Chapter 340: The Young Master's Head

With Ma Xianglin's cavalry pulled away, it became much easier for the Pu army to approach the camp.

Pu Zuoyuan climbed to the mountaintop and saw the Xia army camped in an east-west valley, surrounded by towering banyan trees on every peak. The aerial roots and branches were so dense they blotted out the sky and sun—not just two thousand men, but even five thousand would be nearly impossible to spot hiding there.

They camped in the river valley yet set no defensive positions on the high ground on either side; after the cavalry was transferred away, they sent no soldiers to take over patrols.

He didn't even understand such elementary military tactics. Seeing this, Pu Zuoyuan concluded that Ma Xianglin was nothing but a reckless brute, and his contempt for him grew even stronger. It was already dusk; the camp had lit mugwort and atractylodes, and a thin haze of smoke gradually enveloped the entire encampment.

"The Xia army's smoke has weakened a lot!" one of his subordinates said in a low voice.

Another added: "Their campfires have dwindled too!"

A smile curled at the corner of Pu Zuoyuan's mouth: "Pass the order—leave no survivors. Send men to seal off the small paths at both ends of the valley!"

"Yes!" his subordinates answered in unison, and then someone asked, "Young Master, what about their grain and supplies in the camp?"

Pu Zuoyuan laughed: "Distribute them according to military merit—whoever kills the most takes the most!"

The officers let out a muffled cheer, and one man licked his lips and said: "Too bad Ma Xianglin's army didn't bring any women along."

Pu Zuoyuan joked: "Isn't Qin Liangyu a woman?"

An officer sneered: "Ha! She's too old! Women are like pork—the younger, the better!"

"Hahaha..." The assembled officers broke into low laughter.

Pu Zuoyuan said: "I hear Ma Xianglin's wife is quite something—a civil official's daughter who's served in the army for years, a real beauty. Whoever chops off Ma Xianglin's head gets her as a reward! I'll also ask Father to give him extra people and land!"

Hearing this, the officers' morale soared—they could hardly wait for nightfall.

While Pu Zuoyuan indulged in filthy fantasies of victory, he also kept watching the Xia army camp, and saw that although it appeared well-disciplined on the surface, it was riddled with carelessness everywhere.

The palisade was sparse, with wide gaps between the stakes; the ditch was narrow and shallow; the chevaux-de-frise were piled haphazardly; the sentries were listless and slack, many leaning on their weapons in a daze or wandering off post to shade under trees or beside tents.

At shift changes, the outgoing soldiers left early and the incoming ones arrived late—for the space of a full incense stick, the gate had absolutely no one on duty.

The more Pu Zuoyuan watched, the more contempt he felt for Ma Xianglin. His father had told him that Qin Liangyu's White Pole Troops were the finest under heaven and warned him not to underestimate the enemy. But this sloppy formation and careless defense before his eyes looked exactly like an ordinary Ming army.

When Pu Zuoyuan had campaigned with the She-An rebels, he'd grown used to seeing the Ming army's slackness and knew well their weaknesses and fighting power. He figured that Great Xia was also a Han regime and must have inherited all those same flaws. No wonder his father said the Xia king was a toothless pup—that assessment was certainly not unfair.

"Young Master, I'll keep watch—you get some rest." A subordinate volunteered.

Pu Zuoyuan thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. He ate a buckwheat cake with dried bacon by the fire pit, then found a dry spot, swept away the fallen leaves, and closed his eyes to rest.

In a daze, he didn't know how much time had passed. When Pu Zuoyuan opened his eyes, all around was pitch black, with a bright moon hanging askew over the opposite mountaintop.

Pu Zuoyuan rose, stretched his shoulders, and looked toward the Xia army camp. The lights were sparse—it seemed the enemy was even short on charcoal for illumination. Pu Zuoyuan couldn't help but laugh out loud. The Ming army feared night battles most and had to light up their camps brightly every night. Now that Ma Xianglin's camp was shrouded in darkness, he figured a couple of shouts would be enough to send the Xia army into a panicked rout.

