Hastah City was far too small to hold the combined ten thousand troops of both sides, so most had to be stationed outside the walls.
Nomadic peoples were accustomed to the sky as their roof and the earth as their bed, carrying their yurts with them on campaign. These dome-shaped felt tents, white-topped, with wooden poles lashed together by hide thongs, were broad and bright when set up, yet easy to dismantle for travel.
From above, the sight was like countless round white flowers blooming overnight across the grassland, clustered around the mottled-colored little city at the center.
By daylight, Oirat Khan Hu Kuoli entered Hastah City with the Great Prince Aletan, Elder Heiduo, and hundreds of guards.
Wuhalang, taking on the grand bearing of his Grand Master father, coaxed the Tatar Young Khan to join him in welcoming them on the city’s main street.
According to custom, the shamans of both sides came forward first, dueling in a performance of “summoning the spirits for blessing.” Afterward, the two Khans exchanged wine and roast meat and ate them on the spot, as a show of good faith.
Up to this point, the atmosphere remained relatively harmonious. On the Tatar side, Wuhalang was smug, the Young Khan bewildered; on the Oirat side, Hu Kuoli yawned incessantly, leaving Heiduo to manage the rituals of the alliance.
“…Aletan, are you angry?” a youth asked in a lowered voice behind him.
Aletan’s eyes turned sharp. Whipping his head around, he saw it was fifteen-year-old Wodan, and his expression softened slightly. “Of course not,” he said. “Father Khan has said this alliance is to our advantage.”
Other guards rebuked Wodan at once: “How many times must we tell you? You must call him ‘Great Prince’ or ‘Great Shaman’! Right now you’re the only one in the whole tribe still being rude enough to call him by name. Apologize!”
Wodan was stubborn. “Aletan is Aletan! My father Chigeg called him that, and so will I!”
Aletan raised a hand to quell the guards’ anger, then gripped Wodan’s shoulder.
On his strikingly wild, chiseled face, his molten-gold eyes blazed brighter than the sun itself. Bathed in that gaze, Wodan shivered inexplicably.
Aletan said in a low, resonant voice: “I give you permission—you may always call me Aletan. Your father, Shalidan, once carried me unconscious across the boundless ice fields to seek the sacred tree, and fell at the foot of Ulan Mountain. I awoke blessed by the tree, but he lies buried forever in the frozen earth…
“All the warriors who have fought for me, I will remember. One day, you and I shall set foot again on that ice field and bring back your father’s heroic remains.”
Wodan’s eyes reddened at once. Dropping to one knee, he pounded his fist to his chest in salute: “My family and I shall devote our lives in loyalty to Aletan!”
The mounted soldiers around them were deeply moved. One by one they too placed fists to chests, vowing: “Lifelong loyalty to the Great Prince!”
The commotion was not small, but Hu Kuoli, weary and irritable, paid no attention. Beneath his hood, Heiduo’s distant gaze fell upon them.
Aletan, as though nothing had happened, turned his head away.
Wuhalang, too, could see Hu Kuoli’s exhaustion, and invited him to Feiyun Tower’s main hall to jointly sign the alliance treaty. Once the two copies of the pact were signed, he would have his great merit to carry back to the Tatar court and claim his reward from his father.
Aletan kept his face calm, but inwardly he was burning with anxiety—this treaty must never be signed by the Oirats! But what could he do to make sure this alliance collapsed before it could be sealed?
—
Huo Dun, together with a few Ye Bu Shou scouts, disguised themselves as locals and mingled with the crowd along the street.
He had crossed paths with Aletan several times at the Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou, even fought him once. Fearing recognition, he tugged the brim of his felt hat lower over his face.
According to Lou Yexue’s battle plan, Huo Dun’s team needed to spark violent conflict before the treaty was signed, and in the chaos assassinate Wuhalang—then pin the blame on Aletan.
To that end, they had begun their arrangements three days earlier, right after arriving in Hastah City.
Wuhalang had brought four or five thousand cavalry, encamped outside the city. Their daily expenses were immense—especially wine, tea, beef, and mutton—all of which were supplied by nearby towns and tribes.
—Bought at low prices, or else robbed outright.
