Chapter Sixty-Six: The Knot in the Heart

“Move aside!”

Liu Ji shouted as he rushed into the room, pushing past the soldiers and striding up to the bedside. What startled him was that Zhang Wujia’s face had turned from blue to pale, his breaths barely audible, so faint that when Liu Ji leaned in to listen closely, the muddiness in his breathing had vanished entirely.

He checked for a heartbeat—almost nothing. Without hesitation, Liu Ji grabbed a pillow, laid Zhang’s head flat, spread his arms to open the chest as much as possible, then interlaced his hands and pressed firmly below the seventh pair of ribs, pushing downward and forward to force air out of the lungs. Slowly, he released the pressure, allowing fresh air to enter, mimicking inhalation.

He continued like this for half an hour, then switched to vertical compressions, speeding up the rhythm, changing to cardiac resuscitation, counting in his mind to maintain about ten to twelve cycles per minute. The two methods alternated, repeating until there was a response.

Kang Lao Si and the others exchanged bewildered glances, uncertain what Liu Ji was doing or how they could help. They watched their commander sweat profusely while the man on the bed remained lifeless.

“Zhang Wujia!” After two rounds, Liu Ji grew anxious and shouted loudly, “You shouldn’t die here! Wake up! Wake up, damn it!”

No response. Kang Lao Si and the others turned their faces away, these burly men—six or seven feet tall—quietly wiped their eyes with their sleeves. The soldier Liu Ji had rescued on the mountain covered his mouth in silent sobbing.

“Zhang Wujia, all those wolves couldn’t kill you, what are you playing at now? Get up, stop pretending to sleep, damn it!”

“Zhang Wujia, the Tubo are just ahead. So much glory, so many rewards await us—do you want none of it?”

...

“Damn it, you’re exhausting me.”

Who knew how much time had passed? Liu Ji lifted his aching arms, feeling more tired than after a battle. Disappointment etched his face as he slumped onto the bedside, shaking his head at the towering body before him.

“If you don’t wake up soon, I’ll sell your little wife to the Sogdians—let them resell her to the Arabs, to Persia—by then, you won’t even be able to find her...”

He had only intended to vent about their old grievances, words slipping out without thought—when suddenly, his wrist was seized, shocking him into silence.

“You... dare!”

Zhang Wujia opened his eyes, exhaled a breath of stale air, and fixed his gaze on Liu Ji. It took a moment for Liu Ji to realize what had happened; then he burst into hearty laughter.

“He’s awake! The deputy is awake!”

Kang Lao Si and the others were overjoyed, as if witnessing a miracle—a man with no breath, revived by their commander’s pressing and compressing. Their eyes now held something new, beyond the camaraderie of shared life and death.

Reverence.

Liu Ji understood that most of the credit belonged to Zhang Wujia’s own strength and will to survive. Whatever the reason, waking was a blessing. By nightfall, Zhang Wujia could drink a full bowl of meat broth without trouble breathing; everyone knew this life had truly been saved.

Since Chen Jin had not returned, Liu Ji personally took up the watch outside the village. Not far from the place where he would crash in a later era, he sat beside a mountain stone, gazing at the star-filled sky, lost in thought.

Here, the altitude exceeded four thousand meters, the sky seemed abnormally low, the stars close enough to touch, and the occasional meteor streaking past held his gaze for ages. He hadn’t enjoyed such a restful view of the night sky for a long time.

“Tomorrow will surely be a fine day.”

Liu Ji turned, smiling softly. “You’re able to walk? Best to rest a while longer.”

“A worthless life—once revived, death won’t come so easily. Nothing precious about it.”

Zhang Wujia, draped in a robe, joined him, dropping down onto the stone. Seeing his steady stride, Liu Ji marveled at his recovery—almost as if he possessed a self-healing ability, with not a trace of his earlier peril.

He’d known Zhang Wujia for more than half a month, yet this was the first time Zhang had sought him out.

“As you bear the surname Zhang and hail from the Western Prefecture, are you related to Zhang Huaiji or Zhang Xiong’s lineage?” They had little rapport, but this shared ordeal had forged a bond. Searching for conversation, Liu Ji resorted to family history, otherwise, with Zhang’s slow nature, an hour might pass without a single word and that would be awkward.

“They are the great families of Gaochang. We are Han. My ancestors came from Shazhou, and there we had a modest estate. But I joined the recruits west of the desert as a boy, severing all ties. Later, I married in the Western Prefecture and settled as an ordinary citizen.”

Zhang Wujia spoke lightly, but Liu Ji understood well—he was not of the prestigious Gaochang Zhang clan. Had he been, he wouldn’t have fallen to such poverty, unable to afford food or even land for burial.

The Western Prefecture was now called Jiaohe Commandery, and Shazhou was Dunhuang Commandery, but people still used the old names out of habit. Who knew what whims the Emperor in Chang’an might pursue next?

But the Zhangs of Shazhou?

Liu Ji suddenly realized—this was another remarkable clan. In less than a century, a famous figure would emerge from their ranks, reclaiming the Hexi prefectures long held by the Tubo and restoring them to the Tang dynasty.

That man would be Zhang Yichao.

At present, even his father was likely no more than a fertilized egg. Liu Ji glanced at Zhang Wujia and smiled, shaking his head.

“Great clans are built by ancestors, forged in battle, rising to prominence through generations—thus a family takes shape. Who’s to say we men of today cannot carve out a legacy in this land of heroes, a foundation to pass to our sons?”

A spark lit Zhang Wujia’s eyes, then faded. “At your age, such ambitions are only natural. As for myself, those thoughts died long ago. Now I only hope to earn some merit and enough silver to feed my family—that would suffice.”

He was a man with fire in his heart. Perhaps, in Liu Ji, he saw his own youthful self, aged fifteen or sixteen. Though his words were bleak, his spirit was plain to see.

“Old Zhang, say no more—do you trust me?”

At that moment, Liu Ji’s presence struck Zhang Wujia as complex. If not for the matter with his daughter, he would rejoice at having such a superior. Now, suppressing his inner turmoil, he nodded solemnly.

“This life was saved by you. Whatever you ask, I will obey.”

The rift ran deep; expecting a bow of gratitude was unrealistic, but Liu Ji did not press. Their relationship had moved in a positive direction, and he was content.

Yet before he could speak further, a dark figure appeared at the far end of the road. Under the starlight, it moved quickly. Liu Ji immediately stood, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.