“Throughout history, sages have always been lonely. Best to just hang oneself on the southeast branch.”
“Life is full of disappointments. Might as well hang oneself on the southeast branch.”
“On the verge of death, I spring up in surprise, only to turn and hang myself on the southeast branch.”
“Since ancient times, no one escapes death. Better to hang oneself on the southeast branch.”
“My lord, this—this is—” Jinghong Zhui struggled to keep from laughing. “Truly poetic.”
Su Yan wobbled atop his horse, his inner thighs raw and sore from rubbing against the saddle. On his head was a large conical hat with black gauze hanging down from its rim to block the sun and sand—a practical design, though regrettably effeminate.
“What does my poetic talent have to do with it? This is the art of blending verses,” he sighed heavily, continuing to bump along the dusty yellow road, chanting melodiously:
“Lian Po is old, but how long will charming brows last?”
“In old age, I let loose youthful passion—one pear blossom pressing down a crabapple tree.”
“I shed the general’s robes, warming the hibiscus bed through the spring night. Jiangzhou Magistrate’s green robe is soaked; from now on, the emperor won’t hold morning court.”
Jinghong Zhui’s ears burned as he unconsciously glanced at Su Yan’s green robe, his mind a chaotic mess of fanciful thoughts, which he forcefully suppressed. “I know, my lord, that this journey has been hard on you, and the days of endless travel are monotonous. But we’re not far from Lingzhou now. If we push our horses, we could arrive in two or three days.”
Hearing the words “push our horses,” Su Yan’s legs ached even more.
After leaving Hengliangzi Town, they had no map and had to ask for directions as they went, winding through unfamiliar terrain. Finally, they entered Dingbian City just before nightfall.
Jinghong Zhui settled Su Yan at an inn, saying, “My lord, rest first. I’ll be back shortly,” before heading out.
Su Yan, guessing he was going to gather funds, hurriedly called out, “Don’t kill anyone.”
Jinghong Zhui chuckled. “I know. I’m your bodyguard now, not an assassin.”
“Also, don’t rob honest people.”
“I’ll only take ill-gotten gains. If it eases your mind, I’ll keep a record of whose houses I take from and pay them back later.”
Su Yan thought for a moment, realizing the urgency of their situation, and reluctantly agreed.
By morning, Jinghong Zhui had managed to gather over a hundred taels of silver, mostly in small denominations, along with some copper coins—more than enough for the remainder of the journey. He also purchased two fine horses.
Initially, he wanted to buy a carriage for Su Yan, but carriages were slow, and the poor condition of the mountain roads in this area would make for a bumpy ride. Su Yan decided he’d rather endure horseback than risk vomiting his guts out, so he chose to ride.
For the first two days, things were fine. By the third day, however, the pampered Su Yan began to suffer.
Regular riders develop calluses on their inner thighs, but Su Yan’s skin was fair and thin, almost translucent, with faint blue and red veins visible beneath. His tender flesh couldn’t withstand the constant friction from the saddle and began to burn painfully.
Determined not to show weakness or act spoiled, Su Yan gritted his teeth and endured. When the pain became unbearable, he recited nonsensical, mismatched poetry to distract himself.
Now, upon hearing “push our horses,” his scalp tingled, and he weakly said, “Ah Zhui, I can’t take it anymore. I need to get off and rest.”
Jinghong Zhui, thinking he might be suffering from heatstroke, quickly helped him dismount.
Nearby, a small creek trickled under a wooden plank bridge. Though the stream was narrow and modest, it was clear. Su Yan took off his conical hat and placed it on a rock by the water. His legs trembled, and he found it difficult to sit or stand. Looking around to confirm no one else was present, he kicked off his shoes and began unfastening his trousers.
Jinghong Zhui was startled. “My lord!” Instinctively, he grabbed Su Yan’s waistband.
Su Yan slapped his hand away. “What’s your problem? There’s no one else here. Besides, I’m still wearing shorts. It’s not like I’m streaking.”
Jinghong Zhui refused to let go. “What is the lord trying to do?!”
Su Yan had no choice but to explain honestly, “My thighs hurt. I need to check the situation.”
