Xuanfu, one of the Nine Borders of Great Ming.
It was late August. On both sides of the Yangtze River, the grass and trees were still lush, and the sweet scent of osmanthus filled the air. Yet the wind in Xuanfu sent chills through the body; the temperature difference between morning and night was huge, and sometimes it even snowed in the middle of the night.
By the side of a desolate road stood a small, inconspicuous courtyard. Around a dozen people sat sparsely against the base of its crumbling stone walls, basking in the sun.
Among them were people from the Central Plains, people from the northern deserts, and also people from more distant foreign lands. Their clothing was equally diverse: ordinary soldiers, hunters, shepherds, merchants… and even a traveling monk carrying a sutra bag on his back.
A strange, motley group had gathered in this godforsaken place, chatting about the strangest of topics.
The hunter said: “I need to change to a horse that can bear more weight, otherwise I can’t hang all the heads. Shepherd, how about stealing me a few good horses? I hear the Oirat horses are the best, the Tatars come second.”
The shepherd said: “Bah! Do you think it’s a horse problem? It’s your greed! You insist on hogging all the heads for yourself, not leaving any for the rest.”
The merchant said: “Exactly. This Dahu’s the greediest of the lot. As soon as he heard the reward was equal to that of the border troops, and that military merit could be traded for real advancement, he’s been clinging to Old Ye’s thigh tighter than anyone. Already forgotten how, when Old Ye first came, he and his brothers ganged up to squeeze him out.”
The itinerant monk said: “Quit with that ‘Old Ye’ this and ‘Old Ye’ that. Is that a name you lot can use? Watch out or the squad leader’ll put a spear clean through your gut!”
The soldier said: “Shh, the squad leader’s here!”
The group scrambled up from the base of the wall, eyes fixed on the man walking toward them.
He looked a little over thirty, dressed in a dark cotton-padded armor to the waist, black jacket and trousers bound tightly with leg wrappings. He wore no helmet, only a cloth band securing his hair. His whole bearing was like a straight spear—every step taut with readiness, as if at any moment he might spring into battle.
When he spoke, his tone was mild enough, yet his eyes carried the blood and smoke of countless battlefields—brave, sharp, unyielding.
It was none other than Huo Dun, once a Canjun in Lingzhou, now the squad leader of a Ye Bu Shou unit in Xuanfu.
“You all seem idle. What are you talking about?” Huo Dun asked.
“Nothing! Squad leader, we just returned from a mission. We were about to rest up before the next one.”
“I’ll go feed the horses.”
“I’ll go clean the weapons.”
“I’ll check if the carrier pigeons are back.”
“I… I need to pee!”
The group scattered like startled birds.
Huo Dun shook his head, pushed open the weathered wooden gate, crossed the courtyard, and stepped into the main house.
The house was as barren as the surrounding wasteland—only a hard bed, a wardrobe, and a set of table and chairs. Yet on the table by the window stood a clay vase holding a branch of flowers.
It was the commonest of wild plum blossoms, white-petaled and faint of scent, yet carrying the tenacious grace of something that grows wild, unyielding to wind and rain.
Because of that blossom, the whole room seemed to gain a touch of elegance amidst its bleakness, like the last remnant of scholarly spirit within a world of soldiers and blades.
Seated at the table was a man in scholar’s garb, bent over a sheet of paper, writing.
The first thing Huo Dun saw upon entering was that slender back. His gaze moved along the curve of the pale neck—and there, just before it, was the same white wild plum blossom.
It was the very branch he had plucked on a mountain, after the wind had snatched the man’s hat. The corners of Huo Dun’s mouth curved into a smile, and he called out cheerfully: “Old Ye!”
Formerly Yan Chengxue, Official of the Court of Imperial Stables in Shaanxi—now he was Lou Yexue.
Lou Yexue did not turn immediately at the sound. He finished the last two lines he was writing, laid down his brush, and then said, “What are you shouting for? I’m not deaf… come in.”
Huo Dun entered, shutting the door behind him. As he walked, he stripped off his shoulder guards, bracers, and sword, tossing them casually onto the table. Dropping into a chair, he exhaled deeply, like a man finally at ease.
Lou Yexue glanced at the inkstone where a few drops had splashed, frowned slightly, but swallowed his words before they left his lips.
Huo Dun grinned. “Thanks to you, I’ve come back alive again.”
