Su Yan instinctively reached out to press the back of Jinghong Zhui’s hand but suddenly withdrew halfway, wanting to say something but feeling a bit awkward.
Fortunately, the other’s demeanor remained unchanged. Calm as ever, he asked, “Does my lord wish to ask what happened after I began tailing the suspect?”
Su Yan, reassured by his composure, relaxed a bit. He cleared his throat and shouted to the crowd, “Quiet, everyone! I have a witness.”
Jinghong Zhui recounted the events clearly and concisely, without emotion or exaggeration. His dry and straightforward narrative would have doomed him as a storyteller, but it was perfect for giving testimony—impartial and credible.
He told the truth about everything leading up to the encounter with the figure in black robes. But when describing their fight, he avoided mentioning his sect’s secret techniques. He omitted the fact that the battle ended in mutual injury via the Nightmare Enchantment and instead said he was no match for the opponent, lost clarity of mind, and fled while wounded.
Only Su Yan knew how powerful the Nightmare Enchantment was and guessed that the black-robed attacker had likely suffered as well. Seeing Jinghong Zhui so candidly admit defeat without the pride of a martial expert, Su Yan even found it kind of… cute.
—Yes, very cute. Su Yan corrected himself silently.
The Oirat people, however, could not accept Jinghong Zhui’s statement.
“The black-robed figure you described—his outfit, his voice, and the artifact he used—that’s our shaman, the Great Shaman Heiduo!”
“The Great Shaman would never harm the prince. You’re lying!”
“Liar! You’re a liar!”
The square-faced man said to Su Yan, “Don’t blame them for being angry. The Great Shaman Heiduo was personally ordered by the Khan to protect Aletan in secret. How could he possibly with these two officials from your Ming country…?”
Su Yan helped him finish the sentence: “Conspire together?”
“Yes, conspi—Impossible! If the Great Shaman betrayed the Khan and our entire tribe, he would be forsaken by the gods and suffer divine retribution.”
The other Oirat warriors echoed him in agreement.
Jinghong Zhui offered no rebuttal. Every word he said was like a nail—cold and firm. Whether they believed him or not was up to them.
Su Yan clapped once. “Everyone, hear me out.”
The sharp sound quieted the crowd momentarily.
“If he truly fabricated everything about the black-robed figure, then how could he know the effects of the ritual bell used? And how would he know the attacker hid a bronze mirror inside his chest clothing? Do your shamans wear their ritual artifacts openly for others to admire?”
This left the Oirat people speechless.
Though the Great Shaman Heiduo didn’t appear often, everyone had seen him. Except during rituals, summonings, or invoking the spirits, he never showed his tools lightly. When the Khan was once caught under an enemy shaman’s spell during a clash with Dayan’s army, the Great Shaman used the ritual bell and sacred mirror to save him. That was the only time they’d witnessed his powers in battle.
If this Central Plains man hadn’t seen it firsthand, how could he describe it so accurately?
The square-faced man pondered, then suddenly realized: “It must be that while the Great Shaman was secretly protecting Aletan, he saw this man tailing him and mistook it as an attempt on the prince’s life—so they fought.”
Yan Chengxue sneered, “If that’s the case, then I could also claim that someone used sorcery to steal my flying needle, assassinate Aletan, and murder Huo Dun’s soldiers to frame us!”
The Oirat warriors were about to draw their blades again, and Su Yan had to intervene once more.
Jinghong Zhui spoke: “That black-robed figure ambushed me from behind while I was saving Aletan. He said one thing to me: ‘Those who obstruct the divine will shall be burned to ash by the wrath of the gods.’”
Su Yan asked, “He thought you were interfering with a divine mission by saving Aletan? Then what exactly is this so-called ‘divine will’? That Aletan must die from a poisoned needle?”
Jinghong Zhui replied, “Only he would know.”
Now even the Oirat people showed signs of doubt. Though some still firmly believed he was lying, others—square-face included—began to question the Great Shaman.