Jinghong Zhui froze for a moment, his face flushing as he let go and turned his back, positioning himself to block the view of the road.
When Su Yan removed his long pants, he saw that the insides of his thighs were indeed red, swollen, and chafed. If it went on like this, the skin would tear, and he’d be bleeding soon. Supporting himself on a rock, he carefully sat down and ordered, “Ah Zhui, go fetch two strips of cotton gauze from the bundle.”
Jinghong Zhui turned back and saw Su Yan’s thighs—each with palm-sized abrasions from the friction. The red marks on his pale skin resembled blood spreading through white jade, starkly vivid. Heart aching, Jinghong Zhui immediately knelt to examine the injuries. “Lord, your legs are injured this badly from the saddle. It’s my negligence. I didn’t take good care of you.”
Having grown up enduring cold and hunger, and trained to sleep on the bare ground, Jinghong Zhui had a hardened body and mindset. Though he knew Su Yan had delicate skin, he didn’t realize it was as fragile as tofu.
Lord Su was also wearing a gauzy hat, obscuring his expression. It was unclear how much pain he had endured until now, but upon realizing it, he felt an immediate pang of guilt.
Su Yan sighed and said, “It’s not your fault. It’s just that this body of mine is too useless.” It was bad enough that the original owner was a flamboyant guy, but worse still, he had a frail, delicate frame that was easily pushed over. Even now, he hadn’t managed to build a single abdominal muscle—truly the weakest of the weak. If he had a second chance at transmigration, he’d be willing to trade ten years of his life just to get his original body back. If that wasn’t possible, he’d settle for a sturdy, muscle-bound warrior’s shell—anything would be better than being a frail scholar with no strength to even truss a chicken.
Jinghong Zhui retrieved a bundle from his saddlebag. Just then, he noticed a large group of people and horses approaching from the distant road beyond the bridge. Strictly speaking, there were only about thirty riders, while the rest of the procession consisted of a vast herd of unmounted horses, all marching in an orderly fashion behind the lead steed.
It looked like a trade caravan traveling to and from the border city—either returning after selling goods or heading out to sell horses. Jinghong Zhui withdrew his cautious gaze, took out a strip of cotton gauze, and knelt in front of Su Yan to bandage his wound.
A moment later, an unfamiliar voice suddenly rang out from atop the bridge. “What are you doing?” The words were spoken in Great Ming’s official dialect, though the speaker’s accent carried a slight foreign lilt, with a cadence like a drawn-out, sliding string note.
Jinghong Zhui turned his head and saw that across the wooden bridge, on the other side of the creek, the mounted travelers had halted. At the forefront sat a man atop an exceptionally tall and majestic steed, watching them with an amused expression.
The man looked young, though his exact age was hard to pinpoint. He wore the left-lapped tunic of the Northern Desert tribes. His thick, slightly wavy hair cascaded over his shoulders and back, intricately braided into numerous small plaits, with gold rings and green jade beads woven into the braids at his temples. These ornaments gleamed, complementing his olive-colored eyes. His sun-bronzed skin, high nose, and deep-set features gave him a rugged and masculine appeal, evoking images of vast deserts, setting suns over long rivers, and the boundless frontier—a powerful and majestic presence.
“I thought prairie folk were bold and uninhibited, but I never expected Central Plains people to be just as unconstrained by propriety. Impressive.” The man spoke in a teasing tone, though it wasn’t particularly offensive.
Following the man’s gaze, Su Yan looked down at himself—sitting on a rock by the creek, his bare white legs spread apart, with Jinghong Zhui’s head positioned right between them. Given the angle and positioning, it indeed looked extremely suggestive…
No! This was a massive misunderstanding! I am an upright and virtuous straight man—I would never commit such an indecent act in broad daylight!
Just as Su Yan was about to defend his innocence, Jinghong Zhui grabbed a pair of pants and tossed them over Su Yan’s lap. Then, he stood up, blocking the view from the bridge and coldly snapped, “What does this have to do with you? Mind your own business!”
The foreign man was momentarily startled before bursting into hearty laughter. “It was just a joke, no need to get so angry. I saw you tending to his wound—was he injured on his thigh?”
