It was May.
In the heartland of the Central Plains, this would have been the season of warm, balmy winds and drifting willow catkins. But at Xinyang Pass, the wind still carried a chill, cutting at faces like a dull knife. Banners snapped on the pass walls, and the sky was always gray. On the distant ridges, patches of snow had yet to melt, white and black like an enormous beast's shed hide.
Four full months had passed since Qin Tiexin first entered the training camp.
Over those four months, Li Zhenwei had been like a stingy, exacting craftsman, piling all the "good materials" he could gather onto the fifty of them. Scouts taught stealth, watermen taught swimming, veteran soldiers taught close combat, and clerks taught the Di language. There was even an undercover operative who had retired from the south, teaching them how to drug people, pick locks, and disguise themselves.
"Pig iron forged into fine steel." During one inspection, Li Zhenwei watched the ten men rolling and fighting in the mud and said to Shi Meng, "Halfway there, perhaps."
Shi Meng nodded. "Still needs more time in the fire."
"Then keep forging."
And so the training grew harsher. Their loads increased to forty jin, their cross-country runs to eighty li, and their wooden sparring blades were replaced with iron-clad ones that left bruises wherever they struck. Qin Tiexin had grown used to wearing his chain mail against his skin, beneath black clothes. Heavy, yes, but reassuring. He had added two short sleeves to the armor, using the method Zhou Cang had taught him-smaller rings, woven more tightly, protecting his upper arms and elbows.
That morning, Li Zhenwei gathered all of Team A's instructors in the barracks.
Old Wu reported first. "Loaded cross-country runs: all ten members of Team A have met the standard. Qin Tiexin in particular can run ninety li carrying fifty jin without even breathing hard."
Instructor Mo said darkly, "Holding his breath underwater, Qin Tiexin lasts the longest. Half an hour. Great strength, great lung capacity too."
Shi Meng spoke hoarsely. "He ranks first in close combat. Strong, can take a beating, and hits back hard."
The riding instructor nodded. "Black Cloud obeys him. He does well charging formations and clearing obstacles."
The weapons instructor was even more direct. "The lad was born to be a warrior. Keeping him in the Craftsmen's Camp before was a waste."
When it came to the archery instructor, the corner of his mouth twitched. After a long moment, he squeezed out a sentence. "Bows... he's snapped seven drawing them."
The room fell silent for an instant. Someone chuckled quietly.
Li Zhenwei raised a hand to quiet them and swept his gaze around the room. "They've all trained well. But soldiers who haven't tasted blood aren't soldiers."
He paused, his voice sinking. "The border has been restless lately. Northern Di scouts and small squads have been appearing more and more frequently. We can't keep this training camp hidden any longer."
"It's time they tasted blood."
Qin Tiexin had also felt something was wrong lately.
They had originally rotated every week: seven days at the training camp, seven days at the Craftsmen's Camp, as regular as a pendulum. But this month, he had spent two weeks at the Craftsmen's Camp without a word from the training camp.
He asked Zhou Cang, who only shook his head. "Don't ask what you shouldn't."
On the third day, he ran into Lin Feng in the mess hall. Lin Feng was better informed. They collected their food and squatted in a corner to eat.
"Heard?" Lin Feng lowered his voice. "North of Xinyang Pass, the number of Di scouts has multiplied several times over. The place where we used to train might have been marked."
Qin Tiexin's heart tightened. "Then the training..."
"Suspended for now." Lin Feng shoveled in a mouthful of rice. "General Li is looking for a new place. But I have a feeling... it won't be long."
"Until what?"
Lin Feng glanced at him without answering and merely patted his shoulder.
Another three days passed.
That evening, Qin Tiexin had just finished forging a batch of blades and was quenching them when Zhou Cang came in from outside and handed him a piece of oiled paper folded into a small square.
Qin Tiexin took it and unfolded it. There was just one line:
At midnight, in the mountain hollow three hundred meters north of Xinyang Pass. Fully armed. No horses. Stay hidden.
The handwriting was scrawled, but the strokes bit deep into the paper.
Qin Tiexin looked up at Zhou Cang. Zhou Cang was examining a broken blade with his head lowered, as though he had seen nothing.
"Master..."
"Go," Zhou Cang said, his voice level. "Come back alive."
Qin Tiexin threw the note into the furnace and watched it curl, blacken, and turn to ash.
A quarter of an hour before midnight, Qin Tiexin was ready.
He wore his chain mail against his skin, with the close-fitting black outfit issued by the training camp over it. The fabric was thick and absorbed light, giving off no reflection at night. Edgeless was strapped to his back, wrapped in cloth. He also carried a cloth bundle on his back, containing dry rations, a waterskin, a fire striker, and wound medicine.