Pu Zuoyuan looked at his surrounding subordinates and asked: "Any movement from the Xia army?"

The officer in charge of surveillance replied: "None—the whole camp's sleeping like dead pigs. Young Master, let's make our move."

Pu Zuoyuan swept his gaze around and saw all his men staring at him, murderous intent blazing in their eyes. He slowly drew his Husa saber and said with a savage grin: "Follow this Young Master and slaughter them all!"

A signalman drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed a whistling arrow.

"Swoosh—" a shrill shriek cut through the air.

Immediately after, from every mountaintop in all directions came the frantic pounding of drums—Yunnan bronze drums, their sound part drum, part gong, loud and piercing. As they rang out across the hills, startled birds and beasts fled in panic—a terrifying, dreadful sound.

Riding the drumbeat, Pu soldiers charged down from every direction, their war cries shaking heaven and earth.

Pu Zuoyuan rushed at the very front, moving nimbly between vines and trees like an agile mountain leopard.

"Swoosh—bang!" A red signal rocket shot up from the Xia army camp.

"Hahaha... calling for reinforcements now is too late!" Pu Zuoyuan roared wildly, watching as his tribesmen burst out of the forest onto the flat valley floor, the Xia camp now within arm's reach.

Just then, Pu Zuoyuan faintly heard someone inside the camp shout: "Raise arms!"

A blaze of light flashed through the gaps in the Xia camp's palisade wall, and in an instant came the dense crackle of gunfire like hail striking the ground.

Pu Zuoyuan heard bullets whizzing past his ears without end. Beside him, a Pu warrior let out a muffled grunt and crashed down as if he'd slammed into an invisible wall, splattering Pu Zuoyuan with a great quantity of scalding liquid.

"Firearms! They have firearms!" someone among the charging soldiers shouted in the native tongue.

"Don't be afraid—they can't keep firing forever!" Pu Zuoyuan wiped the blood from his face and bellowed.

The southwest climate was humid; matchcord easily grew damp and went out, and gunpowder clumped from moisture. It was precisely on this point that the She-An rebels had relied to resist the imperial armies sent to suppress them.

But immediately after, a second volley of gunfire rang out from the palisade wall.

Under the moonlight, the charging Pu soldiers fell in rows like wheat before a scythe.

Before long, another burst of muzzle flashes erupted, and more Pu soldiers crumpled to the ground in response.

The Pu soldiers were fierce and fearless, charging forward without the slightest hesitation—but Pu Zuoyuan was already shaken. He shouted: "Spread out! The whole army, spread out!"

Even as he yelled, he secretly slowed his pace and glanced behind him. Dozens of corpses lay on the moonlit riverbank, blood flowing into the water and staining the river black.

One wounded soldier, not yet dead, clutched his severed leg, writhing and wailing.

Another, coughing up blood, was stuffing his spilled intestines back into his belly.

"Bang, bang..." Another dense volley of gunfire. Pu Zuoyuan instinctively dropped into a crouch to take cover.

He looked ahead and saw a mist of blood rise along the line of charging Pu soldiers—another dozen or more men hit and falling.

Alarm seized Pu Zuoyuan's heart as he roared: "Why aren't they misfiring?"

His answer came in the rumble of cannon fire. For speed of march, Ma Xianglin had brought only tiger-crouch cannons—weak in power, but with so many of them, they served perfectly well as oversized muskets.

A shell struck a dense cluster of Pu soldiers by the riverbank, sending water, stones, and the severed limbs of the native chieftain's troops flying in every direction.

Driven to fury by his men's casualties, Pu Zuoyuan brandished his blade and shouted: "Kill them all!"

The Pu soldiers braved the gunfire and cannon to charge right up to the camp, loosing crossbow bolts and hurling javelins. A steady thud-thud-thud sounded from within the enemy camp—most of the arrows and javelins were stopped by the sparse palisade wall, and the Xia army's firepower was completely unaffected, guns and cannons roaring in relentless, near-impenetrable waves.