Jinghong Zhui’s expression remained icy, his gaze sharp and unwelcoming, practically radiating a “get lost” aura.
Meanwhile, Su Yan awkwardly pulled on his pants and rested a hand on Jinghong Zhui’s shoulder. “It’s fine, let’s go.”
Jinghong Zhui turned to him and asked, “Young… master, can you still ride?”
Su Yan replied, “I can. With the cotton padding, it won’t chafe as much. Let’s hurry up and get going—the sooner we reach our destination, the sooner we can be done with this.”
The two of them returned to the roadside, where Jinghong Zhui helped Su Yan onto his horse. As Su Yan swung his leg over the saddle, the wound on his thigh rubbed against the padding, sending a sharp pain through him.
Noticing his discomfort, the man across the bridge called out, “That won’t do—you’ll still get chafed. Here, take this.”
He tossed an object into the air. Su Yan instinctively reached out to catch it, but Jinghong Zhui, wary of any potential threat, leaped up and intercepted it midair before landing lightly on his feet.
“Nice reflexes!” the man praised.
What he had thrown was a pair of leg wraps, made from five layers of soft lambskin with thick fleece lining on the inner side. When tied around the thighs over one’s trousers, they would indeed prevent chafing. Jinghong Zhui handed the wraps to Su Yan, his expression slightly less tense, and cupped his fists in thanks. “Much appreciated. We’ll buy these—how much?”
“I’m not selling them! They’re a gift. Take them or toss them away, it’s up to you.” The foreign man frowned in displeasure. “Once something leaves the hands of an Oirat, it is never taken back.”
Although Su Yan had never encountered the tribes of this era, he had interacted with nomadic groups during his past life’s travels. He knew that most nomadic people had a straightforward and intense disposition—either they were warm and hospitable to those they liked, or they would draw their blades without hesitation when faced with hostility. There was rarely any middle ground.
This man, who called himself an Oirat, was offering the leg wraps out of goodwill. However, Su Yan had just witnessed the massacre of Hengliangzi town at the hands of the Tatars, and his heart harbored lingering resentment toward the steppe tribes. Thus, he asked, “May I ask—what is Oirat? Is it a nation or a tribe? And what is your relationship with the Tatars?”
“We are the forest people of the Eight Rivers region. We have nothing to do with the steppe Tatars,” the man said with disdain, lifting his chin slightly. “If you must define our relationship, we are mortal enemies.”
Su Yan was momentarily puzzled but quickly pieced things together. The term “Dayan” he mentioned referred to what the Ming called “Tatars.” Based on his geographic description, the so-called “Oirat” were, in fact, the Western Mongols—known in history as the Oirats.
He recalled that just a few months ago, after being appointed as the Crown Prince’s Shidu, Emperor Jinglong had asked him about the situation in the northern frontier. Su Yan had proposed an unconventional strategy—using “a carrot to make the donkey run” and “promoting the concubine to wife”—an idea that, surprisingly, had been adopted.
Later, Su Yan was falsely accused and received a severe beating during a court session. After recovering and returning to the palace, the emperor summoned him again and mentioned that a secret envoy had been sent to the northern steppe tribes. Among them, the Oirat tribe showed the most enthusiasm. Their leader, Hu Kuoli, expressed a willingness to accept the honorary title of Pingning Wang from the Ming Dynasty. Moreover, he proposed that if the Ming court supported his unification of the steppe, he would forego adopting the imperial title of “Beicheng Emperor” and instead refer to himself as “Khan,” while honoring the Ming emperor with the supreme title of Heavenly Khan. In essence, this was a gesture of submission.
Emperor Jinglong was somewhat tempted by the idea, and Su Yan also believed that among the dozen or so tribes of the Northern Desert, the Oirat was one of the most ideal allies to win over. Firstly, they were powerful but not overwhelmingly dominant; secondly, the Oirat had once killed the last emperor of the Beicheng dynasty, who had fled after being defeated by the founding emperor of the Great Ming. They had been locked in an endless struggle with the Tatars over the rightful claim to the khanate, making them natural adversaries. This hostility was something that the Great Ming could exploit to its advantage.
