his rocking chair with furrowed brows and closed his eyes. Recently, not a single thing had gone smoothly. The only successful stratagem of luring the tiger away from the mountain and feinting east to strike west had been ruined midway by that madman Prince Gong, as if heaven was deliberately going against him.

But a moment later, he opened his eyes again. What heaven? He never believed in the will of heaven.

So what if Yezhā was angry? He fundamentally didn’t fear his anger. Yetan’s forces were now scattered across three passes. Even if Yezhā gave the order for them to temporarily make no moves, it was useless—right now Cui Shaoting awkwardly occupied one location. For Yetan’s people to rendezvous with Yezhā without his help would be very difficult.

Besides, Yetan might not necessarily be willing to remain content under his older brother forever, right?

A layer of mockery floated up in his eyes. He picked up his brush to write a letter and, with familiar ease, had someone send it to Yetan. He wanted to let Yezhā know—know what the consequences of offending him would be.

Yezhā hadn’t expected Han Zhengqing would actually kill several of his men and let one person flee back in a sorry state to report. He was so angry his little braids stood up straight, and he cursed several foul words in Chinese to express the fury in his heart.

But in the end, he calmed down again. That’s right—now was not the time to quarrel with Han Zhengqing. Although Prince Gong’s withdrawal of troops was infuriating, after all, they were still allies. Whatever needed to be said should be said properly. If things could be explained clearly, they shouldn’t tear off the false face—after all, they still hadn’t attacked into the capital yet, had they?

Therefore, he still forcibly swallowed this grievance, rewarded Han Zhengqing’s envoy who had brought back this defeated remnant with a pleasant expression, and also gave him a letter to take back to Han Zhengqing.

Right now, all these minor skirmishes were nothing serious. What was truly troublesome was the current predicament. He needed to have Han Zhengqing deal with Prince Gong first.

In a small Xibei, with so many of them, they still couldn’t completely settle things even now. This was far too different from their expectations. If they kept dragging this out, the Tatars didn’t have that much grain.

Anyway, once they attacked into the capital, it wouldn’t be up to these two-legged sheep to be insolent anymore. Giving them a bit of a pleasant face now wasn’t impossible.

But Han Zhengqing couldn’t accomplish what he hoped—couldn’t deal with Prince Gong.

Because Prince Gong had truly gone mad. Without a word, he had killed yet another messenger Han Zhengqing had sent.

The first time, one could endure, thinking perhaps there was some misunderstanding. But this was already the second time. Moreover, it was originally Prince Gong who had inexplicably withdrawn troops first. Han Zhengqing truly couldn’t understand how Prince Gong could be so obtuse. If he hadn’t gone mad, he fundamentally couldn’t think of any other reason.

Prince Gong indeed was almost the same as having gone mad. Han Zhi watched coldly as Sun Ergou ruthlessly poured another handful of Five Stone Powder into the bird’s nest porridge, revealing a slight smile on his face: “Use it sparingly, afraid it won’t be enough.”

“That won’t do.” Sun Ergou skillfully stuffed the remaining paper packet into his belt, stirred it with a spoon, and laughed: “There’s plenty—as much as needed.”

Han Zhi smiled without speaking. A few days ago, Prince Gong had inexplicably regained some clarity, saying that even if Han Zhengqing harbored ulterior motives, they could first go along with his scheme and use Han Zhengqing, then settle accounts with him later.

But Han Zhi would never give Han Zhengqing this opportunity.

When the time came to settle accounts later, Prince Gong might not necessarily be able to move against Han Zhengqing.

He didn’t just want Han Zhengqing to die—he wanted Han Zhengqing to suffer a fate worse than death, to torture him bit by bit, to watch how he would be tormented by those Tatars.

Since Prince Gong had regained clarity, no matter—just make him continue to be confused. This wasn’t very difficult either. Just increase the dosage of Five Stone Powder, and it was guaranteed Prince Gong wouldn’t even know his own name.

And Han Zhengqing wanted to explain the misunderstanding clearly to Prince Gong? Don’t even think about it. As long as he was around for one day, Prince Gong would absolutely never cooperate with Han Zhengqing again. He wanted to watch how Han Zhengqing would die.