The Ye Bu Shou infiltrators and vanguards slipped into the supply chain, mixing crushed seeds of the datura fruit into the tea.
Datura was used as an anesthetic and painkiller, but in the wrong dose it caused poisoning—restlessness, hallucinations, delirium, and in severe cases, unconsciousness.
Why the tea? Because adding powder to liquor would spoil the taste. These northern steppe men had drunk strong spirits since childhood; they could catch even the faintest off-flavor. But tea, boiled in great pots with meat chunks and cheese, had its sharpness muddled, leaving the drug undetected.
They hadn’t used lethal amounts. The goal was to put the Tatar cavalry into a state of nervous agitation, so that when provoked they would go berserk, losing all reason—much like a military camp in the grip of hysteria.
After three days of this, the Tatar camp seethed with unrest. The cavalry drank heavily, brawled at the slightest quarrel, and stormed through the city seizing women and boys to slake their lust.
Wuhalang did nothing to restrain them. For one, he was lascivious himself; for another, he was steeped in brute savagery and believed this was the true vigor of steppe men. The city lord of Hastah dared not voice his fury—he longed only for the treaty to be signed quickly, so he could send these plague demons away.
During this time, Huo Dun had seen with his own eyes Tatar cavalry ravage the young daughter of a Central Plains merchant. He almost rushed to save her, but Lou Yexue stopped him.
Huo Dun frowned. “She is one of the Great Ming’s people!”
Lou Yexue’s expression was like frost, her voice cold enough to chill bone: “Those who accomplish great deeds don’t fuss over trifles. For the sake of the nation’s interest, individual sacrifice is inevitable.”
Had anyone else said this, Huo Dun would have snapped back: If it’s for the greater good, why not sacrifice yourself?
But facing Lou Yexue, he could not. Because he knew the answer—when the time came, Lou Yexue would unhesitatingly sacrifice himself, like the most devout believer, offering up his flesh and blood as a burial gift to the state’s interest.
Since he demanded it of himself, he demanded it of others. If not willingly, then forcibly—it was enough that they could be used.
Huo Dun knew his longtime friend was such a person. That was why the Ye Bu Shou squad was what it was today—razor-sharp, efficient, existing for nothing but the mission.
After a moment of hesitation, he chose once again to obey—just as he had countless times before. Knowing it was wrong in morality, evil in humanity, yet still resolutely standing by his side, accomplice and protector both.
In this assassination plan, Lou Yexue wove together several strands:
- Poisoning the Tatar cavalry, primed to erupt in riot at the key moment;
- Placing dancing girls in the Feiyun Tower to watch Wuhalang and pass along intelligence;
- Having Huo Dun lead a few Ye Bu Shou vanguards of steppe blood to disguise themselves as Oirats and strike at Wuhalang. If successful, they would lure Aletan to the scene of the murder, planting blame upon him.
Now, just as the two khans were about to enter Feiyun Tower to sign the treaty, the Tatar camp suddenly exploded—
A “shepherd girl” they had abducted suddenly turned on them, roaring in Oirat, “The Tatars shall be destroyed!” and slashing down more than a dozen cavalrymen. The stench of blood and cries of agony inflamed the soldiers’ already frenzied minds, and a storm of rage swept through the camp.
“—The Oirats broke faith! They attack us!” the Tatar cavalry howled. They hacked the girl into bloody chunks, then, in their fury, charged toward the Oirat camp just across the way.
The Oirat cavalry had been on high alert ever since their khan and prince entered the city, fearing just such a Tatar treachery. Seeing their foes brandishing weapons and charging, they too mounted and rushed to meet them.
Several commanders of noble birth hurriedly organized the defense, while dispatching messengers to gallop into the city and report to Khan Hu Kuoli and Great Prince Aletan.
The sudden clash was like thunder out of a clear sky, stunning the two sides at the negotiating table.
The Tatars and Oirats had been enemies for years; cavalry skirmishes were nothing new. But for one to erupt at this critical moment—it was hard not to see dark design. The atmosphere grew cold and brittle, trust between the sides collapsing into drawn blades.
Heiduo broke the silence, saying to Hu Kuoli: “Perhaps some misunderstanding has occurred. Your Majesty should first investigate, lest we fall into another’s trap.”
