Chapter Sixteen: Journey to Luoyang (Part Three)

Feng Xiaobao watched the battle, his heart weighed down with dread, a queasy feeling rising in his chest. This was no movie, no video game—this was reality. One wrong move, and it was Game Over.

He tumbled to the ground, pressing his back against a wagon wheel, gasping for breath. Even with his eyes closed, he couldn't dispel the vivid sensation of blood splattering toward his face.

Someone called out, “Xiaobao, Xiaobao!”

Feng Xiaobao opened his eyes to see Xuanqing, who looked at him with concern. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, really,” Feng Xiaobao forced out.

“Careful!” Xuanqing reached out, pulling him deeper into the circle of wagons where they joined Kang Caien.

Because the bandits had arrived so quickly and the road was narrow, the protective circle of wagons formed only a partial arc. The swordsmen couldn’t fully block the bandits’ assault—there was always a chance some might slip through, so they had to stay vigilant.

...

Li Damaizi charged forward, wielding a long spear. The weapon’s length offered some protection against arrows, so Tang Zhiyu had spared him, and he made it to the swordsmen unscathed.

He thrust his spear first at Guo Luquan, meeting his iron hammer. Sparks flew as they clashed, both men jolted atop their horses.

Their horsemanship was superb; they needed no hands on the reins, controlling their mounts with just their feet and stirrups.

Li Damaizi then dueled with Xu the One-Eyed, whose horse-slaying saber was formidable—Li Damaizi’s spear attacks failed to gain any advantage.

The horses surged forward, but after two failed attempts to kill, Li Damaizi felt his pride bruised. Glancing around, he spotted the archer with the bent bow and grinned wickedly, spurring his horse straight toward Tang Zhiyu.

His long spear swept with overwhelming force, but Tang Zhiyu wielded his short cavalry spear with dazzling skill, blocking and parrying every attack with not a hint of hesitation.

Li Damaizi, accustomed to the long spear, was a fearsome force. Every swing roared like wind and thunder, deadly in its reach and strength. A touch could kill, a sweep would wound.

Yet Tang Zhiyu’s technique was refined, his sharp eyes reading every move, his spearwork forming an impenetrable defense.

From afar, Feng Xiaobao once more climbed atop a wagon to watch. The duel between Li Damaizi and Tang Zhiyu was riveting, and he couldn’t help but cheer aloud.

Did he think he was watching a play?

A mounted bandit charged at him, hurling a saber that whistled through the air!

The blade spun toward him, and Xiaobao swung his wooden club, but missed completely!

“Oh no!”

It was as if he’d slipped in the middle of the Yangtze, cold sweat breaking out all over him—when suddenly, a scimitar appeared at his side, intercepting the flying blade with a shower of sparks.

Feng Xiaobao was saved by a bodyguard from Kang Caien’s clan, who said in rough Mandarin, “The master told me to watch over you. It’s dangerous here!”

Feng Xiaobao, having jumped down from the wagon, was profoundly grateful to Kang Caien, who smiled and said, “If the eldest son of the Feng family is interested in combat, our clan has a martial academy in Luoyang. We train our own there—I could recommend you for admission.”

“Thank you,” Feng Xiaobao replied noncommittally, and Kang Caien paid it no mind.

Outside, the battle raged. The bandits, used to living by the blade, were fiercer than the hired guards. Yet Guo Luquan and Xu the One-Eyed were superior still. In close combat, the skill of the leaders outweighed sheer numbers, and this turned the tide—now the bandits were at a disadvantage.

Look at Xu the One-Eyed—when he was knocked from his horse, he became even more ferocious. His horse-slaying saber howled through the air, spinning like a massive buzz saw, cleaving limbs and scattering blood wherever he passed.

With every step forward, he left a trail of carnage. The swordsmen’s morale soared as they followed him, sweeping all before them.

Guo Luquan was equally formidable, like a raging tiger. His iron hammer sent horses crashing to the ground and bandits’ bodies flattened into pulp.

The swordsmen rallied behind him, sweeping across the battlefield.

The most formidable of the bandits, Li Damaizi, was still locked in combat with Tang Zhiyu. Though Tang Zhiyu couldn’t kill him, he harassed him relentlessly. If Li Damaizi was a tree, then Tang Zhiyu was the vine that coiled tightly around it.

Whenever Li Damaizi tried to withdraw, Tang Zhiyu pressed him; when Li Damaizi attacked, Tang Zhiyu’s defense was impenetrable.

Watching his comrades fall to Xu the One-Eyed and Guo Luquan, Li Damaizi was desperate, but Tang Zhiyu wouldn’t let him go. Not until another bandit leader, wielding a massive saber, engaged Xu the One-Eyed did Li Damaizi have a chance.

Their blades clashed, sparks flying.

The two were evenly matched, but Guo Luquan was unstoppable—three of the bandit leaders fell to his hammer in quick succession.

Li Damaizi grew more anxious. He and Tang Zhiyu clashed, spear against spear, the ringing of steel relentless. Unable to break away, he finally summoned all his strength, swinging his weapon like a cudgel—hammering down blow after blow like the Monkey King battering the Bull Demon King.

Tang Zhiyu, lacking Li Damaizi’s brute force, managed to block ten such strikes, but even with all his skill, his arms went numb, the flesh between his thumb and forefinger splitting open. With a sigh, he fell back, allowing the eager Li Damaizi to spur his horse directly at Guo Luquan.

