Where Was the Promised Battle with the Bandits?

After a day or two on the road, the caravan left the densely populated region and entered the semi-desert Gobi.

Yong Province's original northwestern border had been this desert known as the Black Gobi. Centuries ago, the armies of the Nine Provinces crossed it and planted Great Xia's banner in frozen soil that stayed iced over for more than five months a year. There, they built an immense defensive line of countless fortresses large and small: the Golden City Defense Line.

The Golden City Defense Line had made a relatively prosperous region possible in northwestern Yong Province. New towns such as Dingfeng Town had sprung up there, along with the famed Northerners.

In fact, the Northerners had only emerged as a distinct people within the last three or four centuries.

The Black Gobi stretching south from the Northlands was one of the Nine Provinces' notorious danger zones. It was barren and poor. Its largest plants were shrubs, and its largest animals were sand weasels—no, the horses ridden by the bandits.

The infamous Northwest Bandits lived on this desolate land. Sometimes they rode in bands of five or six, sometimes in hundreds or thousands. They swept in under cover of night, plundered and killed, then swept away before dawn. Countless merchants had suffered at their hands. Of those who died in the Black Gobi each year, at least half fell not to cold, thirst, or hunger, but to the bandits' blades.

Naturally, these dangerous men were a thorn in the side of the Great Xia Dynasty, especially the Marquis of Yong. They had been subjected to more than one campaign of extermination. The fiercest campaign had left corpses strewn across the wilderness. Rumor had it that the lakes in several Black Gobi oases had turned red.

But that battle had not ended as the court had hoped.

Though the Black Gobi's bandits had been wiped out, just seven days later, large numbers of experts of unknown origin attacked several commanderies and counties in Yong Province. More than a thousand court officials and their families were killed or wounded, and several small sects that had taken part in the campaign were exterminated. An immortal struck out in fury, only to fall into an ambush. He nearly perished within a sinister formation. When he finally broke free, his blood spattered the earth like a crimson rain. Only then did people learn that the bandits of the Black Gobi had the Yellow Springs Sect, a major demonic sect, behind them.

The Great Xia Dynasty flew into a rage and scoured the realm for ten years. It killed tens of thousands of thieves and bandits of every kind, yet never managed to root out the Yellow Springs Sect. Even today, its members remained among the dynasty's most wanted criminals. The head of any confirmed member could be exchanged for a handsome reward at a Great Xia government office. Over the years, quite a few wandering martial artists had made such windfalls.

Unfortunately, those lucky people seldom lived more than a few days. They survived long enough to collect the money, but not long enough to spend it.

Meanwhile, bandits gradually multiplied on the Black Gobi once more.

Wandering martial artists willing to abandon their consciences for a fortune, fugitives fleeing crimes, Northern lads who had gone astray... All sorts of people came here, willingly or otherwise. On this barren land, they evaded pursuit, fought for the means to survive with sword and blade, and lived as though today's wine was all that mattered.

For caravans traveling to the Northlands to do business, the bandits were an unavoidable threat. Anyone who lacked the strength to drive them off had no business on this route and might as well turn back early.

The wealth of the Northlands belonged only to those strong enough to keep it.

Even so, merchants still streamed toward the Northlands every autumn, risking their lives. The lure of riches was simply too strong.

Rice that cost twenty copper coins a measure in the Central Plains could sell for three times as much in the Northlands. A large animal hide bought for one tael of silver in the Northlands could likewise sell for triple that in the Central Plains.

Ninefold returns on a round trip were enough to burn away the last scraps of caution in the merchants' minds. Forgetting every danger along the road, they followed one another onto a path from which many would never return.

Many ended up buried here, their dreams of wealth shattered against reality. But some succeeded, growing rich overnight.

No one cared whether the failures lived or died. People never tired of telling stories about the successes.

Every year, many dreamed of sudden wealth and took the trade route to the Northlands. Fed by this endless stream of "fresh meat," the Black Gobi's bandits grew as countless as weeds in a field.

Of course, some took a more cautious approach and traveled with large caravans. It cost them, but bought them a measure of safety.

The Chang'an Commerce Guild caravan that Pan Long and his companions followed included quite a few independent traders traveling alongside it. The guild forbade them from trading grain, so they brought medicinal herbs and strong liquor from the Central Plains to exchange for Northern furs. They had to wait until the guild finished its business before picking over the scraps, then hand over thirty percent of their profits as a protection fee. Even so, they could still earn a good sum on a single trip. Their hard work was worth it.

Safety was what mattered most. The Chang'an Commerce Guild was strong enough to hold off bandits. Traveling with it at least meant they would not be robbed.

Earning a little less was no problem. The important thing was living to earn anything at all.

But chances to ride on someone else's coattails were hard to come by. The Chang'an Commerce Guild was no fool; why would it hand out benefits for nothing? The independent traders allowed to join its caravan were either trusted business partners or promising newcomers it considered worth investing in. Any stray Tom, Dick, or Harry who wanted in could forget it!

Travelers like Pan Long and his companions, on the other hand, were warmly welcomed by the caravan.

