Chapter 99

The final four contestants, besides Jierhuoadaei and Borjigin, were two veteran soldiers of the Revolutionary Army named Sabechi and Li Su.

As the final began, Borjigin raised his hand and requested the target be set at seven hundred paces; gazing at the target now reduced to a black dot, he encouraged himself not to be nervous—he was Borjigin, the bravest warrior of the steppe, and would not lose to anyone.

After steadying his rifle, Borjigin rapidly pulled the trigger; after a series of sharp cracks, the range officer’s voice echoed from afar.

“Borjigin, one hundred rings.”

Hearing the range officer’s call, the crowd erupted in shock—they never expected two competitors today would both score a perfect hundred.

Sabechi and Li Su exchanged glances, both filled with helplessness; they had assumed the shooting champion would emerge from among themselves, never imagining two dark horses would arise from the recruits.

They simply could not compete with these two monsters. Unlike the others, Jierhuoadaei’s gaze toward Borjigin held no astonishment, but rather a touch of admiration.

“Scoring this result proves you’re a remarkable genius, but even geniuses have their differences. Had I not been here, that rifle capable of killing enemies at fifteen hundred meters would have been yours—but there is no ‘what if.’” With that, Jierhuoadaei shed his earlier laziness, his expression turning serious as he raised his hand and declared: “I request the target be moved to eight hundred meters.”

The crowd erupted again—Jierhuoadaei’s boldness was truly staggering; at eight hundred paces, he might miss everything entirely, and then he’d be humiliated.

Under the stunned gaze of everyone, Jierhuoadaei pulled the trigger; after ten shots, the range officer’s voice rang out across the entire field.

“All ten rounds on target, score: ninety-five rings.”

Hearing the score, Jierhuoadaei looked relaxed, unsurprised—he had full confidence in himself. But Borjigin was utterly stunned.

It was like pouring your all into a performance only to realize it barely cleared someone else’s threshold—truly unbearable.

Yet soon, Borjigin no longer felt that way, for all top ten competitors received rewards, and he was awarded a sniper rifle; though inferior to Jierhuoadaei’s, it was far superior to his old Type 56 semi-automatic.

After the so-called shooting competition concluded, the army’s reorganization was largely complete; the force, including former prisoners and tribal volunteers, now totaled roughly fifty thousand.

One brigade had been expanded into a division; after reorganization, they annihilated the Tatar tribe. During the battle, Temujin and his party slipped away in the chaos.

Meanwhile, seven strange figures arrived on the Mongolian steppe: a blind man, a butcher, a woodcutter, a stablehand, a peddler, a scholar, and a delicate young woman.

These were the Seven Freaks of Jiangnan. They had traveled from south to north, chasing Duan Tiande all the way to the desert, after which all trace of him vanished. For over six years, they had scoured desert and steppe for Duan Tiande and Li Ping; all seven had learned fluent Mongolian, yet Li Ping and her son remained utterly out of reach.

The Seven Freaks were tenacious and fiercely competitive; having made this wager with Qiu Chuji, they would not abandon it even if the task were ten times harder or a thousand times more perilous. Each shared the same resolve: if they never found Li Ping, they would search for eighteen years, then return to Zui Xian Pavilion in Jiaxing to admit defeat to Qiu Chuji.

Besides, Qiu Chuji might not find Yang Tiexin’s wife, Bao Shi. If neither side succeeded, the contest would be a draw, and they could set a new challenge to settle it.

“Big brother, why do the tribes out here keep fighting all the time? It’s made searching for people impossible these past months.” Han Xiaoying sighed, recalling recent events—within a single year, several major battles had erupted across the steppe.

“Sigh, it’s always the common folk who suffer in war. But we fear Li Ping and her child may have perished in the fighting.” Zhu Cong sighed as he spoke.

“Enough. Ahead lies the Tatar tribe. Let’s search there—perhaps we’ll find Li Ping and her child.” With that, Ke Zhen’e led the Seven Freaks into the Tatar tribe.

Upon entering, they found the entire tribe abuzz with activity; every face bore a genuine smile—a state of spirit they had never witnessed. Puzzled, Zhu Cong stopped a passerby and asked: “Brother, what’s today? Why is everyone so happy?”

“What else? I’ll tell you—our tribe overthrew the old shamans and slave-masters, and the government returned what they stole from us. Now, this is a place ruled by the people, where us common folk call the shots.” The man nearly danced with excitement as he spoke.

Zhu Cong was bewildered—he never expected to hear democratic slogans here, like those of Mencius. Just as he was about to ask more, the man sized him up, then shook his head repeatedly: “You dress like a scholar from a play. Forget it—I won’t talk to you. Scholars are terrible.”

Zhu Cong was stunned. How did these people know scholars were terrible? Seeing his usually sharp second brother flustered, the other six nearly laughed. Jin Quanfa quickly intercepted the man: “Brother, don’t go—tell us, why are scholars so terrible?”

The man widened his eyes: “You don’t know? Fine, I’m no better off myself—if not for the representatives exposing the shamans’ fraud, we’d never have realized how we were exploited.”

“Listen—I tell you, stay far from scholars. These people are smarter than shamans. I heard they force the poor into despair, selling their own daughters into brothels, then use that ill-gotten money to enjoy those very girls. That place is called a brothel, right? I’m not wrong, am I?” The man slapped his thigh and turned to the Seven Freaks.

“Yes, correct—it’s called a brothel.” All the Seven Freaks nodded, stifling laughter except Zhu Cong, whose face turned ashen—even the usually stern Ke Zhen’e nodded.

“That’s bad enough, but these scholars also write stories to glorify themselves, turning their visits to brothels into tales of refined romance—old men in their fifties corrupting teenage girls. How shameless must one be to call that ‘romantic poetry’? Tell me, aren’t scholars terrible?”

The man glanced at Han Xiaoying and spoke solemnly to the others: “I tell you—if a scholar treats you well, if he’s kind to you, he’s probably lusting after this lovely girl and wants to make her his concubine. Watch yourselves.”

“If such a thing happens, go to the police station over there—walk straight right. The officials there serve us. You don’t need to kneel, bow, or cry ‘Great Judge of Heaven.’ No bribes, no beatings, no torture.”

Hearing this, the six who had been stifling laughter fell silent. Ke Zhen’e stepped forward and asked: “Friend, you say you don’t kneel when reporting a case—then how do you address your officials?”

The man looked puzzled: “What do you mean, ‘how’? Our new rule forbids kneeling—no one is worthy of it. Comrade Guo and Comrade Nie have said it plainly: we are the people.”