Pu Zuoyuan's eyes had gone red at the sight of his men's casualties. He bellowed: "Charge into the camp! Charge into the camp!"

The Pu soldiers around him crowded together and surged toward the Xia camp's gate. They shoved aside the chevaux-de-frise, then hacked the gate open with great axes. Everyone let out a cheer and rushed madly inside—but after just two steps, they froze.

Behind the gate stood more than two hundred infantrymen drawn up in neat ranks, their bayonets like a forest of steel, gleaming with a cold light in the moonlight. "Raise arms!" shouted a man who looked like an officer.

Seeing this, Pu Zuoyuan felt as if a basin of cold water had been poured over his head. He snapped fully awake and screamed at the top of his lungs: "Retreat! Retreat now!"

The infantrymen fired a volley, lead shot blasting forth. In an instant, a web of bullets filled the gateway, and the Pu soldiers who had charged in were torn apart in a storm of flesh and blood, their casualties catastrophic. The native chieftain's troops were fierce and fearless—but that was because their survival philosophy held that the more reckless you were, the more likely you'd live, not because they truly enjoyed dying.

Now, seeing the Xia army's firearms so terrifying, their fighting spirit vanished in an instant, and they all turned and fled in rout.

The Xia army fired several more volleys at the backs of the chieftain's soldiers, killing several more ranks of men.

Pu Zuoyuan was swept along among the routed troops, using his clansmen's bodies as meat shields, and barely escaped with his life. Once out of the camp, all he could see was the entire river valley scattered with Pu soldiers fleeing in every direction.

Forget his young master status, forget being mocked by others—Pu Zuoyuan could care about none of that now. His only thought was survival, and he scrambled on all fours up the mountain. Behind him, from the Xia army camp, the great horn sounded across the plains.

Then the entire army erupted in a rousing battle cry. Xia soldiers poured out of the camp like a crow-blue river, spreading across the land like a mountain flood, mercilessly swallowing up the slower Pu soldiers.

Within the Xia army, a dozen or so riders broke out of formation, led by none other than Ma Xianglin. Fully armored, riding a Jeju horse, and wielding a twelve-foot white-shafted hook-sickle spear, he charged left and right like a swimming dragon. Before Ma Xianglin, no Pu soldier could last a single exchange—as the hook-sickle spear twisted and turned, a dozen or more Pu soldiers were struck down.

Ma Xianglin's personal guards were also supremely skilled in martial arts. Against the fleeing Pu soldiers, it was nothing short of mowing grass—a slaughter.

In but a moment, a wide space had opened around Ma Xianglin. He reined in his horse, leveled his spear, and roared: "Where is Pu Mingsheng?"

His voice was strong and full of force, piercing clouds and splitting stone—even the sound of gunfire could not drown it out.

The Pu soldiers all around were so terrified their legs went weak and their livers trembled, and they fled in every direction.

Meanwhile, Pu Zuoyuan, as if guided by ghosts, turned his head for a look. He saw Ma Xianglin half-drenched in blood turned dark red, his white-shafted spear half white, half red, blood and shredded flesh still dripping from its tip. The man's killing aura was so heavy he seemed less like a mortal and more like a vengeful demon.

In that single instant of looking back, Ma Xianglin's one eye also met Pu Zuoyuan's gaze. Then he grinned wide, suddenly spurred his horse, and came charging over. Pu Zuoyuan was scared out of his wits and fled in panic without choosing his path, only hearing someone behind him shout: "Protect the young master!"

Then came the clash of weapons, followed by the sound of blades piercing flesh and the dull thuds of several soldiers falling.

"Where do you think you're running?" Ma Xianglin's booming voice arrived. Pu Zuoyuan's legs went weak with terror, and he nearly fell where he stood.