Su Yan felt the situation was getting thornier by the minute. He said to Yan Chengxue, “Hand over the antidote. Save the prince first. Once he wakes up, the truth will come out.”
Yan Chengxue frowned irritably. “I really don’t have the antidote.”
“Impossible. This poison was crafted by you—so potent, you must have made an antidote just in case. And you gave the flying needle to Huo Dun—weren’t you worried he might accidentally get poisoned?” Su Yan stared at him sharply.
Yan Chengxue said helplessly, “Yes, I did make a few antidote doses. I gave them to Huo Dun along with the leather pouch and silkworm gloves. Just now, he only pulled out the pouch and gloves—no sign of the antidote vial. That’s when I realized the antidote was stolen along with the flying needle.”
“I had been wondering who could steal the needle from Huo Dun without anyone noticing and kill his guards so easily. But after hearing his account, I’m now certain—it was the shaman.”
His explanation was not accepted by the Oirat people, who continued cursing and threatening to behead both him and Huo Dun. The square-faced man said, “Regardless of whether they did it or not, the poison and the flying needles came from them. There’s no way to clear their names!”
Su Yan pressed on, “Minister Yan, can you make another antidote immediately? Aletan is still alive. If we can cure his poison, the Oirat people’s hatred will ease significantly.”
Yan Chengxue was astonished. “He’s been poisoned with ‘Border City Snow’ for over two hours, and he’s still alive?! Tch, he’s got a tough life. I have to admit, I’m somewhat impressed. Unfortunately, I don’t have all the ingredients left. Some of them come from the southern frontier and are quite rare. Even if we searched across mountains and rivers, it would take at least a year or more. Can he wait that long?”
Su Yan smiled bitterly. “I’m afraid he won’t last even three to five days.”
Yan Chengxue curled his lips indifferently. “Then it’s up to fate.”
Su Yan once again stopped the furious Oirat people and persuaded them, “I will send people to the southern frontier immediately to find the ingredients. Only Yan Chengxue can make the antidote. If you kill him now, you’ll be cutting off Aletan’s last chance of survival.”
The Oirat warriors were torn. Killing him wasn’t an option, but sparing him didn’t quell their anger. They roared like beasts.
The square-faced man said, “If it really takes a year or more, do you think Aletan can wait? We will take him home and let the Khan decide.”
Su Yan had no counterargument. Whether the antidote could be made in time was still uncertain, and he had no reason to oppose their decision to take Aletan back to their tribe.
The square-faced man pointed the tip of his blade at Huo and Yan, his voice sharp. “These two are too suspicious. We’re taking them with us.”
Su Yan’s expression darkened. “No matter what they’ve done, they are officials of Great Ming. If they are guilty, our laws will punish them. There is no need for a foreign nation to intervene! I can only promise you this: I will report the matter in full to the Emperor, and a decision will be made. The Khan will receive an official response.”
The square-faced man frowned. “Words alone… no proof!”
Su Yan stepped into the tent, took pen and ink under the candlelight, and wrote a brief official document on white silk, sealing it with his Imperial Censor’s stamp.
“You think I wrote nonsense because you can’t read Chinese?” he asked, half amused, half exasperated. “This is an official seal! Even if I don’t care about my own credibility, do you think I’d risk the reputation of the imperial court?”
Only then did the square-faced man accept the document, carefully tucking it into his robes. He said, “We’re leaving. Have your border guards let us through.”
Su Yan nodded. “It’s best if you return quickly. Your tribe likely has more than one shaman with mystical abilities—perhaps one of them can save him. I will also do my best to make the antidote. I will report this case to the Emperor, and the final decision will be sent to the Khan through an official decree.
“Also, since you’ll be traveling with Aletan, you probably won’t be able to transport your tea and salt shipments at the same time. As per our agreement, I will send soldiers to escort the goods to your tribe. They should arrive in a few days. It would be best if you left someone behind as a guide to prevent the transport team from getting lost.”
