A Difference in Strength

Fang Wenshi felt he had already given the people of the Central Plains enough respect. He had sent out ten detachments, each with at least five hundred men, keeping them close enough to support one another. In theory, they should have had more than enough to deal with the wandering martial artists, who numbered at most a few dozen per group.

Things had gone about as Fang Wenshi expected. Wherever the cavalry went, most people from the Central Plains fled at the first sign of them. There had only been a few small skirmishes—until one detachment of five hundred ran into a formidable opponent.

That opponent was just one man. When he charged in alone, sword in hand, the cavalrymen found it laughable. So they didn't use their more effective tactic of shooting from a distance. Instead, they drew their scimitars, intending to hack the reckless challenger from his horse.

By the time the swordsman had plunged into their ranks, it was too late to shoot arrows.

The cavalrymen were ashamed to discuss what had happened, but the humiliation was etched on their faces, impossible to hide.

The swordsman had written a character on the forehead of each of more than seventy cavalrymen. For every man he wounded, he called out a number, making sure they remembered the order. That was how he had pieced together a short challenge letter.

When the men returned to camp, the strategist confined them to a large tent and forbade them from going out. Even so, the rumors spread like wildfire.

With only a little time left before dark, Nie Zeng had nothing to do. Sitting in his small tent, he wondered how miraculous the man's swordsmanship must be. But he was an assassin; he couldn't go around asking people about the details like