Beneath the setting sun, the caravan made its unhurried way across the desolate Gobi. Han Feng dozed on his horse, bored out of his mind. His earlier energy and enthusiasm had vanished without a trace.

He had thought that within days of setting out, they would run into bandits. Then he would fight a grand battle and make a name for himself. Instead, more than ten days had passed, and he had barely seen a wild animal, let alone a bandit.

Day by day, his eagerness had worn away. Now he spent each day listless, like a child who had lost his favorite toy.

Pan Long found the sight quietly amusing. In his previous life, Han Feng would not even have finished middle school yet. Of course he was a child.

A gust of cold wind made Han Feng shiver awake. He looked up at the sun, then at the caravan, which seemed never to change, and sighed. "Brother Long, didn't they say the Black Gobi was crawling with bandits? Why haven't we met even one?"

Before Pan Long could answer, Zhao Lin spoke. "You won't meet 'one' bandit. They always come in groups, and they only attack when they have the advantage. Against a caravan our size, you'd be looking at two or three hundred at least."

Han Feng started. His sleepy eyes flew wide open. "Two or three hundred? Can they all fight?"

"Obviously. Who becomes a bandit if he can't fight?" Pan Ying said with a laugh. "Sure, bandits have old men and children among them. But even the old men and children can draw bows, swing blades, kill people, and charge into battle with spears. Without those skills, they wouldn't last in that trade."

Han Feng smacked his lips, feeling rather deflated.

He had thought himself a capable fighter among the younger generation. He was skilled with bow and horse, handled both long and short weapons smoothly, and could keep seven or eight ordinary strong men from getting close with his fists and feet alone. Yet by Pan Ying's reckoning, that level of skill was merely the bare minimum among bandits—the level of "old men and children"...

"Uncle Ying, stop frightening him," Pan Long said with a laugh when he saw Han Feng's expression change. "If bandits come, the experts will lead the charge. This caravan has an innate expert guarding it. Why would Han Feng need to rush into the thick of things? At most, he'll shoot a few arrows from the rear and lend a hand."

Han Feng immediately breathed easier. He wanted to make a name for himself, but he was no fool. To do that, he had to fight people weaker than himself. Fighting people stronger than him was not a path to glory—it was a path to the grave!

Just then, a shrill sound rang out in the sky ahead. It was a whistling arrow.

A whistling arrow was a bandit signal! Every hair on Han Feng's body seemed to stand on end. He immediately turned and raised his saddle, then hurriedly took the stiff bow from his back and pulled out its string. A task he could normally finish in an instant took him three fumbling tries before he finally strung the bow.

By then, an expert had already charged out from the front of the caravan to meet the lone rider approaching in the distance.

"Keep your heart calm, your hands steady, your eyes level. Brace your back against the saddle, plant both feet in the stirrups, don't squeeze the horse's belly..." Han Feng muttered to himself, reciting the essentials of mounted archery.

Pan Long, however, felt no nerves. It was only a band of two or three hundred. What was there to worry about?

Not long ago, in the world of Sword and Lament, he had faced down an army of nearly two hundred by himself.

With the help of a mere dozen or so villagers, he had even won.

The bandits might not be any stronger individually than the soldiers of the Holy Legion. As for their willingness to fight to the death, they could hardly compare with the fanatical guardian knights of the One God Religion. And his allies now were far more capable than those he had fought alongside back then.

What was there to fear?

He leisurely took the stiff bow from his back, strung it, made a small adjustment, and checked that all was well. Then he held it in his right hand and the reins in his left, ready to ride forward and shoot.

Looking around, he saw nearly everyone doing much the same. Even the young cart drivers had stopped and were preparing to nock their arrows and fight.

Battles in the Northlands began with arrows, then moved to a charge. Settling a fight with arrows was far better than drawing blades. That was why nearly everyone in the Northlands knew how to use a bow, with few exceptions.

A hundred Northerners meant a hundred archers. Against a thousand Northerners, an enemy's first taste of battle would be a rain of arrows falling from the sky.

But no one hurried to attack. The enemy had yet to appear.

Accompanied by the innate expert, the caravan leader rode ahead and soon met the envoy sent by the bandits.

They exchanged a few words. Then the leader handed him a pouch of silver, and the bandits' envoy fired another whistling arrow into the sky.

Many dark specks moved across the distant wilderness, gradually fading away. The envoy cupped his fists in salute to the caravan, turned his horse, and left.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The weight hanging over their hearts finally dropped.

Only Han Feng looked bewildered. After a long while, he asked, surprised and disappointed, "That's it? What happened to the grand battle with the bandits?"

Yesterday, E Station shut down. The biggest entertainment site of the internet age, the friendliest online community, simply vanished like smoke. I had thought it would be blocked and then gradually fade from our view. I never expected the end to come so abruptly. It reminded me of the arson attack on the eighteenth: a group of people who had worked so hard to bring everyone laughter and move their hearts had suddenly disappeared. The beautiful things in this world truly were as fleeting as bubbles...

(End of chapter)