Chapter 40: A Feint to the East, a Strike to the West
Boom!
Flames surged up around the perimeter of the convoy. The people within were startled, then someone shouted, “Break through!” Those on either side discarded their clay jars and drew various weapons. The fire distorted their vision, and those inside the circle ran about in panic, but the flames had already formed a barrier. Their frantic movements only drained their strength.
Two carriages within the city gates charged outward wildly. Outside the gate, a spiked club flashed.
Zhong Hui, holding the spiked club in one hand and his other hand behind his back, walked out slowly, squinting at the approaching carriages and said indifferently, “Why struggle…”
The horses had been stabbed several times, and the two men behind looked cold and indifferent, as if unaware they were in a desperate plight.
The horses neighed loudly, but pain drove them on in a wild gallop.
The two men poised to leap. If the horse could break past the man with the spiked club—so nonchalant and carefree—they could ride the momentum out. Once they escaped Chang’an, catching them again would be near impossible.
The leading man let out a sharp whistle, launching himself into the air and towards Zhong Hui. Midway, his left hand flicked, sending several throwing darts spinning forward.
The other man, though starting later, arrived first. He tapped his comrade’s shoulder in midair with his toe, grasped his blade in both hands, and shot straight at Zhong Hui like a spear.
The carriage was about to collide with Zhong Hui. The darts sealed off his left and right escape routes; the only option was to crash headlong into the carriage.
On the city tower, a guardsman cried out, “Be careful!”
Zhong Hui moved.
His body shifted to the side, and his left hand flicked rapidly with his fingers.
Ping!
Ping!
Two darts flew skyward. The horse pulling the carriage thundered past the spot he vacated.
Zhong Hui leaped gracefully, the spiked club coming down in a powerful strike.
Bang!
The blow struck the carriage shaft squarely, snapping it, and the large carriage pitched downward.
Suspended in midair, Zhong Hui now faced the two men flying towards him. He smiled faintly, “Stop!”
Like a thunderclap on a clear day, the man who had cast himself as a human spear felt his mind blur for an instant. His body relaxed, and a hand tapped the back of his neck. It felt gentle, yet his body spun sideways.
Bang!
His comrade collided with him, a foot landing on his body, the sound of breaking bones crackling.
With that momentum, Zhong Hui soared skyward.
He passed over the city wall and looked ahead.
The flames rose high. More than thirty people from the convoy had gathered together, their figures growing indistinct after a bout of activity.
A middle-aged man knelt upon a salted fish, pointing forward and shouting. Two blurred figures, short knives in hand, charged into the flames without hesitation.
The fire blazed fiercely, and the two figures were soon engulfed, burning.
“Through the sea of wine…”
Among the crowd from the Imperial Academy, a disheveled, middle-aged man held a wine pouch in his left hand and a long sword in his right. He took a swig, staggered forward, his body swaying.
The sword flashed, its song sharp and clear.
Two drivers spun and fell into the flames, instantly becoming blazing figures.
This was the leader of the Wine Battalion from the Imperial Academy, Zhuang Xin. The man never parted from his wine pouch, often raising it for a drink. He sought insight through drinking, but when he drank too much, he would slip into the woods to sing, dance, and disrobe, suffering many beatings from An Ziyu and her companions.
Yang Xuan, as the commander, stood atop a table further behind. Seeing Zhuang Xin dispatch the two drivers, but the spies within the ring of fire still huddled together, he nodded slightly, “They are indeed fearless.”
An Ziyu asked, “Should we attack?”
“No need.” Yang Xuan slowly drew his saber. “The longer we drag this out, the more miserable their deaths will be!”
“Why?” An Ziyu seemed eager to act. “By the way, why did you order poisons mixed into the fire oil?”
Yang Xuan replied, “Perhaps it will make them dizzy.”
Beside his ear, Vermillion Bird whispered, “In fires, most casualties are due to poisoning or suffocation. Burning fire oil consumes the oxygen, causing hypoxia…”
The spies inside were clearly hoping the attackers would rush in for glory, so they could drag a few more down with them in death.
“Yang Xuan, shall we start?” a professor called out.
“Wait a little longer.” Yang Xuan shook his head.
“What are we waiting for? They’re growing more composed.” The professor was impatient.
“Huh!”
Within the convoy, one driver’s body swayed and suddenly collapsed with a thud.
Uh!
The professor glanced at Yang Xuan, surprise and confusion in his eyes.
Someone cried out, “Does Yang Xuan know magic?”
Yang Xuan rolled his eyes.
Thud!
A second person fell.
The spies waiting to act were stunned. Someone shouted, “My head is spinning, my chest is tight.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Help me!”
The middle-aged man kneeling on the salted fish gasped, coughing violently, then shouted, “It’s poison, break out!”
“Prepare…”
Yang Xuan raised his hand.
No soldiers were present; all were on the perimeter, armed with blades, spears, or bows.
“Why won’t they let us go in?” a guardsman wondered. “A few volleys of arrows would guarantee none escape.”
An Ziyu knew why.
So did the teachers and students.
Because the Imperial Academy needed the credit!
An Ziyu glanced at Yang Xuan, nodded slightly, then raised her ruler and was the first to charge forward.