He studied his reflection in the water vat. The man in the water was tall and solidly built, his face expressionless, only his eyes dark and deep as a pool.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the deep night.
The May nights at the border were bone-piercingly cold. The wind blew from the north, carrying sand and earth and the scent of distant wolf howls. Qin Tiexin pulled his collar tight and followed the shadows along the camp wall.
Xinyang Pass had seven exits, four open and three hidden. He took the westernmost hidden exit-a gap between two walls, only wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways. From outside, it looked like a heap of rubble, but it was actually a passage.
The soldier guarding the exit recognized him, checked his waist token, and waved him through.
Beyond the pass lay the northern lands.
Qin Tiexin crouched low, moving through the shadows cast by the uneven ground. The training camp had taught him: light steps, firm footing, slow breaths. Watch ten paces ahead, scan both sides with peripheral vision, and keep his ears pricked.
After traveling about a li, he suddenly crouched.
There were hoofbeats ahead.
Not one horse, but a group, at least five or six riders, moving slowly from west to east. Their horses' hooves were wrapped in cloth, muffling the sound, but it was still clear in the quiet night. Qin Tiexin held his breath and huddled inside an earthen ditch.
The hoofbeats drew closer. Through gaps in the dead grass, he saw several dark figures on horseback, all wearing leather robes and fur hats, curved sabers hanging at their waists-a Northern Di patrol.
They moved slowly, as though searching for something. One of them raised a tubular object and scanned the surroundings—a Thousand-Li Mirror.
Qin Tiexin remained motionless, even reducing his breathing to the barest trace. The chain mail's iron rings lay icy against his skin. His heartbeat seemed as loud as a pounding drum.
Fortunately, the patrol did not spot him and continued leisurely past.
Only after the hoofbeats had faded completely did Qin Tiexin climb out of the ditch and continue north.
After another quarter of an hour, he heard hoofbeats again. This time they were closer, passing almost directly overhead on the hillside. He simply flattened himself in a shallow pit and covered his body with dead grass.
This time there were three riders, moving extremely fast, as though carrying a message. Dirt and stones kicked up by their horses struck his back. He did not dare move.
Only when everything was quiet again did he climb up and brush the dirt off himself.
The unease inside him grew heavier. The Di patrols were even denser than Lin Feng had said.
Halfway through the midnight hour, Qin Tiexin found the mountain hollow.
Though called a mountain hollow, it was really a shallow gully between two low hills, filled with dead grass and loose rocks, sheltered from the wind and concealed from view. He had barely slipped inside when he heard a faint birdcall-three short notes and one long, Team A's signal.
He answered with two calls.
Shi Meng emerged from the shadows. He looked the same as ever, the three scars on his face like three centipedes in the moonlight.
"Just you?" Shi Meng's voice was hoarse.
"Yes."
"Wait."
The two crouched behind a rock without speaking. About an incense stick's worth of time later, several more dark figures slipped in-Lin Feng, Zhao Ling, Chen San, and Zhao Ziliang.
Shi Meng looked around. "Everyone's here. The other five have another assignment."
He crouched and scratched at the ground with a twig. "We're lying in ambush here overnight. Our target: a six-man Northern Di patrol that passes along this road every day at noon."
The twig drew a line, then marked six dots.
"No survivors." Shi Meng looked up, his gaze sweeping over every face. "Leave no traces."
The five nodded.
"Zhao Ling, you're here." Shi Meng pointed to a high slope along the line. "The archer strikes first. Shoot the sentry."
Zhao Ling nodded and touched the bow on his back. This time it was not a light training bow, but a heavy bow for actual combat, with twenty iron arrows in his quiver.
"Lin Feng, Chen San, left flank. Zhao Ziliang, with me in the center. Qin Tiexin-" Shi Meng looked at him. "Circle around the right flank. Move when you hear the bow."
"Yes."
"Now find your positions and hide. No moving before dawn, no talking, no fires."
The five scattered.
Qin Tiexin crept behind a pile of rocks on the right flank. The ground was slightly lower here, but the view was open. He could see the path, as well as the high slope where Zhao Ling was hiding. He crouched, tucked his body into a gap between the rocks, and pulled up some dead grass to cover himself.
The night was still long.
Time dragged by.
The border night was cold enough to pierce the heart. The wind was like a knife, slipping in through collars and cuffs. Qin Tiexin remained motionless, feeling his hands and feet slowly go numb. Only his chest, beneath the chain mail, retained a trace of warmth.
He kept his eyes open, watching the path.
His mind was a jumble. He remembered those three bloodstained suits of bright armor, and Wugushu in the portrait, wearing a wolf-head fur hat.
Killing.
That word had often come up in the training camp. When teaching them saber techniques, Shi Meng always roared, "This cut goes for the neck! Draw blood! Kill!"
