Chapter Sixty-Three: Pathological Change

“Let’s go up first.”

Liu Ji watched the scene with his heart pounding in terror. In the same situation, he would never dare to attempt such a thing. That was nearly two hundred pounds of weight; if it failed, both would tumble down together. The broken rope had split the group into two. He led the front half, hastening their climb, and before long they reached the summit. Quickly, he dropped the spare rope and helped pull the rest up, but the two lost sleds could never be recovered.

At last, they stood atop the Hispa Pass. Before them stretched the vast, flat expanse of the Biafu Glacier. In fact, they had already stepped into the territory of Great Bolü. Survivors of disaster, victorious at the peak—those soldiers of twelve centuries past were little different from modern mountaineers. All embraced each other, weeping with joy. Kang the Fourth’s thunderous shout sent the emotion surging to a climax.

“Have you not seen, atop the snowy mountain, the cold wind howling straight into the heavens? By the headwaters of the Bo Yi River, even the birds have fled, and for thousands of miles, not a soul is seen...”

Whether or not they understood or could sing, at that moment Liu Ji felt genuine happiness. Though the journey ahead remained arduous, the greatest peril was behind them; no one had died, and that was victory enough.

Yet among the cheering throng, a familiar voice was missing. He searched through the crowd and spotted the tall figure of Zhang Wuji, crouched beside a sled, his brow knotted in distress, sweat trickling down his cheek. Liu Ji hurriedly parted the crowd and rushed to support him.

“What’s wrong?”

Zhang Wuji looked up and waved his hand. “It’s nothing. Perhaps I just lost my breath. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

“Lie down.”

Liu Ji tried to help him onto the sled, but before he could rise, Zhang Wuji suddenly collapsed against him, his head gently resting on Liu Ji’s shoulder, eyes shut tight—he had lost consciousness!

“Zhang Wuji! Zhang Wuji! Quick, someone help!”

At his call, the crowd finally responded. Several soldiers rushed forward, helping Liu Ji lift Zhang Wuji onto the sled, spreading thick snow wolf pelts beneath him and laying him flat. Without hesitation, Liu Ji unfastened his fur robe and listened to his heartbeat over the chest. There was still a pulse.

He wasn’t dead. Liu Ji gained some confidence and began examining him from head to toe. He feared that the stubborn man might have hidden some injury, enduring in silence. From front to back, aside from old scars, he found only one fresh mark on his back—bruised and purple—the blow from the snow wolf’s tail.

It was an internal injury.

Liu Ji’s heart sank. With their current medical knowledge, a diagnosis was impossible, let alone in this frozen wasteland where not even a healer skilled in pulse-taking could be found.

A few coughs rasped from Zhang Wuji, perhaps stirred by Liu Ji’s examination. The cough sounded thick and unsteady. Liu Ji leaned close, listening intently to his right chest, and indeed sensed something amiss. The movement of the lungs was slow, as if each breath took considerable effort.

This was bad—clear signs of altitude sickness, and now fluid had accumulated in the lungs. In modern times, rest and oxygen would suffice, and with Zhang Wuji’s physique, he would recover quickly. But now, what could be done?

“Pull the sled. Let’s move.”

The most urgent matter was to leave the pass. Liu Ji personally hauled Zhang Wuji, briefly orienting himself, then led the way onto the endless icefield.

According to the geographical knowledge of later times, crossing the Hispa Pass and traversing the Biafu Glacier could lead directly to the Skar Valley, the capital of Great Bolü—He Bolao. But with their group of thirty, reaching there would amount to little more than harassment.

Liu Ji’s goal was the vine bridge over the Bo Yi River. He’d chosen this route across the frozen lake for its proximity and secrecy.

Soon, the group noticed a black shadow growing clearer amid the white expanse—a sign they were leaving the icefield and approaching the mountains. This discovery urged everyone forward.

“Kang the Fourth, take a few men and scout ahead. See if there are any Tibetans.”

Kang the Fourth nodded, took two soldiers, and ran ahead. Within half an hour, as Liu Ji and the others neared the glacier’s edge, the scouts returned.

“A mile ahead, there’s a small village—just a dozen households. We’ve searched the area. No Tibetans nearby. They’re all Bolü people.”

“You take twenty men, secure the village, gather everyone in one place, and don’t let the enemy know we’re here. Especially, not a word in Tang language—can you do that?”

Liu Ji issued orders without hesitation. Kang the Fourth, eager and excited, replied at once.

“Commander, just watch us.”

After his departure, Liu Ji called another, “Chen Jin, are you ready?”

“I’ve been waiting for this.” After three days of rest, Chen Jin’s injuries had improved. He flexed his wrist, eager for action.

“Take five men, guard the road leading to the Bo Yi River outside the village. If anyone tries to escape, capture them alive if possible, but let no one pass. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Chen Jin left with five soldiers, heading in another direction. Surrounded by enemies and in such circumstances, Liu Ji had to think ahead, preferring to take extra precautions so his men would not face danger.

That left, including himself, five men in total—two lying on sleds, and Liu Ji with the other three, able to move, slowly pulled the sleds toward the village.

Before long, a commotion erupted ahead, quickly rising and just as quickly falling, the small village at the mountain’s edge soon quiet again.

Liu Ji stopped the sleds just a few dozen paces from the village, waited patiently, and soon Kang the Fourth ran out from within.

“It’s done. Twelve households, twenty-one people, locked up together. The men are watching them.”

“So few?” Liu Ji instinctively felt suspicious.

“Mostly old, weak, women, and children. The adult men were conscripted by the Tibetans—guarding the bridge, I heard.”

So that’s it. Liu Ji cast a surprised glance at the man who could break into song at any moment. Clearly, he was a man of many talents—at least he spoke the Bolü tongue.

“Into the village.”

At his command, Kang the Fourth hurried over to take the sled. Liu Ji welcomed the relief, but the pallor on Zhang Wuji’s face atop the sled made any joy impossible.