Lou Yexue’s face was pale, his brows shallow, nose narrow, lips thin—not a countenance of fortune. His gaze always carried a touch of inborn mockery, as if no one in the world could quite please him.
And indeed, his heart was far from generous—cunning, sharp-tongued, quick to anger. Yet toward his only true friend, he showed an unusual patience, willing to listen to foolish talk and mock more lightly than he might.
He said dryly: “What blessing could you be thanking me for? A man who’s already died once has no luck to spare. You’re just hard to kill.”
Ever since surviving that bowl of false poison Su Yan forced down his throat, Huo Dun had grown ever more tolerant of Lou Yexue, to the point where they hardly argued anymore.
What was there to argue about? Every mission behind enemy lines, he went with the resolve never to return. And Lou Yexue, staying behind as the strategist and commander, bore a burden tenfold heavier—every decision, every order, held Huo Dun’s very life in the balance.
—When he had already entrusted his life to the other, what could not be yielded?
Still smiling, Huo Dun replied: “That too is because your plans are sound.”
When treading thin ice, exhausting every thought, becomes the norm, some break under the strain—while others grow ever sharper, stronger, and unshakable.
When Lou Yexue arrived in Xuanfu with a new name, an appointment scroll, and a commander’s tally, he was plunged into immense difficulty—
The Ye Bu Shou were incomplete in number. Though he was nominally commander of fifty men, fewer than half remained. At roll call, two more slipped away. Why? Because their new superior looked like a pale-faced scholar. Convinced he would lead them to ruin, they’d rather spend dearly to transfer elsewhere than die pointlessly under him.
Those who stayed still defied him—insubordination, provocation, paying lip service while defying in deed.
Superiors meddled in his plans, second-guessing and interfering.
Pay was lacking, their status low—regular border troops treated them as outsiders.
At the hardest point, he doubted himself deeply, felt powerless, wondered if Su Yan had been right all along—that he could never lead men, that all his years of pride and persistence were but a joke.
It was Huo Dun’s steady trust and unconditional support that carried him through to the turning point, until at last he forged a squad swift as lightning, sharp as daggers. Only seventeen in number, yet within the northern steppe, they became a name to strike terror—ghosts of the night.
If not for Huo Dun…
Lou Yexue sighed softly, poured a cup of tea, and handed it over. “What new intelligence?”
Huo Dun drained it in a gulp and said: “Wuhalang has left the Tatar heartlands and gone west. From his trail, it seems he may be heading toward Oirat territory.”
Good news! Lou Yexue’s eyes lit up.
After the Ye Bu Shou squad he led began racking up victories, they suddenly received a secret order from the Embroidered Uniform Guard.
Those three characters—Embroidered Uniform Guard—did not merely signify an imperial guard that combined protection, espionage, and interrogation into one. They were also the direct messengers of the emperor’s will—used in situations when it was inconvenient to issue an edict in the name of the court.
The secret order gave this Ye Bu Shou squad a mission that had to be completed: find the best opportunity to assassinate Wuhalang, son of the Tatar Grand Master, and frame it on the Oirats, thereby stirring up conflict between Tatars and Oirats.
Lou Yexue looked at the order, even his fingers trembling—this mission suited his tastes far too well! If the snipe and clam fought, the fisherman would benefit. Not only would the barbarian tribes he loathed the most become the snipe and clam, but the most powerful “Anti-Ming Alliance” of the northern steppe would collapse, freeing the Ming frontiers from their increasingly frequent raids.
A mission that could reshape the entire border’s diplomatic balance! Only at the emperor’s level could such a task be authorized—and it had fallen into his hands!
After his excitement passed, Lou Yexue quickly calmed down.
This mission was of the utmost importance: success was the only option. He had to plan carefully and strike only when certain of a hit. Otherwise, there might never be a second chance.
For this, he shadowed Wuhalang for two whole months—finally, the opportunity had come.
He asked again: “What moves have the Oirats made recently?”
Huo Dun replied, “The Ye Bu Shou of Yulin Garrison are even fewer than us. Ningxia’s we can’t contact at all—no new intelligence. But from reports sent months ago, it seems the Great Prince, Aletan, returned safely, which temporarily stabilized the Oirat people’s morale.”
He thought further: “Logically, with that biggest misunderstanding resolved, and with His Majesty repeatedly sending orders of appeasement, Khan Hu Kuoli should have been grateful. After all, it was they who first claimed eternal enmity with the Tatars and turned to our side. Yet judging by the current situation, the Oirats seem determined to persist in allying with their old enemy Tatars, bent on jointly opposing the Ming. That feels… not quite normal.”
