Chapter Eleven: Healing Wounds

"You... did you really kill Danangqi?"

Yang Yu stared at Liu Ji in astonishment. The latter remained silent, casually grabbed a leather pouch and tossed it over. Yang Yu caught it, and the bag jingled with a metallic sound. He opened it and glanced inside, then emptied it onto the table. Its contents clattered and rolled across the surface—several oddly shaped metal pieces and a patch of animal fur. He picked up the fur, turning it over and over in his hands, disbelief etched on his face.

"Tiger-hide crest, iron-inscribed credentials, one group record, one Russian record, three slave tokens—there’s no mistake, no mistake at all."

Liu Ji paid no attention to his muttering. He held a small tray in his hands, focusing intently as he heated it over the oil lamp. The tray was filled with water, which soon began to bubble and steam. He dropped in a sewing needle threaded with silk, stirring it into a tangled knot. Tiny bubbles rose in the boiling water. Liu Ji closed his eyes and silently counted; after about twenty minutes, he removed the tray from the heat, then took out a short knife and repeatedly scorched its blade in the flame, preparing for what came next.

As Yang Yu watched that familiar face, he felt a strange sense of alienation, as if the body beneath the skin was no longer the same soul. The thought startled him. But how else to explain everything he’d witnessed?

Warriors who could stand against a hundred foes were not unheard of—history records even greater feats—but only those who served in the army truly understood: such deeds usually happened under special circumstances, like during a pursuit.

In a direct confrontation, to defeat five opponents, annihilate them all, and emerge unscathed... Of course, it wasn't as exaggerated as that, for he could see Liu Ji had removed his cloak, exposing a wound on his arm.

A veteran soldier could tell at a glance—it was inflicted by a Tibetan war blade. The wound was over an inch long, raw flesh exposed, the bandage turned black and brown, discarded carelessly on the floor.

Under his companion's gaze, Liu Ji took a towel provided by the inn, dipped it in the boiling water, and carefully cleaned away the hardened, blackened blood around the injury, bit by bit, making Yang Yu's teeth ache just to watch.

But that was not all. Next, Liu Ji picked up the scorched short knife and began to slice away the dead, blanched flesh at the wound's edge. Occasionally, he would pry open the gash to remove bits of debris that had fallen inside. Yang Yu involuntarily clenched his jaw, feeling as though the blade were cutting into his own flesh.

After finishing, Liu Ji exhaled softly. The wound had not become infected—good news. Seeing his companion's anxious expression, he grinned; the real agony was yet to come.

What happened next, Yang Yu felt he would never forget. Normally, in the army, such wounds would be treated with medicinal powder and wrapped in cloth, healing in a month or two. He never expected anyone would embroider stitches upon it.

Before starting, Liu Ji folded the towel and bit down on it, then picked up the sterilized iron needle and pierced the edge of the wound, threading it through from one side to the other, tightly sewing the subcutaneous fat together. Every few stitches, he paused to let his body adjust to the pain, for his senses still lingered in another era.

In special forces training, there was a segment dealing with interrogation—beatings, electric shocks, waterboarding—designed to acclimate to pain. Though he remembered it, this body had never experienced it, so his tolerance for pain was different. If not for biting the towel, he might have cried out.

At last, the wound was stitched closed. Liu Ji pulled out the towel, nearly shredded by his teeth, wiped his sweat, and gasped for breath, drenched as if he’d just been hauled from a river.

Bathing was the last thing on his mind; he had more pressing matters. Everything he’d just done was, in truth, performed for his companion’s benefit—and judging by the reaction, it worked well.

"Zhilie," Liu Ji addressed him once the pain had eased a little, gazing into his eyes, speaking calmly, "After I lost consciousness, what happened? Where are the others?"

Yang Yu was still lost in the aftermath of what he'd just witnessed. Hearing the question, he looked up in surprise. At this moment, Liu Ji felt even more unfamiliar, and in his gaze, Yang Yu discerned undisguised suspicion.

The question itself was unremarkable. Steadying himself, Yang Yu began recounting the events from the day of the incident. As he spoke, Liu Ji's expression grew increasingly strange; he hadn’t expected things to turn out this way.

Their group had originally numbered nine—seven attendants: four under Yang Yu, three under Liu Ji. Their destination was a river along the border of Greater and Lesser Bolü.

Greater and Lesser Bolü had once been one; over thirty years ago, the Tibetans invaded, and the royal family of Bolü fled to Lesser Bolü, now known as Gilgit province in modern Pakistan’s Kashmir.

In the sixth year of Tianbao, the Tang launched a series of offensives from Anxi and Longyou, striking Tibetan forces. The Anxi campaign was led by the renowned Gao Xianzhi, who conquered Lesser Bolü, capturing its king and his Tibetan princess wife, presenting them to the imperial court.

Meanwhile, another force under Wang Zhongsi, then governor of Hexi, Longyou, Shuofang, and Hedong, crossed the Jishi Mountains and invaded the Qinghai region. That battle brought another famous general to prominence—Geshu Han.

When Tang forces captured Lesser Bolü, Tibetan reinforcements had just arrived at Greater Bolü, the city of Hepulao where they now found themselves. The Tang had destroyed the bridge connecting the two territories, leaving the Tibetans helpless as the Tang army advanced right under their noses.

It was a frustrating time. During the Tianbao era, especially in recent years, the Tang Dynasty reached its peak; the emperor favored military exploits, and famous generals abounded, making life much harder for the Tibetans.

After Wang Zhongsi left Hexi and Longyou, Geshu Han—a fiercer, more reckless commander—arrived. Gao Xianzhi in Anxi was even more formidable. With Lesser Bolü occupied for over five years, the Tibetans dared not retake it, always on guard against the unpredictable Tang.

This was why Liu Ji and Yang Yu had come—the bridge connecting Greater and Lesser Bolü was the Tibetans' lifeline. Once restored, it was heavily guarded. During their reconnaissance, they were discovered. Liu Ji was wounded and lost consciousness; Yang Yu led the others in a desperate rescue, but only the two of them survived.

"Danangqi was a warrior without equal. None of us could face him even once. Three of my four men died by his hand. Were it not for your loyal servant’s sacrifice, how could we have escaped?"

Liu Ji touched his head, uncertain. "The one who wounded me—was that Danangqi?"

"Yes, indeed. To tell the truth, I’ve been plagued by nightmares because of him. Wulang, your old wound hadn’t healed—how could you...?"

"Unmatched valor, perhaps." That battle had clearly left a deep shadow on his companion. Liu Ji finished the sentence for him, raising his brow slightly. "Then... why did he want to kill me?"

The question seemed odd, but as Yang Yu pondered it, he was suddenly alarmed. At that moment, someone knocked at the door.

As Yang Yu rose to answer, he caught sight of Liu Ji gripping the short knife tightly in his hand.