But when it was truly before him, it was different.
The sky gradually brightened. Gray-white light seeped over the eastern ridge, plating the dead grass and loose rocks with a bleak layer of silver. Qin Tiexin flexed his stiff fingers and gripped Edgeless's hilt.
The hilt was wrapped in cloth, damp with sweat and a little slippery.
He drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. White mist condensed in the cold air and quickly dispersed.
Noon approached.
The sun had climbed overhead, but gave little warmth, hanging in the sky like a cold bronze platter. The wind had stopped. All around was deathly silence.
Qin Tiexin saw several black dots appear at the far end of the path.
Closer and closer.
Six men, six horses. All wore the leather robes and fur hats common among the Northern Di, with curved sabers hanging at their waists. In front rode a middle-aged man, his gaze alert, glancing from side to side from time to time-the sentry. Four rode abreast in the middle, laughing and talking, wine skins dangling from their hands. Last came a young man, trailing at the rear with his head lowered, his thoughts unknown.
One hundred and fifty paces away.
Qin Tiexin held his breath.
One hundred paces.
He saw Zhao Ling raise his head slightly on the high slope, an arrow already nocked.
Eighty paces.
The grass where Shi Meng hid stirred gently.
Sixty paces.
Qin Tiexin tightened his grip on the hilt. His palm was slick with sweat.
Fifty paces.
The sentry in front suddenly reined in, raised his Thousand-Li Mirror, and scanned in their direction.
Qin Tiexin's heart stopped.
The tube moved slowly, sweeping over the rocks, the dead grass, the place where he hid-
It stopped.
The sentry frowned, as though he had seen something. He lowered the Thousand-Li Mirror, pointed in this direction, and shouted something in the Di language.
Qin Tiexin did not understand, but he knew something had gone wrong.
At that very instant-
Whoosh!
The sound of something cutting through the air was as shrill as a whistle.
An iron arrow shot from the high slope, tracing a straight gray line and driving precisely into the sentry's throat.
Squelch.
Blood burst outward. The sentry's eyes widened. He clutched his neck, a rattling sound rising from his throat, and pitched off his horse.
"Kill!" Shi Meng's roar exploded.
Qin Tiexin sprang from behind the rocks.
Around the right flank. Like a black panther, he lunged at the young Di soldier at the rear.
The Di soldier had only just heard the bow and had yet to react when he saw a tall, dark figure charging at him. He hurriedly drew his saber, but he was too slow-
Qin Tiexin was already upon him.
He saw that face. Very young, eighteen or nineteen at most, the stubble on his chin still soft, his eyes wide, their pupils reflecting Qin Tiexin's figure-and terror.
Edgeless was already swinging.
What Shi Meng had taught: a diagonal cut at the side of the neck. The blade angled from right shoulder to left ribs. Drive the force through, strike fast, keep the edge aligned.
Qin Tiexin had no time to think. His arm muscles exerted themselves as though from memory, and the blade sliced through the air-
Slash!
Warm liquid splashed onto his hands and face.
With Edgeless's weight and Qin Tiexin's full, unreserved force, that single stroke brought down both man and horse!
A great gash opened in the side of the young Di soldier's neck, blood pouring out like a fountain. His mouth gaped, trying to shout, but only rasping breaths leaked from his severed throat. He staggered backward, his hands vainly covering the wound, but blood kept bubbling out between his fingers.
His eyes were still on Qin Tiexin.
There was terror in that gaze, incomprehension, pain, and a little... bewilderment. As though he did not understand why he suddenly had to die.
Then he fell with a thud into the dead grass. His body twitched twice and went still.
Qin Tiexin stood frozen.
Blood dripped down the blade, one drop, then two, striking the ground and seeping into the soil.
His hands were warm and sticky. So was his face. That smell-rust, blood, and an indescribable warm scent-went straight up his nose.
He suddenly felt sick.
"What are you staring at!"
Shi Meng kicked him in the side of the waist. The force was tremendous. Qin Tiexin stumbled several steps and nearly fell.
"Stand there gawking and you die!" Shi Meng roared, already lunging at another Di soldier.
Qin Tiexin snapped back to himself.
The sounds of fighting filled the air. Lin Feng's blade chopped into a Di soldier's shoulder blade. Chen San and Zhao Ziliang attacked another together. Like a maddened tiger, Shi Meng split open the last man's chest with a single stroke.
All six Di soldiers lay on the ground.
From the bow's twang to the end, fewer than thirty breaths had passed.
Silence settled.
There was only the wind, and the tap, tap of blood dripping onto the ground.
Qin Tiexin looked down at his hands. The blood was already half-dry, crusted dark red on his skin. He tried to wipe it off, but the more he wiped, the stickier it became.