Su Yan arranged everything meticulously, leaving the square-faced man with no words of protest. The warrior lightly struck his right fist against his left chest in a salute to Su Yan. Then, lowering his hand, he added, “That salute was for Aletan’s friend, Su Yan. But to the official of Great Ming, I leave these words—Yan and Huo must die. If your Emperor protects them, he will face the Khan’s wrath.”
Su Yan sighed inwardly and turned toward the bed.
Aletan was still unconscious. His face was even paler and more gaunt than before, his life force seemingly draining away with each passing moment. The poison was merely suppressed for now, like a coiled serpent ready to strike at any time.
Su Yan pulled aside his robe, glancing again at the blood-stained tattoo on Aletan’s abdomen. A strange thought crossed his mind: he wished that the legendary World Tree truly existed—and that, in this small reflection of it, a miracle would appear to save Aletan.
He couldn’t resist touching the tattoo again. It was faintly warm, as if trying to pull his fingertips in, giving him an eerie sense of being drawn by an invisible force.
Carefully covering Aletan’s robe again, Su Yan leaned down and whispered in his ear.
Jinghong Zhui stood behind him, straining his ears, but couldn’t make out what he said.
Perhaps it was a farewell that he couldn’t bear to voice aloud. Or maybe it was a blessing, a promise—one that, in the last moment before he spoke, he hesitated to make due to all the uncertainties ahead.
Jinghong Zhui burned with curiosity, but he knew this was neither the time nor place to ask. In the end, he remained silent.
As Su Yan stepped out of the tent, he suddenly stopped in front of the square-faced warrior and asked, “How many routes do you have to return to the Oirat lands?”
The man hesitated, unwilling to reveal such sensitive information.
Su Yan smiled meaningfully. “It doesn’t matter whether I know. What matters is… does your great shaman know?”
—
The moon had set beyond the western mountains, but the sun had yet to rise. The vast desert lay shrouded in a deep, misty blue.
More than twenty Oirat riders escorted a single carriage, galloping northwest beneath the fading stars.
Just before dawn, faint green lights flickered ahead, like countless fireflies sweeping over the wild grass, converging upon them.
The eerie glow rushed closer, and the riders suddenly saw the truth—
It was the gleaming green eyes of a wolf pack.
They were completely surrounded by a dense sea of wolves!
Northern desert horses feared no lone wolf, but they dreaded the overwhelming tide of a full pack. The startled mounts reared up in terror, neighing frantically.
The Oirat warriors clenched their teeth, drawing their scimitars, preparing for battle.
From the darkness behind, the head wolf let out a chilling howl. The wolves bared their dripping fangs and lunged at them with terrifying ferocity.
Blood splattered through the air. The howls of wolves and the screams of men echoed across the wasteland.
Over half an hour later, the first light of dawn illuminated a battlefield strewn with wolf corpses. At least several hundred wolves lay dead across the stony ground. Around the carriage, mutilated riders twitched in pools of blood. Most of the horses had been disemboweled, their entrails dragging as they convulsed in agony. The few that had escaped galloped desperately into the distant grasslands.
A figure in a black robe appeared at some unknown moment, the long strips of fabric draping from his body fluttering in the morning breeze. He stepped carelessly over the blood-soaked ground and opened the carriage door.
Inside, a thick wolf fur blanket covered the floor. A burly man lay upon it, his body draped in a brocade quilt, with a single long braid slipping out from beneath it, adorned with golden rings and green jade beads.
His hair was as white as snow over a walled city.
The black-robed figure let out a raspy chuckle and murmured an incantation in Oirat as he raised his curved blade.
With a swift motion, he tore away the quilt—only to reveal a large, bulging sack stuffed with straw. A severed lock of white hair was placed at the opening. His blade froze midair.
—
Shalidan, the square-faced Oirat warrior with a ring of beard, rode at full gallop. He glanced sideways at Aletan, who lay slumped over the saddle, his unconscious body rising and falling with the horse’s movements. A tightly woven cotton rope secured him in place, ensuring he wouldn’t slip off even in his senseless state.
