Chapter Forty-Two: The Mountain Chieftains

Feng Xiaobao’s words turned the situation around. Tang Tianning lost his nerve, dared not respond, tossed out a few face-saving remarks, and slunk away with his tail between his legs, his brothers trailing after him.

Behind them came a chorus of jeers from Kang Da, Hu Da, their men, and some bold, disappointed onlookers.

Feng Xiaobao smiled, having struck right at the heart of the brotherhood’s mentality.

He’d seen many gangster films—those stories of swift vengeance, where fights break out at the drop of a hat, killings happen on a whim, and all seems bold and glamorous. But that, in truth, is an illusion.

Big bosses could easily rally their men to bully the weak, but when a brawl loomed that might end in major casualties—a battle with losses on both sides—they would think twice, calculating the outcome: even if you kill a thousand, you might lose eight hundred of your own. Such fights rarely happened.

Before fighting, there were costs: settling fees for families, buying equipment, securing escape routes by water—everything needed money. Afterwards, there were even more expenses: compensation, medical bills, bribes for officials, police, and journalists. Money flowed away like water. If the returns didn’t cover the costs, wouldn’t it be better not to fight at all?

It all boiled down to money. If it was a losing venture, why not just spend the money on pleasure instead?

This was the truth, unchanged by time. Tang Tianning tried to intimidate, but Feng Xiaobao refused to play along, suggesting they settle things on the arena in a life-and-death contest. He reckoned that with himself, Yang Chengxian, Cheng Boxi, and two military champions, their five could easily win three out of five rounds. Tang Tianning wasn’t a fool. Better to lose a little face than get thrashed before any prize was won, and end up paying for wounds and medicine. Besides, gambling on the arena could leave them stripped of even the clothes on their backs.

As the crowd dispersed, Yang Chengxian returned. Seeing the tense atmosphere, he asked, puzzled, “What happened?”

Kang Da explained, and Yang Chengxian replied, slightly angry, “I know him—Tang Tianning, a powerful figure in Chang’an. When I get the chance, I’ll teach him a lesson!”

His father was a general in the Left Guards, a position equivalent to a modern division commander in Beijing’s garrison, so he was well-versed in the power structure of both capitals. He’d seen intelligence reports, and recognized Tang Tianning.

Feng Xiaobao did not dissuade Yang Chengxian. If someone came looking for trouble and you didn’t fight back, it went against the Confucian principle of “repaying injustice with justice.”

Yang Chengxian shared intelligence from Chen Anzhi, the Left Courageous Captain: “The bandits of Xindu Mountain number thirteen hundred!”

That was no small force.

“But only about six hundred are true fighting men.”

Yang’s way of speaking, pausing at every clause, was exasperating.

“I’m not finished,” Yang continued. “There are seven bandit kings on Xindu Mountain, all hardened criminals: ‘Serpent Spear’ Zhang Yongping, ‘Ghost Axe’ Qiu Shenyang, ‘Hercules General’ Tian Shi, ‘Twin-Blade’ Tian Anding, ‘Feathered Cavalier’ Sima Chang, ‘Three-Handed General’ Hong Xiaoshui, and their leader, Xia Fuyiao, who wields a horse lance and is said to possess the strength of ten thousand men! Each is a master of some skill. Government forces have tried and failed to root them out. They’re the most formidable bandits between Chang’an and Luoyang!”

Hearing how dangerous they were, Cheng Boxi gasped, but Feng Xiaobao laughed. “So what if they’re strong? The bird that sticks its head out gets shot. With so many heroes gathered here—just the five of us could stand against five of their kings. And what about everyone else?”

Thinking it over, it made sense. The seven kings sounded impressive, but the sons of generals and roaming heroes from Luoyang and Chang’an were no pushovers. With so many men, there were plenty who could match the seven kings. Why fear them?

“So this time, the bandits of Xindu Mountain are in real trouble!”