"Dispose of the bodies." Shi Meng's voice was hoarse. "Quickly."
The five of them got moving.
Zhao Ling led the horses deeper into the mountain hollow-these horses were well trained. Even with their masters dead, they did not bolt, only pawed uneasily at the ground.
Chen San and Zhao Ziliang had minor injuries-Chen San had a cut on his arm, while Zhao Ziliang had taken a punch to the face, leaving one side swollen. Gritting their teeth, the two began stripping the Di soldiers of their leather armor and searching their bodies. Useful things-identification tags, letters, money pouches-were collected; useless things-personal odds and ends-were piled together.
Lin Feng handled burning the bodies. He took a small leather pouch from inside his robe, poured out some black powder, scattered it over the bodies, then doused them with lamp oil. He touched a firelighter to them-
Whoosh!
Flames surged up, burning with extraordinary intensity, their color an eerie bluish white. They burned exceptionally fast and evenly. The bodies curled in the fire, blackened, and turned to charcoal, even their bones crackling as they burned.
Watching the fire, Qin Tiexin suddenly remembered Lin Feng saying that his family had once been alchemists and knew a few "unorthodox tricks."
"Stop staring." Shi Meng came over to him. "Lend a hand."
Qin Tiexin crouched and helped sweep the remaining ashes into a pit, fill it with earth, and stamp it down. They covered the bloodstains with soil and concealed the signs of fighting with dry grass. The horses were driven into a more distant valley and set loose-they would find their own way back, or perhaps other Di people would discover them, but at least they would not directly expose this place.
By the time everything was dealt with, the sun was already sinking in the west.
"Back," Shi Meng said.
The five of them retraced their steps. No one spoke. There were only footsteps and heavy breathing.
Qin Tiexin kept rubbing his hands. The blood had dried and would not rub off, but he kept feeling that warm, sticky sensation on his skin. He rubbed harder and harder, until even the backs of his hands were red.
Lin Feng silently handed him a waterskin.
Qin Tiexin took it, pulled out the stopper, and gulped down several mouthfuls. The water was icy, washing away some of the bloody taste in his mouth, but it could not wash away the nausea in his throat.
"Everyone's like this the first time."
Shi Meng walked at the head of the group without looking back, his voice drifting to them on the wind.
"Remember, if you don't kill him, he'll kill your brothers-in-arms. On the battlefield, there's no right or wrong, only life or death."
Qin Tiexin said nothing and took another gulp of water.
They reported back at camp in Li Zhenwei's command tent.
The five stood there, still stained with dirt and blood. Seated behind his desk, Li Zhenwei listened to Shi Meng's brief report and nodded.
"You've drawn blood." He looked at the five of them, his gaze lingering a moment longer on Qin Tiexin's face. "Only now do you count as soldiers."
He waved a hand. "Go rest. Your silver rewards will be handed out tomorrow."
The five left the command tent.
By the time Qin Tiexin returned to the Craftsmen's Camp, it was dark, and a light glowed inside the shed. He lifted the entrance flap and went in. Zhou Cang was sitting beside the anvil, drinking.
Seeing him enter, Zhou Cang raised his eyes and looked him up and down.
Bloodstains on his face and hands, dirt on his clothes, and a somewhat vacant look in his eyes.
Zhou Cang asked nothing, merely tossed him the wine gourd.
Qin Tiexin caught it, pulled out the stopper, tipped back his head, and took a long swig.
The liquor burned fiercely, like a red-hot knife slicing all the way from his throat to his stomach. He choked and coughed until tears came to his eyes.
Zhou Cang watched him, his voice calm. "Remember the taste of that mouthful."
Qin Tiexin wiped his mouth and looked at him.
"From now on, every time you kill someone," Zhou Cang said, "take a drink when you come back. When this liquor stops burning, when it has no taste anymore, you'll have changed too."
Qin Tiexin held the wine gourd. Its sides were still warm-Zhou Cang had kept it tucked against his chest.
He lowered his head and took another drink.
This time, he did not choke. It still burned, but as that stream of warmth rolled down his throat, it seemed to dissolve a little of the lump blocking his chest.
He handed the wine gourd back.
Zhou Cang took it, plugged it, and hung it back at his waist.
"Go wash up," he said. "Get some sleep. There's still work tomorrow."
Qin Tiexin nodded, turned, and left the workshop.
The night wind blew over him, and he shivered.
On his hands, the blood had dried into a dark red shell. He walked to the water jar, scooped out some water, and slowly scrubbed.
The water was cold.
As he scrubbed, he stopped and looked at his hands.
These hands had swung hammers, forged iron, repaired armor, and today... killed someone.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
He scooped up more water and kept scrubbing.