Hu Kuoli nodded. Wuhalang too wavered.
Then Aletan spoke: “What the great shaman Heiduo says is true. Father Khan, since the great shaman’s powers are unmatched, why not let him represent you to investigate and quell the dispute?”
Hu Kuoli depended on Heiduo with unusual reliance, and seemed reluctant to send him away. Aletan pressed: “If the great shaman dares not go, then I will.”
As they brushed past each other, Aletan’s lips curled in a smile of excitement, his eyes alight with burning ambition.
A chill stabbed through Heiduo’s heart. He suspected Aletan meant to seize this chance to show his prowess, win the army’s loyalty, and gather power to himself. In a flash of thought, Heiduo rasped: “—I will go.”
Since he volunteered, Hu Kuoli agreed.
Heiduo departed. Wuhalang too prepared to send his trusted men with his tally to mediate at the scene. Thus the meeting was suspended, with both khans retiring to separate courtyards—one east, one west—to await the conflict’s resolution.
The alliance talks had been thrown into chaos. Wuhalang, seething with frustration, wanted to find a woman to vent his fire. Passing through a courtyard, he suddenly saw a veiled Hu dancer, her figure alluring, and immediately called her over to serve him.
The dancer giggled, hooking her finger, teasing in a Western accent: “Come chase me! Catch me, and I’ll let my lord do whatever he wishes…” With that, she flitted away like a deer toward the far side of the courtyard.
Wuhalang had never seen such a bewitching woman. Desire surged within him, and he hurried after her with his bodyguards.
But rounding a corner into a large chamber, what awaited him was not warm fragrance and soft jade, but a snare.
Cold steel gleamed from beams, beneath the bed, inside cabinets, behind doors—blades flashing in all directions. They fell upon the guards in a sudden storm, cutting them down on the spot.
Wuhalang, struck in the chaos, drew his blade and fought desperately while shouting for help.
By chance, Khan Hu Kuoli and Prince Aletan were passing nearby with their guards. Hearing the commotion, they rushed to the doorway and saw Wuhalang at death’s edge.
Aletan, well-versed in martial arts, recognized the assailants’ techniques and immediately barked: “That’s swordplay from the Central Plains!”
Ming spies? Hu Kuoli, without hesitation, commanded his men: “Seize the assassins!”
Huo Dun realized the plan had gone awry—if Aletan struck, none of his comrades could withstand him. Even if Huo Dun himself had once fought him a hundred rounds without defeat, clashing again now risked exposure. Reluctantly, he gave the signal to retreat and seek another chance.
At his whistle, the assassins smashed doors and windows, scattering into the night with guards in pursuit.
Aletan looked at the bloodied, panicked Wuhalang. In that instant, a thought like thunder on a rainy night split through the darkness of his mind.
—
A blade flashed. Crimson spattered the white walls.
Wuhalang’s eyes bulged wide, disbelief frozen on his face. His body stood rigid for a breath, then toppled backward, blood streaming from his mouth and nose.
Khan Hu Kuoli reeled in shock, coughing violently, rasping: “Aletan, are you mad?!”
“The mad one is you, Father Khan—actually willing to sign such a humiliating, disgraceful treaty with the Tatars.” Aletan pulled his curved blade from Wuhalang’s body, turning toward his father, eyes brimming with pained tears. “No, not mad—you are poisoned beyond cure. And the poison came from Heiduo.”
Between coughs, Hu Kuoli gasped: “So…you know… I can’t live without the pellets, it’s worse than death without them…”
The craving seized him now—tears and mucus streaming, his whole body like ants gnawing at his bones, unbearable sourness, numbness, and pain stabbing from his marrow. He clawed at his skin, wailing hoarsely: “Heiduo! Call Heiduo—give me the medicine! The medicine!”
Aletan lowered his gaze to his father, writhing on the ground.
In a daze he remembered childhood, when his father carried him on his shoulders, running across the early-spring grasslands. Back then, his father’s shoulders were like a towering mountain, bearing a child’s boundless awe and yearning for the future.
“Father Khan, endure it—please endure it.” Aletan knelt, one hand gripping his blade, the other wrapping around his father’s gaunt, jutting frame. “The old shaman said—even though the poison is fierce, if your will is strong enough, each time you resist without taking the drug, after a few years you can break free of it, escape its control.”