Yang Xuan shouted, “Leave no survivors!”
He knew from his informants that these Southern Zhou spies were utterly fearless, so there was no need to risk lives.
The professors glanced at him, gratitude in their eyes, then led their students into the fray.
The spies who had just crossed the flames could not conceal themselves; fire burned on their bodies as they launched themselves at the teachers and students of the Academy.
According to Yang Xuan’s arrangement, each professor led two students to attack, with the professor in front and students behind, giving them a taste of the difficulty of combat.
On the central carriage, the middle-aged man snapped his fingers, sending darts flying. Several spies rendered unconscious by poison and lack of oxygen died instantly.
Another spy stood at his side, saber in hand, respectful.
The fight was fierce but ended swiftly.
The Imperial Academy lost five, all students.
“The wounds aren’t serious.”
A comforting piece of news.
“Put out the fire.”
Someone brought sand and poured it over the flames. The fire gradually dimmed.
A group of professors stared at the two remaining spies, their gazes harsh.
“How long has it been since I killed anyone?” one professor shouted.
The kneeling middle-aged man smiled softly and murmured, “A hundred plans, one oversight, and we’re trapped here. Still…” He looked up at the city wall. “To die here seems fitting.”
Suddenly, the middle-aged man lunged forward; his form flickered in the air and then vanished.
Yang Xuan grinned fiercely, “I’ve long prepared for your tricks! Professors, rise…”
The professors leapt in unison, like petals blooming in the sky, their weapons rising towards the heavens.
Pfft!
Blood dripped from the air, and the middle-aged man’s figure appeared.
An Ziyu swept in, her ruler flying through the air, swatting the middle-aged man down like a fly.
He crashed to the ground, smiling bitterly, “At least one carriage escaped. I hope they’re alert and flee when they hear news.” With that, he bit down hard, black blood oozing from the corners of his mouth. The spy behind had already slit his own throat.
Yang Xuan chuckled, “The Tang Dynasty is hospitable—if Heaven won’t keep you, I will!”
…
That carriage now stood more than three hundred paces from the city gate. The driver sat on the shaft, seemingly at ease.
“Let’s go!” Zhao Guolin shouldered his horse lance and turned away.
Wen Xinshu put away his bow, frustrated. “You were too quick—I wanted to shoot him but had no chance.”
Zhao Guolin said calmly, “Life and death happen in an instant; there’s no room for deliberation.”
The man on the shaft had his mouth open, eyes staring silently at the sky, a bright hole in his throat.
After entering the city, Zhao Guolin and Wen Xinshu reported back.
“Reporting to Commander Yang, we killed one and recovered the carriage.”
“Good.” Yang Xuan was about to issue further orders when the sound of urgent hooves arrived.
Someone on the city wall shouted, “It’s Deputy Commander Zhou of the Golden Guards!”
Yang Xuan mounted his horse. “I’ll go meet Deputy Zhou.”
Zhou Yan had just received word—there had been fighting and fire near the north gate. As the officer responsible for Chang’an’s security and order, if he failed to handle things promptly, his superiors would discipline him.
“The fire’s out.”
His subordinates cheered.
“Someone’s coming.”
A lone rider approached.
The youth on horseback wore a blue robe, right hand holding a saber at his side, smiling. “It’s been a while, Deputy Zhou.”
Zhou Yan pulled up his horse, looking at the teachers and students. His heart skipped a beat.
“What are you doing here?” An aide stepped forward, demanding, “Why the fighting? Drop your weapons and come forward.”
That was standard procedure for apprehending troublemakers.
But no one moved.
Someone quavered, “Look!”
A carriage slowly toppled, salted fish fell, then boxes.
Clang!
A box dropped, its lid popped open.
In the sunlight, gold gleamed.
“All gold!”
Zhou Yan seemed blinded by the golden light, shielding his eyes as his body swayed atop his horse.
This…
Yang Xuan nodded. “Deputy Zhou, you’ve spent days leading countless soldiers searching for Southern Zhou spies in the city. We, the Informants, are few, but fortunately the Imperial Academy lent a hand. The city was under your control, so we could only stake out here. Who would have guessed those spies would rush right in… Thank you for yielding.”
The soldiers atop the wall silently watched Zhou Yan.
This Deputy Commander had stirred up a storm in Chang’an, nearly turning the city upside down, his ambition for credit known to all, but in the end, it was the Imperial Academy that claimed the achievement.
No, and that smiling youth on horseback—the Notorious Commander.
Zhou Yan felt a tightness in his chest, subconsciously opened his mouth, and something rose in his throat. He forced it down, swallowing hard.
“You think this is over?” Yang Xuan’s smile vanished, his gaze suddenly sharp. “Let me tell you—it’s not!”
Zhou Yan could no longer suppress the metallic taste in his throat and spewed forth.
“Pfft!”
…
Time rewinds to three days earlier:
Yang Xuan sat on his bed, scroll screen in hand, engrossed in a movie.
The vault was robbed, and the police mobilized en masse. After much effort, someone shouted that stolen goods had been found, and everyone rushed in frenzy. While the scene was still being cleared and good news came constantly via phone, a green carriage quietly slipped past the loosened checkpoint…