The Reincarnation of a Powerful Minister Chapter 262

“Your Highness, another fifty li ahead lies the city of Hastah,” the scout reported.

Aletan nodded, signaling the army to halt and set camp for the night, planning to enter the city at dawn.

Yurts quickly rose. Some riders built bonfires, others fetched water from a nearby stream, others prepared the evening meal. Without needing orders, everything was done with smooth efficiency.

For nomads, roaming after water and grass was daily life; the saddle and the yurt were their home. Each tribesman was at once herdsman, rider, warrior—faithful guardian of the khan, brother and son to the people.

This time, about five thousand Oirat cavalry came as escort. Because Khan Hu Kuoli’s health was erratic, the entire force was under Great Prince Aletan’s command.

Aletan had once urged his father: “Your body has not yet recovered. Better to remain in the royal court to rest. Let me attend the alliance in your stead.”

But Hu Kuoli shook his head. “This is the first alliance between Oirats and Tatars in a hundred years, of great significance. They say even the Tatar child-khan will attend. If I do not show myself, will that not let others mock the Oirats as timid?”

Aletan could only drop the matter, instructing men along the way to take careful care of him.

Besides the Great Elder Heiduo, whose authority in the tribe grew ever heavier, Hu Kuoli also brought three shamans.

Shamans were at once healers and spirit-intercessors, few in number. It was they who treated illness among the tribes.

The most skilled and renowned were called “Great Shamans.” Nobles often supported one or two such shamans in their households, serving only their family, as symbols of power and prestige.

The most senior and unfathomably powerful shaman was called the Old Shaman, an almost legendary figure, rarely seen by anyone. In the entire Oirat tribe, there was said to be only one such Old Shaman, who lived in seclusion at the foot of Ulan Mountain, guarding the sacred tree Tokhtilak.

This time, the Great Prince had received the blessing of the sacred tree, returned from death to life, and come back safe and sound. Many tribesmen, curious, asked him about the sacred tree and the Old Shaman, saying they too had wandered at the foot of Ulan Mountain, but had seen nothing but a fog-shrouded ice field.

Aletan only smiled and said nothing more.

The tribesmen assumed he had received divine instructions he was not permitted to reveal, and could only drop the matter in disappointment. Still, they noticed that the sacred tree tattoo on the Prince’s body was no longer the same as before—larger, more vivid, and awe-inspiring. They took this as a sign of divine revelation, proof that the Great Prince was not only the Son of the Sacred Tree, but also the most exalted Great Shaman who had inherited divine power. Their attitude toward him became all the more respectful, and no one dared call him simply “Aletan” anymore.

Some of the most devout would even kneel and pray the moment they glimpsed the tattoo, which left Aletan rather uncomfortable, making him keep his robes tightly fastened even in summer.

Once, when he went to bathe in the river by day, he discovered people crouching here and there along the riverbank grasses—over a hundred of them, men and women, young and old—all hoping to catch a glimpse of the tattoo in full. Helpless, he had no choice but to change his bathing time to deep in the night.

In the past, if anyone asked who the greatest shaman of the Oirat tribe was, everyone would unhesitatingly answer: “Of course, the Great Shaman Heiduo.”

But now, if asked again, half would change their answer to: “Naturally, it is our Golden Prince.”

The other half admitted that the Prince was indeed more exalted by birth and his remedies were effective, but since he had never presided over a grand ritual, nor publicly demonstrated divination, exorcism, or prayer rites, his spiritual power might not match Heiduo’s.

When such words reached Aletan, he only smiled, neither acknowledging nor denying them. His manner toward the Great Shaman Heiduo remained as before—neither arrogant nor fawning. Even when Hu Kuoli urged him several times to formally become Heiduo’s disciple, Aletan put him off with excuses.

Before departure for the tribal alliance, as was customary, a spirit-summoning prayer ceremony was held.

Rumors within the tribe had it that the Great Prince would serve as chief officiant shaman this time, but Aletan had no intention of stepping onto the ritual grounds. In the end, it was Heiduo who carried out the ceremony.

This became further proof to some that “the Prince may be noble, but his spiritual power does not match Heiduo’s.” Those clans close to Aletan fumed at the slight, while Aletan himself showed not the least dissatisfaction, treating Heiduo with even greater courtesy.

On the contrary, in recent months, Khan Hu Kuoli had several times expressed displeasure with Aletan in public. The reason was that Aletan had interfered with the treatment of his illness.

When Aletan sent medicine, Hu Kuoli poured it onto the grass before his tent, saying, “One illness cannot be treated with two remedies,” and rebuked him: “One with a heart full of doubt cannot craft true medicine.” Helpless, Aletan privately instructed a maid to secretly replace Heiduo’s pills with his own. The first time succeeded—but then Hu Kuoli suddenly flew into a frenzy and hacked that maid to pieces with his own hand, until she was nothing but minced flesh.

She had been Aletan’s Mother’s— Songling’s—dowry maid, who had lived with them like family for twenty years. Aletan had always regarded her as his own aunt.

Khan Hu Kuoli, the eagle of the sacred tree—outwardly still his father, but within already poisoned into a demon. This realization caused Aletan unspeakable anguish.

He shut himself inside his yurt and pondered all night. From then on, he no longer tried to persuade his father to change medicines.

Because of this, Hu Kuoli’s attitude toward him softened. Hearing rumors that Aletan regretted his resistance and wished to take Heiduo as his master but could not bring himself to do so yet, father and son seemed to recover their former closeness. Thus, for this alliance gathering, Hu Kuoli entrusted him with command of five thousand riders.