…

He was absolutely right. In the bandits’ lair atop Xindu Mountain, the seven kings, led by Xia Fuyiao, sat in council, listening to reports from their spies below. They were well informed about what had transpired at the military camp in Mianchi Prefecture—a copy of the list of contestants had been sent up the mountain, and Feng Xiaobao’s name was prominently displayed. Of course, the bandits paid him little mind.

Since ancient times, soldiers and bandits have always been closely linked; circulating lists was a trivial matter. But the names on this particular list made the bandit kings uneasy.

“The powerful of Chang’an and Luoyang are here: the brothers Huang Bao and Huang Hu, Chen Chengding of the North Market, Tian Du of the South Market, Wu Luo, Cheng An, Wang Kui, Tang Tianning…” The names went on, all famous figures. Many were sons of general’s families, each with bodyguards so skilled they could command troops themselves. With such numbers, how could a mere seven bandit kings hope to stand in their way?

Six pairs of eyes turned to Xia Fuyiao, seated in the highest place. It was his insistence on robbing that old court official that had started all this trouble. True, everyone profited, but Xia took the lion’s share, and the official’s beautiful concubine was now kept in his quarters. He had profited the most. Now, with danger looming, it was up to him to stand firm.

Xia Fuyiao was a towering man with slightly blue eyes and a high nose—clearly of mixed Hu and Chinese descent. His background: the son of a great Central Plains family and a Hu slave woman. He had been educated in both letters and arms, could read, and was skilled with the lance. But his mother’s low status meant he never fit in among his kin, so he turned to the outlaw life and rose to become a bandit king.

Seeing the fear on everyone’s faces, Xia Fuyiao himself was anxious. So many enemies at their gates! But he could not admit fear. To do so would mean the immediate collapse of their brotherhood—the fortress would fall without a fight, and someone might even tie him up and deliver him to the authorities.

Bandits could share wealth, but never hardship.

Calmly, he said, “The enemy below may seem many, but in my eyes, they’re no more than chickens and dogs. Breaking them will not be a problem.”

“They may be numerous, but the soldiers of Mianchi Prefecture have already been defeated once—their courage is broken. Now, joining forces with these wandering heroes, do you think they’ll put their own men in front? That would be stupid!

So the soldiers are not a real threat.

As for the wandering heroes, they may seem formidable, but war is not the same as street fighting!”

Xia Fuyiao continued, “In an army, orders are followed and men act in concert. These heroes have no discipline or teamwork and rely only on personal bravery. When faced with my trained troops, they’ll be slaughtered. Otherwise, why do I bother training an army? Besides, these heroes are only here for money. If there’s no money, why would they risk their lives?”

As he analyzed the two opposing forces, confidence returned to the bandit kings. They realized, perhaps, victory was possible.

Xia Fuyiao’s family had a tradition of military training; he had molded five hundred elite soldiers in the style of a regular army, the source of their strength.

He then laid out his battle plan: “First, we send our champion to strike the camp at Mianchi and shake the enemy’s morale!”

“Second, we set an ambush at Torrent Gorge. If successful, we can eliminate thirty percent of their force.”

“Third, when the enemy reaches the base of Xindu Mountain, we defend our three passes, resisting at every step. When the enemy is weary, we launch a counterattack and can cut their numbers by half!”

“At that point, we can offer them some of our loot as a settlement. If they gain nothing and can’t break us, they’ll naturally retreat. In this way, Xindu Mountain will weather the storm!”

His reasoning was sound and precise, reviving the spirits of the other six kings.

If it came to the bitter end, the government’s strength was overwhelming. The fortress would likely fall, and their lives with it. In this world, all land belongs to the emperor—where could they run? Without their mountain stronghold, they would lose their power and pleasure. Having grown accustomed to comfort, they were determined to defend what they had.

Seeing their confidence restored, Xia Fuyiao looked around and asked, “Who dares fight the first battle?”