“Pellets… give me pellets, I’ll do anything… the treaty, write it however you want… take it, all of it, just give me the medicine…” Hu Kuoli was deaf to his words. His body convulsed, consumed by craving, babbling incoherently in his desperation.
Hot tears rolled down Aletan’s cheeks. He held his father tight, choking: “Father Khan, the eagle of the sacred tree has fallen into filth. I will send your soul to Eternal Heaven, to final release.”
Gritting his teeth, he thrust the blade upward through his father’s ribs with all his strength.
Steel pierced the heart. Hu Kuoli spat a great gout of blood onto Aletan’s shoulder.
The agony jolted his fading mind awake. Clutching Aletan’s arm, he gurgled through blood-foamed lips: “Well done, my son… the honor of the Oirats cannot be sullied… the slayer inherits the strength of the slain… you will be the true king of these steppes…”
Aletan breathed deeply, clutching his father tight.
The body in his arms shuddered one last time, then fell still. Aletan buried his face against his father’s shoulder, wiping away the last of his tears and grief.
He laid the body gently on the ground, kissed the pale forehead, and began to chant, low and solemn, a shaman’s song for the soul’s passing:
“Pray the great eagle soars to bear away your soul;
Pray the snowy peaks melt to wash away your dust;
Pray the yellow mare foals to enrich your tribe;
Pray the myriad gods of Eternal Heaven set you among the stars…”
When Aletan rose again, no tears remained on his face.
He strode to Wuhalang’s corpse, severed the head with a single stroke, and carried it out of Feiyun Tower.
Before the massed ranks of cavalry, he raised the blood-dripping head high, crying with grief and fury: “Wuhalang, vile and treacherous—he broke faith, first stirring conflict in the camps, then plotting to murder the Khan. I struck him down! Sons of the Oirats, avenge your Khan—swear enmity with the Tatars unto death!”
The Oirat cavalry fell into a deathly silence, then like a storm-wracked sea erupted in fury, weapons raised as one, roaring: “Avenge the Khan! With the Tatars—never—shall—we—stand!”
Aletan hurled Wuhalang’s head down the steps.
He turned toward Heiduo, who had hurried back, and shouted in rage: “Great Shaman Heiduo! Before we set out, you divined for Father Khan, saying this journey would be smooth, that the alliance would bring Oirats glory and profit. And the result? My father—dead by Tatar blades! Is this your vaunted power to commune with the spirits?”
Heiduo stared at the head rolling across the dirt, fury and dread twisting within him. Hidden under his black cowl, his expression was unseen, but his voice, hoarse like burning charcoal, betrayed his humiliation and rage: “This journey should have gone smoothly, the alliance should have succeeded! That was Heaven’s will—unless someone has committed an act of blasphemy against the gods!”
“Shut your mouth!” Aletan’s tongue burst like spring thunder, his roar shaking the air. “I’ll see who dares to pour filth on my father khan! My father saw through Wuhalang’s scheme and refused to sign the alliance treaty at the last moment—was that the ‘blasphemy’ you speak of? Then tell me, Heiduo, just whose god do you worship? Is it the sacred tree tattooed on your skin, or the blue wolf carved into your bones?”
So sharply rebuked, the expressions of the Oirat riders turned toward Heiduo with visible change; doubt and mistrust began to ripple through their gazes, spreading like contagion.
At that moment, a messenger’s cry cut through the crowd: “The Tatars have gone mad! They even killed the trusted men sent by Wuhalang!”
“Kill every Tatar inside and outside the city!” Aletan ordered. “Use their flesh and blood as sacrifice to honor the sweat, to appease the wrath of the gods!”
The Oirat horsemen let out a beastlike roar.
Aletan turned his head toward Heiduo. The savage, domineering ferocity between his brows was no longer suppressed, paired with his inhumanly tall, broad frame—he was wholly like a feral beast from primordial times, as if in the very next instant he would bare fangs and tear the man before him to pieces.
He bared a grin of white teeth at Heiduo: “Once Hastah City is pacified, I’ll trouble the great shaman to dance again, call down the gods, and divine for me the fortune of the next campaign.”