The two masters collided with a thunderous clash—one seeking to exploit his weapon’s reach, the other fighting desperately to close the distance. Both seasoned veterans, their attacks and retreats well-measured, neither able to gain the upper hand for the moment.

After his duel with Li Damaizi, Tang Zhiyu’s arms trembled so badly he could no longer use his bow; his weapon now served only to protect himself.

The swordsmen and bandits were locked in a fierce, even struggle. Some of the bandits, seeing a chance, charged toward Kang Caien inside the wagon circle.

At this critical moment, blood proved thicker than water. “Kill!” Four warriors of the Litu clan, clad in heavy armor, advanced with shields and scimitars to meet two bandits.

The bandits’ sabers were deflected by the shields, and the scimitars struck home, cutting them down.

Right before Feng Xiaobao’s eyes, blood sprayed as two bandits fell.

Three more charged in, only to be dispatched in the same manner by the Litu warriors.

Corpses piled up, blood pooling on the ground, the stench suffocating. Even with the soul of a modern man, Feng Xiaobao was deeply shaken, his youthful body reacting uncontrollably as he vomited.

He retched violently, while Xuanqing patted his back, seemingly unfazed.

Gasping, Feng Xiaobao asked, “Daoist, you’re really tough, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“I mean you’re strong-willed!”

“I’ve seen death before. Once, a major criminal was sentenced to death by slicing, and my master took me to watch...” Xuanqing shrugged.

Death by slicing meant being cut apart piece by piece—far bloodier than the scene before them. Xuanqing had developed an immunity, but Feng Xiaobao wondered how he’d reacted at the time.

Xuanqing, ever quick-witted, smiled and said, “I was worse than you. I couldn’t eat for a whole day afterward! You’re throwing up now, but when I passed a butcher’s shop later and saw pigs being slaughtered, I nearly vomited again.”

That made Feng Xiaobao feel better. Kang Caien joined in, grinning, “Now that you’ve seen killing up close, next time you’ll have to do it yourselves—let’s see if you still get sick!”

He was the sort who’d long been used to such carnage. It meant nothing to him now.

Pah! Pah! Pah!

As fate would have it, Kang Caien’s words proved prophetic. No sooner had he spoken than a dull horn sounded from beyond the hills—a hundred more mounted bandits emerged, fresh reinforcements!

These newcomers were well-rested. The swordsmen’s faces paled; their three leaders—Guo Luquan, Xu the One-Eyed, and Tang Zhiyu—were all exhausted or locked in combat. The rest were flagging as well. How could they continue the fight? Many were tempted to flee.

Feng Xiaobao once more crept atop a wagon to observe, and saw a startling sight: as the bandits’ reinforcements arrived, so did their own.

From behind the caravan, over thirty black-clad horsemen appeared, unarmored, charging like a whirlwind—wasn’t this the other merchant caravan that had been following behind?

Feng Xiaobao couldn’t guess their purpose, but they halted at the edge of the hills, bows in hand.

Swift as the wind, eyes bright as lightning, they drew and released their bows in unison.

Over thirty arrows flew; dozens of bandits fell from their horses.

Three volleys, and the bandits dropped in droves!

The newcomers didn’t close with the bandits, but kept firing arrows—arrows whistled through the air.

The leading bandits bore the brunt, their bodies riddled with shafts.

The bandits could only endure the barrage, unable to get close. In their frustration, they screamed and howled.

The horsemen’s movements—controlling their mounts, nocking arrows, drawing and releasing—were fluid and elegant. Their skill was a pleasure to watch, and Feng Xiaobao couldn’t help but cheer.

Xuanqing climbed up beside him, exclaiming in surprise, “These are the Left Garrison Cavalry!”

So it was—the imperial army had arrived.

Seeing Feng Xiaobao’s confusion, Xuanqing explained:

Emperor Taizong had once selected elite warriors to form seven northern battalions, later renamed the Left and Right Garrison Camps and Left and Right Imperial Guards. Of these, the Dragon Martial and Imperial Guards were known collectively as the Imperial Household Troops, commanded by the Grand General, the emperor’s closest confidants—far outranking other generals. At Xuanwu Gate, Taizong had established the Left and Right Garrison Camps, famed as the “Flying Cavalry,” selecting a hundred expert horse archers, later expanded to a thousand under Empress Wu. Their archery and horsemanship were unparalleled.

But why would the emperor’s own troops help a private caravan?

It turned out that Kang Caien was highly connected. This shipment was extremely valuable, so he took extra precautions. As luck would have it, a detachment of the Left Garrison Cavalry was returning to Luoyang after official business in Chang’an. Kang Caien made contact with their commander. Both sides benefited: the cavalry earned some extra pay, got a chance to train against real bandits, and gained a reputation for aiding the people. Why not?

Of course, they couldn’t travel openly with the foreign merchant caravan, lest they be accused of serving private interests—a serious crime. Instead, they accompanied a caravan carrying imperial goods, making their escort legitimate and above reproach.

While the bandits focused on the foreign merchants, the Left Garrison Cavalry caught them off guard!

Archery at this level was no common skill. Training a competent archer took at least three years, a horse archer even longer—five years or more. This was why nomads outmatched settled peoples. Bandits lacked the time and means to train with bows, and openly carrying them in town would draw attention and risk disaster.

Only the authorities could field organized horse archers in force.

Realizing the situation, the bandits sounded their calls and scattered in all directions. Knowing the terrain, they fled swiftly, vanishing without a trace.

What a spectacle it had been—swordsmen, bandits, imperial cavalry appearing in turn. Feng Xiaobao had truly had his eyes opened today.