The sound of hooves behind him grew closer and closer. Then he heard the wind whistling past his ears—in that instant, man and horse crossed paths, and Ma Xianglin had already galloped before him. He swung down from his speeding horse, drew his wild-goose saber, and walked over with a sinister grin.

Pu Zuoyuan was so frightened he nearly pissed himself. Tears streamed from his eyes, his knees went soft, and he knelt down, about to beg for mercy. But the moment he opened his mouth, a great gush of fresh blood poured out. Only then did he feel the searing pain in his chest. Looking down, he saw his chest had been run clean through, blood gushing from the wound.

Ma Xianglin closed in quickly, grabbed a fistful of Pu Zuoyuan's hair, yanked his head back to expose his neck, and with the other hand deftly moved to sever the head.

Though Pu Zuoyuan knew death was certain, seeing Ma Xianglin's form, he still instinctively shook his head continuously, his eyes pleading.

The next moment, Ma Xianglin brought down his blade and cut Pu Zuoyuan's head off while he was still alive, then expertly tied the hair into a knot and bound it beneath his horse's neck. Then he mounted up and continued the pursuit.

His bearing was utterly ferocious, yet his spearwork was supremely refined. The great spear in his hands danced as if it were alive—one thrust, one withdraw, and a life was taken. Pu soldiers often didn't even realize they'd been struck, running five or six paces before crashing to the ground.

At the same time, the sound of hooves came from the east of the valley—that was Wei Wenkui's wolf cavalry.

The guoxia horses looked small and comical to ride, but they had tremendous endurance and nimble bodies, skilled at threading through jungle vines, able to climb steep slopes and ford shallow rivers.

The Pu soldiers fled into the mountain forests, where the Jeju horses soon could not follow—but the wolf cavalry still pursued relentlessly.

Wei Wenkui rode along, laughing and whooping as he passed, shouting: "Kill! Kill them all! Hahaha..."

For the rest of the night, the mountain forests around the camp echoed with battle cries and screams.

As dawn was just breaking, Ma Xianglin returned to camp fully satisfied and tossed his white-shafted spear to his personal guards.

"Find a downstream spot and wash it clean!" Ma Xianglin ordered.

The white-shafted spear was entirely encased in dark red, layer upon layer of blood and gore caked on it. It stank horribly of rot, felt slick and sticky to the touch, and was unsettling just to look at.

The guards obeyed and found a downstream spot, washing for a long time without getting it clean. The blood had dyed a good portion of the stream pink, and countless fish and shrimp in the pink water fought over scraps of flesh.

Ma Xianglin, meanwhile, took down the head from beneath his horse's neck, examining it with satisfaction. He looked at it, let out a curious "Eh?" and asked those around him: "How old is Pu Mingsheng this year?" "Around forty, give or take."

Ma Xianglin's heart sank. He had someone fetch a Pu soldier to identify the head. The moment the Pu soldier saw it, he wept: "Young master!"

Ma Xianglin spat and said: "I meant to kill the old dog, but it turns out I killed the pup instead."

The guards returned with the washed white-shafted spear and helped Ma Xianglin remove his armor. A military medic brought a wet cotton cloth for him to wipe his body. This wasn't for cleanliness—it was because the chieftain's soldiers coated their arrowheads and blades with poison. If one had any wounds, they needed prompt treatment to prevent serious harm. Ma Xianglin had worn cloth-faced armor when charging the formation, and the Pu soldiers had already completely routed, so he hadn't suffered a single wound.

Just as he was wringing out the cotton cloth, two short blasts of a signal horn sounded—the signal that the wolf cavalry was approaching.

Before long, Wei Wenkui led his men into camp, over three hundred riders in total, nearly every one with trophies hanging beneath their horses' necks.

Military medics distributed wet towels for them to wipe their bodies.

Wei Wenkui, however, laughed carelessly: "It's just some bloodstains. I'll find a wild river and wash off."

The medic shot him a glare and said irritably: "Wiping off the blood is to check for wounds, so you don't die from poisoned arrows."