“I will!” declared “Feathered Cavalier” Sima Chang. His nickname marked him as an archer—a master of bow and horse, skilled in both ranged combat and horsemanship, able to attack or retreat at will. He was the perfect choice.

“I will support him!” cried “Three-Handed General” Hong Xiaoshui.

Sima Chang, in his thirties, was a handsome man, his archery training lending him an exceptional air—quite the dashing figure among bandits.

Hong Xiaoshui, though her name was humble, was renowned in the underworld for her skills with thrown stones and knives. She specialized in ambushes; a single slip, and her target would be struck down, their reputation ruined in an instant. No one dared underestimate this woman.

Sima Chang would lead, Hong Xiaoshui would support—they strode forth together. Some cursed them as a treacherous couple, but could only swallow their envy.

Hong Xiaoshui was of average looks, but years of training had given her a striking, voluptuous figure—an object of desire in the bandit camp, and no wonder.

…

The military camp of Mianchi Prefecture stood outside the northern city walls, backed by the moat and fronted by a bustling street. With so many soldiers stationed there, business was booming—shops selling equipment and food thrived, and the influx of people, who supplied their own lodging and gear, made things even livelier.

Around nine that morning, the sun shone lazily on the throng, the street alive with activity and prosperity.

Feng Xiaobao and his companions had taken over a large shop for breakfast. According to military practice, meals should be cooked before midnight and eaten before dawn, with everyone moving out at daybreak. But they were not true soldiers—these three were young masters, accustomed to a touch of luxury, and enjoyed good food and drink wherever they went. Sampling local delicacies was a must, and their followers benefited as well.

Their chosen eatery was “First-Rate Noodles,” renowned for its delicious stewed noodles. The secret lay in the broth: the shop used only the finest young lamb, split the bones to expose the marrow, and simmered everything for four hours or more with medicinal herbs, until the fat formed a milky, shining layer. To serve, the rich broth was ladled into the pot, noodles were stretched thin and added, then topped with all manner of ingredients. The result was an exquisite dish—eating it in early spring made one break into a sweat, a wave of warmth coursing through the body, reviving the spirit.

The key was the generous portions and long cooking time, which naturally made it pricey—one of the finest foods around. Passersby, catching the scent, could only drool with envy. “Why should they feast while we chew dry rations?” But seeing it was the young lords, who might at any moment fight a deadly duel, no one dared cause trouble.

In this world, there’s no avoiding the code of the streets: to show weakness is to invite disaster, to be bullied at every turn.

Cheng Boxi took a deep breath, drained the broth from his clay bowl, and sighed, “Damn, I’d love to kidnap the owner and have him make noodles at home. My uncles would be thrilled!”

The shopkeeper nearly fainted in fright. The young lords did as they pleased; had anyone else chimed in, the owner would have been in real trouble.

In front of Cheng Boxi were eight empty bowls; Feng Xiaobao had six, Yang Chengxian, with a smaller appetite, had five.

The others—one military champion and two head servants at their table (while another champion and servant guarded the camp)—had three bowls each. If they wanted more, they paid out of pocket, but they weren’t fools.

Everyone else had just one bowl—paid for by the young lords. It wasn’t much, but there was plenty of flatbread and steamed buns. The hierarchy was strict; Feng Xiaobao had no intention of inviting everyone to sit together as honored guests on his dime.

He had paid the lion’s share of this “military fund,” two-thirds, with the other two covering the rest. They had suggested splitting the cost equally, but Feng Xiaobao insisted.

Within his small group, he had already established himself as the leader—no one dared argue. He was stronger than Cheng Boxi, quicker than Yang Chengxian: strength and speed in one, a rare combination that gave everyone headaches.

As the three young lords feasted, a shout echoed from afar: “Bandits are coming! The Xindu Mountain bandits are coming down!”

From the far end of the street, thirty-odd riders thundered forward, charging straight into town!