Before Su Yan had left, he had given Shalidan a final reminder. Acting on this, Shalidan split his men into two groups. Twenty-seven riders escorted a disguised carriage along the shortest route back to the tribe. If their unknown enemy pursued them, that group would serve as bait—both a diversion and a team of warriors willing to sacrifice themselves.
The remaining five men took Aletan and rode straight north.
According to tribal lore, beneath the sacred Wulan Mountain, beside the shores of Lake Baikal, stood the divine tree Tokhtilak, touching both earth and sky.
It was said that an ancient shaman, his lifespan unknown, guarded the tree and conveyed the will of the gods to the tribe through the whispers of the wind. On the day the Great Prince was born, the tribal elders performed divinations and received an omen—they believed the newborn was a child of the sacred tree. Thus, they named him Aletan, meaning “gold” in Oirat.
Because of this, even after Khan Hu Kuoli had fathered two more sons, he still regarded his firstborn as a divine gift, believing Aletan would one day restore the tribe’s glory and unify the northern plains.
Now, this golden prince stood on the brink of death. Other than the divine tree and the old shaman, Shalidan had no idea who else could save him.
May the ancestors protect him. May the gods show their power… Shalidan murmured an ancient hymn and spurred his horse forward.
The morning sun rose over the vast grasslands, its golden rays casting a glow over the withering autumn plains, as if the heavens had draped the land in endless gold.
—
Su Yan stood atop the towering battlements of the Great Wall, gazing northward, feeling a faint yet lingering thread of attachment stretching farther and farther away.
The autumn wind of the plains whipped at the hem of his robe like a fluttering banner. Behind him, Jinghong Zhui stepped forward and fastened a cloak around his shoulders, asking in a low voice, “My lord, what are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” Su Yan withdrew his gaze and turned away.
Jinghong Zhui hesitated for a moment before muttering, “Life and death are fated.”
Su Yan chuckled. “You say that, but deep down, you don’t believe in fate. Otherwise, where would all that fighting spirit and killing intent of yours come from?”
Jinghong Zhui grumbled in dissatisfaction, “You yourself said I had reined in my bloodlust—that my sword had returned to its sheath…”
Su Yan patted the back of his hand. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed—you hold a grudge against Aletan. But he’s done nothing to offend you.”
Jinghong Zhui suddenly grew bold and took the chance to clasp Su Yan’s hand in return, his calloused fingers rubbing lightly against his palm. “I don’t like the way he looks at you. Or how familiar he acts.”
“You don’t like anyone.” Su Yan’s ears grew warm. He tried to pull his hand away but failed. “Let go. Stop touching me!”
Jinghong Zhui, emboldened by the moment, pressed his lips to Su Yan’s palm and murmured, overflowing with joy, “I can’t help but offend my lord. Please punish me.”
Su Yan slapped him across the face—only to end up hurting his own hand. Jinghong Zhui’s face showed neither redness nor swelling. Furious, Su Yan threatened, “If you don’t let go—”
Jinghong Zhui obediently released him, lowering his head like a man awaiting punishment.
His personal guard was a rebellious yet docile thorn, always calling him “my lord” with utmost respect while stubbornly following his own will. Once again, Su Yan came to realize that their relationship had long since moved beyond mere master and subordinate.
That one time when he had been thoroughly ruined—he didn’t want it to happen again. But at the same time, he didn’t want to lose Ah Zhui either.
What to do? He pressed his fingers to his temple, utterly vexed.
Jinghong Zhui reached out and gently massaged his forehead, a faint smile playing at his lips. “My lord, do I give you headaches?”
“You sound like you’re enjoying this.”
“Not enjoying—just happy. At least I know my existence stirs some emotions in you.”
Su Yan wanted to retort, Stir? You’re driving me insane! Damn it, if you’re going to massage, then just massage! Stop using it as an excuse to touch my face and neck! Your calluses are ticklish as h*ll!
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