When Aletan carried in dinner to the Khan’s yurt, Hu Kuoli was sitting behind a low table, propping his sunken cheek with one hand, dozing off. In the other hand, he still clutched the freshly revised alliance document.

The document had already been amended three times; this was the fourth. Aletan had only seen the first version and judged the terms unfavorable to the Oirat, advising his father to revise them. But afterwards, Hu Kuoli no longer let him see.

Silently setting down the tray, Aletan stepped forward, gently took the document from his father’s hand, and read through it carefully. The more he read, the darker his face grew.

By the end, his expression was as black as the night sky before a storm.

—The terms were not merely weaker with each revision, but practically handed the Oirat’s interests over to the Tatars on a silver platter! Worse, the text was riddled with traps—on the surface appearing fair, even slightly advantageous, but in truth an utter humiliation. A phrase from the Central Plains came to his mind: a treaty of national humiliation.

Who had drafted these terms? Heiduo? Aletan clenched his fists until they cracked, longing to shake his father awake and shout: “Father Khan, have you gone mad?!”

But after drawing a deep breath, he forced down the flames of rage and impulse.

He knew—his father was not merely mad, but beyond cure, a beast wearing human skin, like that bear that had clawed itself open after slamming against the cage for medicine.

He stood there silently for a long time, then slipped the document back into Hu Kuoli’s hand, picked up the dinner tray, and left the royal tent.

—

Nightfall shrouded the city of Hastah.

Once a waystation for caravans heading west, it had slowly grown into a small city. Its buildings were eclectic: Central Plains courtyards, steppe yurts, Western stone houses with arched gates. The inhabitants were mostly merchants, the population highly mobile and ethnically diverse.

The most splendid mansion in the city was a two-story pavilion in Central Plains style, ablaze with light at this moment. In the hall, half-naked dancers twisted their alluring bodies. At the head of the table sat Wuhalang, an arm around each beauty, laughing and drinking as they coaxed him.

To be fair, the young son of the Tatar Grand Master—though mocked throughout the steppe—was not bad-looking. His features were strong, with thick brows, deep eyes, and a short beard bristling on his chin, giving him a certain air of vigor. Unfortunately, his eye bags were swollen, his gaze unfocused, and whenever it fell on a woman, it carried nothing but greasy lechery.

The messenger had been waiting outside the door for a long time. Seeing that the banquet showed no sign of ending, he had no choice but to muster his courage and enter to report—nearly getting his head split open by a flying wine cup.

“Milord, the Oirat have already arrived. They are camping for the night not far from the city.” The messenger rattled it off quickly, then clutched his head and scurried out.

Wuhalang took a freshly filled cup of wine from the beauty’s hand and said lazily, “So they’ve come, then. Once tomorrow’s alliance treaty is signed, they can hurry back where they came from. What kind of place is this bird-dropping little city for men to stay in? There isn’t even a girl worth looking at.”

A Tatar beauty coaxing him with wine giggled, “Milord, don’t forget us old ones just because you’ve found new ones!”

“Don’t worry. Until I find something better, you’re still the most beautiful.” Wuhalang chuckled, pinching her chin and sucking the wine from her lips.

Though the women who served him were all the rare beauties of the Tatar tribe, chosen from hundreds, Wuhalang still found them lacking—bodies not slender and delicate enough, skin not fair and tender enough.

In truth, what he favored most were Central Plains women. Unfortunately, most of those dragged back from the border were mere village girls or modest maidens, good for a play or two before he disposed of them without mercy. And as for those chaste women who would rather die than submit, they only suffered more brutal torment at his hands, until they perished without an intact inch of flesh.

Now that his father, Tuo Huotai, was attacking Great Tong, if the Ming defense line could be breached again, he too wished to follow the army south, to plunder the capital’s noble ladies, even imperial consorts and princesses—wouldn’t that be the supreme joy of life? At the thought, Wuhalang roared with laughter and tore away the gauzy wrap from the beauty in his arms.

—

In a narrow alley of Hastah City, several figures slipped one by one into a stone house and shut the door tightly.

Inside, a single small lamp burned. A lean man in scholar’s robes sat beneath it, reading. This was Lou Yexue, commander of the Xuancheng Ye Bu Shou.

Of the newcomers, men and women both, the first to speak was a blue-eyed Hu female entertainer in a dancer’s costume, her face veiled. “Wuhalang is in Feiyun Tower, drinking and making merry. The Tatar Young Khan has been settled on the second floor of Feiyun Tower.”

A local-looking shepherd added, “The Oirat forces are almost here. They’ve set camp about fifty li outside the city. Khan Hu Kuoli and the Great Prince Aletan are both present.”

“Have you learned the exact time and place of the alliance?” Lou Yexue asked.

A merchant answered, “Yes. It’s tomorrow. The location is Feiyun Tower.”

Lou Yexue nodded. “Well done. Then we act according to the original plan.”

The dancer let out a coy laugh. “Why not make it simple? I could slip into his bed tonight and poison him to death.”

Lou Yexue glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the page, his voice indifferent: “A pig that only knows how to eat, drink, and fornicate—if all I wanted was his death, I could have done it three days ago when I first arrived in Hastah. By now, his corpse would be rotting. Wuhalang must die, but he must die only after conflict breaks out between the two sides—and at Aletan’s hand.”

“But what if no conflict happens?” The dancer, unwilling to lose her chance, pressed further.

Lou Yexue sneered: “Then go ask Squad Leader Huo what he’s here for. Don’t ask me.”