Chapter Three: A Struggle for Life

In the dictionary of an intelligence operative, the word "safe" simply does not exist.

This adage, instilled in him repeatedly during his special training, was a lesson that Liu Ji only truly understood at this moment: "forever" encompasses both place and time. No matter where, no matter when—even if it was a thousand years ago.

Liu Ji let his arms fall, his face adopting a look of terrified bewilderment, though his mind raced desperately. Clearly, as he stood by the river lost in thought, he had neglected to keep watch over his surroundings. This cavalry squad, at least five men strong, had spotted him from afar. The three riders in front pretended to pass by, luring him onto the path, then blocked his escape route.

He could, of course, try to flee down to the river again. It was April, the water had only just thawed and was still far colder than body temperature. The likelihood of reaching the other bank before succumbing to hypothermia was slim.

On the other side lay dense forest. In his own time, he would have run for it without hesitation, relying on his wilderness survival skills and familiarity with the terrain to evade his pursuers, confident in his chances. But this was over twelve centuries ago; tigers, leopards, and other predators were far from endangered. Armed only with a short knife barely forty centimeters long, the dangers were all too clear.

What now?

Liu Ji shifted slightly, turning his back to the forest, keeping both sides within his field of vision. On the left, only two cavalrymen appeared, one before the other. He remained utterly still, as if paralyzed by fear, until the riders came close enough for him to see their faces, with no one else appearing.

The good news was that there were only five riders in total, and the two swiftest had already arrived. The bad news: the other three approached at a measured pace, soon to complete the encirclement.

Thus far, none of them had spoken a word, their hostility unmistakable. He looked no more than a traveling merchant—surely not worth such caution, let alone the trickery and overwhelming numbers.

The sound of hooves grew louder, slowing as they drew near. Liu Ji lowered his head and hands, feigning submissiveness as the dark shapes halted before him. The horse’s breath was nearly in his face, rank and unpleasant.

"Who are you? Raise your head."

Liu Ji’s heart leapt; he understood the words. The pronunciation resembled the ancient tongue of the Western Qiang Autonomous Region, tinged with traces of Balti. Coupled with previous clues, these cavalrymen were surely the rulers of the vast territory stretching from Western Qiang to Qinghai—the formidable foes on the western frontier of the Tang dynasty.

The Tibetans.

Liu Ji looked up in terror. The rider before him, towering half a body taller, gripped a spear-like weapon, his gaze wary. Like the leader on the road, he wore full lamellar armor, though his arms were bare except for a leather shield strapped to one hand.

Feigning incomprehension, Liu Ji shook his head and spread his hands. The rider gestured behind him, and a man in a Qiang-style robe, saber at his waist, leapt from his horse with a sinister grin.

"I’m an honest merchant! An honest merchant!" Seeing this, Liu Ji dropped his stick and waved his hands, crying out repeatedly.

"Tang man?"

The mounted warrior muttered, but did not halt. Instead, he shifted his attention from Liu Ji to the approaching trio on the opposite side.

The dismounted man snatched Liu Ji’s bundle; the ties tore open and the contents tumbled out, rolling everywhere.

"Cakes—gold cakes!"

Staring at the shining coins, the man’s eyes glazed over as he shouted, hopping excitedly. The three riders blocking the road had now arrived, the lead man frowning as his gaze swept over Liu Ji.

"Hurry up, we’ve got a long way still," he barked in Tibetan. Liu Ji knew trouble was brewing. The lead man at the rear nodded, cruelty flashing in his eyes as he slowly raised his slender spear overhead.

Meanwhile, the three up front began to turn their horses. The lead rider spared not a glance, and Liu Ji noticed that the two behind him, like the dismounted man, wore only robes—no armor.

Their companion bent eagerly to scoop up coins, oblivious to the fate awaiting the terrified Tang merchant. His doom was sealed.

The weather was fine; the sun rose over the river gorge, illuminating the forest. The mounted warrior towered before Liu Ji, blocking his view, casting a massive shadow crowned by a sharp point.

A smile grew ever wider in the rider’s eyes; killing was his specialty. The spear in his hand had claimed countless lives—Tang, Turkic, Sogdian, and more. The iron tip, nearly two paces long, would soon pierce his enemy, pinning him to the earth. The helpless struggle and slow, howling death would soon play out.

"Mm." The warrior grunted behind his visor, suddenly swinging the spear down with brutal speed. The instant it struck its target, his vision blurred—the young Tang merchant had vanished.

A dull thunk. The rider felt the familiar resistance and release as the spear pierced flesh, but there was no thrill. The one pinned to the ground, shrieking in agony, was not his intended victim, but the man who had dismounted to gather coins.

Alarmed, the rider reacted swiftly, relinquishing his spear and reaching for the saber at his waist. His fingers barely brushed the hilt when his horse let out a mournful cry; its body abruptly lost balance, and both horse and rider toppled sideways.

With a thunderous crash, dust billowed across the mountain road. Horse, rider, armor, and gear—over six hundred pounds in all—crushed the wounded man beneath them, silencing his screams.

Caught off guard, the rider was shaken senseless, stars swimming before his eyes. When he finally managed to open them, he found one leg trapped under the horse’s bulk—he could not stand. His faithful mount, with him for years, whinnied, raising its right foreleg, which had been severed at the knee, leaving only a bloody stump.

The rider strained to free his leg, but his vision was blocked by a shadow. The young Tang merchant stood over him, a half-smile curling his lips—mirroring the look the rider himself had worn moments before.

A prey with nowhere left to run.

Liu Ji lifted the rider’s visor with one hand. With the other, gripping his short knife, its blade still slick with blood, he swiftly drew it across the exposed neck. His fingers pressed down, preventing the arterial spray from soaking himself.

Without pause, he leapt away, darting into the mountain forest like a lynx. By the time the other three riders heard the commotion and turned, all they saw was the dying warrior clutching his throat, eyes bulging, unable to scream.

Blood spurted through his fingers, like a dazzling spring cascading from a sacred mountain.