Chapter Seventy-Four: Idling Away

With a thunderous crash, the two great gates outside the official residence were suddenly thrust open and toppled to the ground, crushing several unprepared Tubo men beneath them. This abrupt turn of events left everyone in the courtyard momentarily stunned.

“They're setting the city ablaze—they mean to kill us all!”

Cries of alarm rang out from every corner. Rumor had become reality in the chaos; even Sangye Tsen, the wise man himself, was at a loss for how to respond.

Shi Chongzhi was surrounded by his own guards, with a group of local soldiers standing before him. They had retreated from the burning quarter, their bodies blackened with soot and fire, their bright eyes gleaming like those of wild beasts.

“Kill the Tubo!”

The few remaining tribal leaders in the courtyard shouted at the top of their lungs. The soldiers, their own subordinates, had witnessed their officers slaughtered by Tubo men. Any lingering doubts vanished in an instant.

“Kill the Tubo! Save the chiefs!”

Several officers among the locals immediately gave the order. The troops surged through the now-opened gates, the tide swiftly turning. The Tubo were caught completely off guard by the sudden reversal. As the chiefs were rescued, even more men poured in, packing the courtyard so tightly that there was no room to move.

In single combat, Sangye Tsen’s guards could easily handle three or even ten opponents apiece. But in this press of bodies, all skill was rendered useless. The Tubo’s morale faltered, while the Polu people, desperate to survive, fought with savage fury and overwhelming numbers. The balance shifted; the Tubo began to buckle.

“Your Excellency, you must go. I will hold them off,” the captain of the guard, who had thought victory assured and so had held back, saw the dire straits. He drew his blade without waiting for orders and charged headlong at the nearest Polu man.

Que Jizanjian had finally found hope with his own men arriving. He rallied himself to counterattack, but a flash of white steel swept down upon him. The blade’s wind was fierce and swift; he instinctively raised his sword to block.

With a ringing clang, his arm went numb as if it no longer belonged to him. His sword flew from his grasp, vanishing into the melee.

“Die!” roared the Tubo captain, striding forward and lifting his blade once more. Que Jizanjian stumbled back, unable to escape. The next flash of steel, and this time it was a bloodied forearm that flew through the air.

He collapsed, writhing on the ground in agony, clutching his severed arm. The Tubo captain, grinning savagely, brought his blood-stained sword down for the kill.

“Loose arrows! Save him!”

Shi Chongzhi, watching from behind, saw everything clearly and barked urgent orders. The Tubo captain, now fully exposed, was suddenly a clear target.

With a series of soft whistling sounds, arrows flew—shot by Shi Chongzhi’s guards and Polu archers alike. They struck even faster than the blades. The Tubo captain was forced to deflect them with his sword, taking several hits. His heavy armor protected him; the arrows seemed to do little harm.

Seizing this opening, several Polu soldiers charged, forcing the Tubo captain back. The fallen Polu man was swiftly dragged to safety.

“Kill them all! I will reward you handsomely!” Que Jizanjian, his arm severed and pain searing through his bones, gritted his teeth so hard they creaked, his hatred blazing.

This was no longer a matter of choice, but of life and death. If the Tubo escaped, they might return with an army. For the sake of survival, every Polu man fought with desperate fury.

As a respected local leader, his command carried immense weight. Soldiers surged past him, arrows flying like locusts. The Polu force among the Tubo ranks were mainly light infantry and archers.

The situation deteriorated rapidly. The Tubo captain knew, without needing to count, that fewer than thirty of his men remained—the same number the Polu had started with. Now, four or five hundred enemies pressed in, and the withering hail of arrows proved deadly even to those in heavy armor.

“Hold them back! The Excellency will avenge us!” he bellowed, slashing down a Polu soldier who came too close. Yet more enemies rushed him before he could catch his breath.

Desperation gripped the Tubo. The Polu fought with bloodshot eyes; to fall into enemy hands was a fate worse than death. Even if any Tubo managed to escape, this disgrace would bring endless shame upon their kin, a fox’s tail forever hanging before their door. The captain was right: if the Excellency escaped, he would avenge them, slaughter every last baseborn Polu.

Yet no matter how bravely they fought, the end came swiftly. The Tubo captain still breathed, but his limbs had been hacked off, his body covered in wounds.

With his own soldiers shielding him, Que Jizanjian, hastily bandaged, climbed the steps one by one. The staircase was strewn with corpses—Tubo and Polu alike.

“Scum,” spat the Tubo captain, sneering in contempt. He lacked the strength to spit blood farther than his own feet.

Que Jizanjian stared in silence at the man he once had to abase himself before. With his remaining good hand, he reached back and took a sword.

“You shameless Tubo dogs, in death you will be devoured by wild beasts, forever cast out from the gods’ grace,” he pronounced the most venomous curse he knew, then brought the blade down, severing the thick neck in one brutal stroke. He bent low, seized the man’s hair, and lifted the head high, shouting with every ounce of strength he possessed.

“Pursue them—leave none alive!”

The ringleader was still fleeing.

Sangye Tsen had only three guards left. They did not make straight for the rear gate, but instead headed to the stables. The Polu would certainly not let them escape, and without horses, they could not get far.

They untied the horses, each man leading a spare. Four men, eight horses, slipped quietly out the back gate of the residence. Fortunately, the Polu did not have enough men to cover so large an estate, perhaps simply failed to anticipate this move. In any case, the fugitives breathed a sigh of relief.

With the help of his guards, Sangye Tsen mounted up, wincing as he did. The girl’s knife wound was not fatal—the blade had been too short—but pain still shot through him. He cast a venomous glance back at the courtyard, then lashed his horse.

The fire had not yet reached this quarter; though chaos reigned, the Polu citizens, accustomed to curfews, dared not crowd the streets. The road leading towards Xiangxiong was quiet, the only sound the approaching thunder of hooves.

If he could just escape the city, he could rally his forces and crush these damnable rebels. Sangye Tsen’s mind seethed with hatred. Suddenly, one of his guards in the lead cried out and fell from his horse.

“Enemies ahead!”

Another guard shouted a warning. At that moment, his steed gave a long, agonized neigh and crashed to the ground. Sangye Tsen barely had time to pull up his reins, nearly trampling his fallen man. He yanked hard, just managing to avoid disaster.

A sharp hiss split the air. His horse, forelegs raised, shuddered. This time, Sangye Tsen saw it clearly—a short iron bolt had struck deep into the horse’s neck, silencing it instantly.

These were not Polu arrows—these were Tang crossbow bolts!

Sangye Tsen tumbled from his horse. Even as his thoughts reeled, this realization blazed in his mind.

As if to confirm it, a bright, ringing song rose through the silent night, strong and clear:

“When you draw a bow, draw it to full strength—yo; when you shoot an arrow, make it a long one. To bring down a man, shoot his horse first—ay! To catch a thief, seize the king.”

Lying paralyzed on the ground, eyes straining open, Sangye Tsen watched as a tall figure approached, the song growing louder, clearer. An uncontrollable shiver ran through him.

There was no mistaking it—this was the purest Han Chinese tongue.