Wei Wenkui was taken aback at first, then saw a medicine worker pushing a medicine jar waiting off to the side. Thinking the medic had mistaken who he was, he said: "We're wolf soldiers—" The medic snapped angrily: "Nonsense! We've traveled the whole way together. Do you think I don't know you're wolf soldiers?"

Wei Wenkui pointed at the medicine jar: "But, this..."

Ma Xianglin stepped forward at this point and said: "His Majesty specifically ordered that all who fought—wolf soldiers or regular troops—be treated equally. The antidote was prepared for you all from the start."

"We have our own antidote." Wei Wenkui said, taking a small bamboo tube from his waist, opening it and pouring some into his palm—it looked like brownish-red grains of sand.

Ma Xianglin took a bit of it and asked suspiciously: "Does this actually work?"

Wei Wenkui rolled up his sleeve, revealing a gash on his arm. The wound had been cut open in a cross shape, with some dried yellow fluid around it. Judging by the discoloration around the wound, it was clearly from a Pu poisoned arrow—though the poison had mostly been drawn out already.

"This is called stone medicine, specifically for treating gelsemium and monkshood poison," Wei Wenkui said.

Donglan Prefecture wasn't far from Yunnan, and since all the southwestern chieftains loved using poisoned arrows, they'd naturally developed highly effective antidotes.

The Wei clan was loyal to the court, but they weren't stupid—they wouldn't hand over the means of their own survival. Thus the stone medicine had never been shared, and Great Xia hadn't known about it when preparing antidotes.

"If you had this good medicine, why didn't you say so earlier? You had His Majesty worrying over you for nothing!" Ma Xianglin said, then went off to inspect elsewhere.

The speaker meant no harm, but the listener took it to heart. The native people valued honesty above all in their friendships. Now Great Xia had prepared medicine for them, clearly treating them as their own people, yet they had been guarded and suspicious—what kind of behavior was that?

Wei Wenkui looked at the busy scene of medics treating the wounded in camp. He gripped the bamboo tube tightly, and guilt slowly welled up in his heart. After hesitating a moment, he found the medic and said: "Try our medicine—it works well!"

Two days later, Weimo Prefecture.

Pu Zuoyuan had had no news for two days now, making Wan Cailian increasingly uneasy.

Pu Mingsheng, by contrast, was perfectly calm and reassured her: "Yuan'er is number one among the younger generation in both bravery and intelligence—he has quite a bit of my flair from back in the day. Nothing will happen to him. Don't worry."

After pacing for a long while, Wan Cailian stopped and asked: "The two chieftains of Tianzhou and Sicheng Prefecture—has my husband sent people to them?"

Pu Mingsheng waved his hand impatiently: "Already sent, already sent. The Xia army's baggage train passes right by them—they can't help but be tempted." Wan Cailian pressed urgently: "What benefits did my husband promise them?"

Pu Mingsheng said: "What more benefits do they need? I promised to help them break away from Great Xia and become kings in their own right—that's the greatest benefit of all! Enough, stop being so suspicious. The sky over Yunnan isn't going to fall!"

Just then, a Pu soldier stumbled in, shouting: "Chieftain, the young master, he... he..."

"My son has returned!" Pu Mingsheng rose joyfully and pressed: "What did my son achieve in battle? Where's Ma Xianglin's head?"

"The young master's, the young master's head... head was thrown into the city!"

Pu Mingsheng laughed: "Well done!"

Then he turned to the ashen-faced Wan Cailian and said: "Haha, what did I tell you, I said—"

Pu Mingsheng suddenly realized his subordinate's words were ambiguous, and turned around with a furious roar: "Speak clearly, whose head?"

"The young master's! The young master's head was thrown into the city!" the subordinate said.

Pu Mingsheng staggered, then said: "What? Impossible! You're saying my son... impossible!"

"Tusi, it's true! The young master's head was severed by a sharp blade—the enemy's cut was precise, striking through the gap between the neck bones... he's been dead for some days now..."