The next campaign? Could it be… he meant to take advantage of the Grand Master Tuohuotai currently besieging Great Tong, with the Tatars’ rear lines left empty, and launch a surprise attack on the Tatar royal court? How mad, how bold, how arrogant! This man before him, seething with battle intent—was he still the same warm and forthright Aletan of before? Heiduo was inwardly shaken, lifting his gaze to bore into Aletan, the jut of his gaunt jaw showing beneath the hood of his black robe.
The northern steppe tribes were robust of body, their mounted archers fierce, the citizen soldiers, sustaining war with war. They needed no prepared provisions; wherever they rode, they plundered. With stamina, clever strategy, and indomitable will, they could explode with terrifying strength.
Now that the Khan was newly dead, the so-called “mourning army must prevail.” While the clansmen were still sunk in grief and rage, strike in one breath against the Tatar royal court. This surprise attack, carried under the banner of vengeance, might not annihilate the Tatars entirely, but it would certainly shake and cripple them, using the enemy’s blood and flesh as stepping stones to establish might, and pillaging supplies to return laden with spoils.
Aletan swung himself onto his horse, the tip of his blade pointing eastward—
Behind him, the setting sun hung upon the horizon, its blood-red afterglow enshrouding the new king rising in the northern steppe.
—
The Ye Bu Shou squad rode stolen horses, fleeing for their lives with Oirat riders hard on their heels.
Though Lou Yexue was skilled in horsemanship, his body was frail; Huo Dun feared he might be thrown off the galloping steed, and so shared the saddle with him.
Only after a hundred li at full speed did they finally shake off pursuit. Lou Yexue had been jolted until his ears rang and his stomach churned, holding back nausea by sheer willpower, his face turning ever paler. Seeing this, Huo Dun slowed their pace, gave him a few gulps of water from a leather flask, and only then did he recover his breath.
Huo Dun asked, “Old Ye, can you still hold up?”
Lou Yexue leaned back against his chest, panting: “Hold up? I’d say I’ve feasted to the full—utterly satisfied!” Wiping the water from the corner of his lips, he laughed with delight. “We meant only to kill Wuhalang, and instead Hu Kuoli fell into our laps as well—ha! Now the alliance between the two sides is doomed to collapse, with no chance of mending. With Tatars and Oirats once more at each other’s throats, for Great Ming this is a heaven-sent fortune!”
Huo Dun considered and asked, “Will the Oirats really believe Aletan’s claim that Hu Kuoli was murdered by Wuhalang? After all, it’s only his word—no one else knows what happened inside Feiyun Tower.”
“Why wouldn’t they believe it? Aletan is son of the sacred tree, and already long named heir by Hu Kuoli. He has no motive for patricide. Do you think the Oirats won’t doubt their sworn enemy, the Tatars—won’t doubt the infamous Wuhalang—and instead suspect their own shaman-prince?” Lou Yexue’s tone carried a faint sneer.
Huo Dun nodded; he found the reasoning sound.
Lou Yexue gave a cutting, mocking smile: “And even if it was Aletan, so what? Among the northern tribes, patricide is hardly unheard of. These barbarians are unfilial, unbenevolent, unrighteous, and they worship strength above all. Whoever has might, whoever is sheltered by the gods—that one is their king.”
In truth, it could not quite be called a “tradition,” more like an extreme form of succession rite, and one that had died out over a century ago. But since Huo Dun knew Lou Yexue’s hatred of the steppe people, he did not argue.
Instead, he humored him: “After such upheaval, Tatars and Oirats will surely sink into fresh cycles of war and slaughter, leaving them no time to harass our Ming borders. Old Ye, if you report this great achievement, the court will surely reward you—perhaps even summon you back to the capital.”
“—Why would I return to the capital?” Lou Yexue cut in, ambition flashing deep in his eyes. “The frontier is where I can truly spread my wings. Ye Bu Shou are an elite force of special character. I will integrate the various guard units, and under my command, this troop will blaze forth with the brilliance of a peerless divine army!”
Huo Dun was taken aback, then asked, “You mean to become the commander of Ye Bu Shou?”
Lou Yexue answered without hesitation: “Who else but me!”