However, the Oirat’s primary condition for an alliance was for Prince Kunle to marry a Great Ming princess, which was absolutely unacceptable to Emperor Jinglong. As a result, the negotiations for an alliance were put on hold.
For the past few months, both sides had been testing each other’s bottom line—one side asking for the sky, the other bargaining down to the ground. They hadn’t broken off negotiations, but they also hadn’t reached an agreement, leaving things in a temporary stalemate.
Recalling all of this, Su Yan’s hostility eased somewhat, but he remained cautious. He then asked, “What brings Your Excellency to the territory of the Great Ming?”
The Oirat man gestured with his thumb behind him. “Selling horses, trading for tea and salt. We went to Pingliang, but the officials there were too dishonest, trying to trade us moldy, inferior tea for our fine horses. So we left and decided to head for Lingzhou. I heard that at Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou, there will be an open border market early this autumn. And you two? Where are you headed?”
Su Yan wanted to gather information from him, so he replied, “As it happens, we are also headed to Lingzhou.”
The Oirat man grinned. “Since we’re all going to Lingzhou, why not travel together? The borderlands have been dangerous these past few years—it’s safer to travel in a group.”
Jinghong Zhui gathered his internal energy and sent a thread of sound directly into Su Yan’s ear: “My lord, his identity is unverified. Be wary of deception.”
Su Yan nodded slightly, indicating he understood.
The Oirat man couldn’t hear Jinghong Zhui’s secret transmission, but he could tell that Su Yan was the one making the decisions between the two. So, he looked at Su Yan with an earnest expression, waiting for an answer.
Su Yan, looking apologetic, said, “I have an unreasonable request. As you said, the borderlands are unsafe. We only just escaped the blades and arrows of the Tatar cavalry and are still shaken. Unless Your Excellency can prove your identity, we dare not travel together.”
The Oirat man was momentarily surprised but did not seem offended. He slowly urged his horse forward.
As he drew near, Su Yan realized just how imposing he was—at least 1.9 meters tall, with a towering horse beneath him, making his presence even more intimidating.
“And how would you like me to prove it?” the man asked.
Su Yan recalled the Tatar cavalryman who had lassoed him with a rope—on his chest, there had been a wolf-head tattoo. He wondered if that was their tribal totem. So he asked, “I’ve heard that every tribe in the Northern Desert has its own totem—both as a vessel for the spirits of their gods and as an emblem of their clan. Is this true?”
The Oirat man chuckled. “It is.”
“Then may I ask—what is the Tatar tribe’s totem?”
“The Gray Wolf.”
“And your tribe’s?”
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the ties at his ribs, loosened them, and pulled open his robe to reveal his chest.
Around his neck, he wore a gold necklace with an exotic design. A pendant inlaid with emeralds rested against his well-defined pectoral muscles, hanging low enough to brush against his firm, sculpted abs. Below the pendant, a clear tattoo of a tree was inked into his skin.
“‘Tokhtilak,’ the sacred tree that supports the sky, stands at the very center of the world. It is the deity we Oirats believe in.”
Su Yan’s gaze was drawn to the ancient and mysterious tattoo. He studied it for a while, feeling that something about it seemed off, though he couldn’t immediately pinpoint what it was.
As his eyes lingered, he suddenly noticed that the man had two golden nipple rings. The thin, circular gold rings stood out against his sleek, dark skin, carrying an indescribable allure and sensuality…
Wait, what the h*ll am I thinking?! We’re both men—he has them, I have them—what’s there to look at?! Feeling slightly flustered, Su Yan quickly averted his gaze and cupped his hands in greeting. “I am Su Yan. May I ask Your Excellency’s name?”
“Aletan.” The man left his chest bare, his unwavering gaze fixed on the young Central Plains scholar. He repeated Su Yan’s name with a unique foreign intonation, drawing out the syllables as if savoring them. “Su Yan… Su Yan… I will remember you.”
Jinghong Zhui said coldly, “No need to remember. We are mere passersby who will part ways soon—no point wasting the effort.”