"Take me to see it! I'll see it myself!" Pu Mingsheng rushed out like a madman, and after leaving the Tusi mansion, under his subordinate's guidance, he sprinted to the eastern city gate, where a large number of soldiers had formed a circle.

Seeing Pu Mingsheng's arrival, the soldiers scattered in an instant, revealing a head soaking in muddy water, surrounded by flies, emanating a thick stench.

The head's eyes were wide open, half-covered in blood and half in mud, still retaining the terrified expression of death.

Pu Mingsheng recognized at a glance that this was his son, and knelt in the muddy water, wailing.

Bai Cha, the chief steward of the old camp, ran over from the city wall and said: "Tusi, a large army has arrived east of the city—two to three thousand men. It's likely Ma Xianglin's forces. We must prepare early!"

Pu Mingsheng wiped away his tears, cradled his son's head, and rose from the muddy water, saying in a vicious tone: "Sound the ox-horn! Gather the generals!"

Moments later, the great water-buffalo horn before the Tusi mansion was blown, its sound extremely low, deep and heavy as a drum, trembling through the mountain forests.

Hearing the horn, Pu Mingsheng's generals of all ranks hurried toward the Tusi mansion.

Upon entering, they saw Pu Mingsheng clad in rattan armor, holding an unsheathed Husa knife, seated in the main position, his face twisted with ferocity.

On the table before him lay the head of Pu Zuoyuan, whose eyes would never close.

The generals exchanged glances, already guessing what had happened.

Once all the generals had gathered, Pu Mingsheng said in a hoarse voice: "Li Yaxuan, take three thousand warriors and station at the south gate."

Li Yaxuan stepped forward and acknowledged with murderous intent.

Bai Cha knew what the Tusi wanted to do, and hastily said: "Tusi, the enemy is already at the city walls. Retreating to hold Ami Prefecture would be the better plan." "What did you say?"

"Coward!"

At these words, many generals began to curse freely.

Bai Cha paid them no heed and continued to advise: "Tusi, our strength lies in our familiarity with the terrain and climate—we can use the mountain valleys and jungles to fight the enemy, using miasma to kill them. When it comes to besieging cities or defending them, that's the Han's strength. We cannot charge headlong into death!"

"What—so the young master just died for nothing?" the Tumi Li Achu roared in anger.

"The young master died in battle—that's his own uselessness. Why should we risk our lives to avenge him?" another Tumi shouted. "As long as we have people, we have fighting strength! Why must we defend this isolated city of Weimo Prefecture to the death?"

The native people's logic of loyalty differed somewhat from the Central Plains—there was no great taboo against disrespect. When it didn't affect the clan's interests, a mother might rise through her son, but a son rising through his father was a stretch—especially a young master whose head had been chopped off, who deserved even less respect.

"I will avenge my elder brother! Father, let me lead the troops!" The speaker had a cracking, adolescent voice. This man was Pu Zuoyong, thirteen years old, Pu Mingsheng's second son, and now his only surviving son.

Watching the hall grow increasingly chaotic, Bai Cha looked toward Pu Mingsheng's side, searching for the mistress's figure.

Though this mistress was Han Chinese, her judgment was sharp and her wisdom outstanding—the generals greatly admired her. Since the uprising began, whenever the Tusi made unwise decisions, the mistress would be there to counsel him. But at this critical moment, the mistress was nowhere to be seen, leaving Bai Cha deeply troubled.

Meanwhile, in the rear courtyard of the Tusi mansion, Wan Cailian suppressed her grief and wrote a letter, handing it to a trusted confidant: "Take the same route as last time, understand?"

"Rest assured, mistress!" The confidant accepted the letter, then took out an object from his bosom—a mud-caked tuber that looked at first glance like a lump of clay, wrapped in cloth on all sides.

Wan Cailian carefully received it through the cloth, and asked: "How much is needed?"

"Three drops will suffice."

Yahei

Round

Pen