Lou Yexue sneered: “Perfectly normal. Those not of our race are bound to have different hearts. I’ve said all along—these uncivilized barbarians are like wild beasts. They cannot be judged by human reason.”
Huo Dun knew his hatred of the steppe was bone-deep; nothing could change that. So he shifted the topic: “I suspect Wuhalang is carrying out his father Tuo Hutai’s orders, traveling to the Oirats to negotiate an alliance. And on the Oirat side, I’ve heard Khan Hu Kuoli’s health is failing. Much of the tribe’s affairs have been handed over to the Great Elder Heiduo and Great Prince Aletan. Perhaps Aletan himself will be sent to conclude this alliance.”
Lou Yexue smiled slowly, as if a malice long frozen in his heart had at last been released: “Then why not have ‘Aletan’ be the one to kill Wuhalang?”
Assassinate Wuhalang, pin it on Aletan, utterly destroy the alliance—that was indeed the outcome most favorable to the Ming. Huo Dun nodded his agreement.
A flush of color rose to Lou Yexue’s pale cheeks, making his complexion look healthier. He sat back down, seized a stack of papers, and began scribbling battle plans in quick strokes.
“This time, I’ll personally accompany the squad to the Oirat border,” he said as he wrote.
Huo Dun frowned: “It’s too dangerous to go deep into enemy territory, and the journey is rough. I fear your body won’t hold up.”
Lou Yexue’s face flushed with a feverish, almost manic energy: “For such a mission—never mind whether my body can bear it—even if it cost me my life, it would be worth it! Besides, the distance is great and the situation changes in an instant. If I don’t go, how can the plans be made and adjusted? Don’t bother trying to dissuade me!”
Huo Dun knew once Lou Yexue was stubborn, he couldn’t be swayed, and in truth his reasoning was sound. He could only agree in silence.
As Lou Yexue wrote, he suddenly paused, lifted his face toward the flower branch in the clay vase, and asked abruptly: “What about Su Yan?”
Huo Dun was startled, then answered: “He’s still in Shaanxi, solidifying the new official horse-breeding system. Word is it’s been highly successful. The local people call him ‘Su Qingtian*.’”
* upright and honorable
Lou Yexue fell silent for a moment. “So that riddled, broken horse policy really has been revived by him…”
His feelings were complicated. Su Yan was the very culprit behind his and Huo Dun’s dismissal and punishment—by rights they should hate him to the bone. Yet it was also Su Yan who saved their lives and sent them into the Ye Bu Shou. At first, Lou thought this was just to make them suffer. But as time passed, as he and Huo Dun began to shine within the Ye Bu Shou, he started to doubt Su Yan’s true intent… Was it torment? Or was it tempering?
Even so, Lou Yexue could not agree with Su Yan’s talk of fairness toward the steppe tribes. In particular, he despised Su Yan’s rapport with Aletan. Malice stirred in his heart, and he asked Huo Dun: “Tell me—if Su Twelve were to face Aletan on the battlefield, blades drawn, what would happen?”
Huo Dun was taken aback, but after little hesitation replied, “He’d probably try to persuade peace first.”
“And if persuasion failed? Fight, or not fight?”
Huo Dun thought carefully, then said with certainty: “Fight!”
Lou Yexue gave a thin smile: “Would he, though? Such a soft-hearted man—he couldn’t even strike to kill against me.”
That, Huo Dun sighed, was only because in Su Yan’s eyes, they still had value—value greater than the trouble of arranging for them. “Do you remember the heads of assassins and instigators he sent all over Shaanxi? Anyone who tried to kill him, he struck back without mercy. And how did he deal with the Void Sect and the Seven Kill Camp? That shows the man has a line in his heart. On one side of it is spring warmth; on the other side, winter’s chill.”
What that line was, Lou Yexue had more or less guessed—it was his own life, the lives of those he cared about, and the destiny of the Ming realm.
“…I look forward to that moment,” Lou Yexue suddenly laughed, and bent back to his furious writing.
Can’t wait until next week to see more? Want to show your support? Come to my Patreon where you can get 5 or more chapters of The Reincarnation of a Powerful Minister right away ! Or go donate at Paypal or Ko-fi to show your appreciation! :)
