Chapter 871: The Priest's Death on a Snowstorm Night

Qifugu gathered the tribe's senior leaders before dusk.

Inside the Royal Tent, eleven people sat around a low platform: generals who led troops, elders who oversaw the herds, and the old man in a worn black robe seated at the very back.

The old man was named Batulu, the High Priest of the Qifu Tribe, who had overseen heavenly rites and major tribal judgments for forty years; his word among the clan was three times firmer than Qifugu's curved blade.

Batulu, over seventy, had a face full of Gouhe, his sparse white hair peeking from under a felt hat; he clutched a bone staff whose tip was bound with three eagle feathers.

Qifugu recounted the matter in full.

He left nothing unsaid, from the terms Gao Jiong offered to the He Lan Tribe's grassland, not a single word omitted.

The tent fell silent for a while.

The first to speak was the second general on the left, named Amuri, in his early thirties, with a string of wolf fangs hanging from his neck.

"Leader, what sort of person is that traveling merchant from Fengzhou? His tone doesn't sound like a trader's."

Qifugu shook his head.

"Whatever his type, his wagon carries grain, salt, and cotton clothes; those items are real."

"Without these, the Qifu Tribe couldn't last ten days."

Amuri licked his cracked lips.

"Leader, do you truly intend to attack the He Lan Tribe?"

Qifugu gave no direct answer, but swept his gaze around the tent.

"You all speak now."

An elder who tended the herds spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Leader, the herd of Cattle and Sheep have mostly perished; the remainder won't last three days. If tonight's wind blows another night like this, the herd may be extinct by tomorrow."

"Without livestock, spring is a dead end."

Another general slapped his thigh.

"Attack! How can those He Lan Tribe scoundrels occupy the best grassland, forcing us to die in this broken windward gap?"

"When they strike our people they show no mercy; why should we still give them face?"

People in the tent gradually echoed.

Qifugu's gaze remained fixed on the silent old man at the very back.

Since entering the tent, Batulu had not spoken; his bone staff rested on his knee, his eyes half‑closed, his expression unreadable.

Qifugu lowered his voice a notch.

"High Priest, what do you think?"

Batulu's eyelids opened a sliver.

Those cloudy old eyes turned half a circle in the tent's dim light, finally settling on Qifugu's face.

"Leader, are you asking me?"

"Or informing me?"

Qifugu's mouth twitched.

"I am asking."

Batulu lifted the bone staff from his knee and tapped it on the ground; the sound echoed muffled through the tent.

"We cannot attack."

A few generals in the tent exchanged glances.

Batulu's voice was dry and brittle.

"Behind the He Lan Tribe is the Royal Court; moving against He Lan is striking the Royal Court's face."

"The Royal Court's army numbers over a hundred thousand; if they press down, the Qifu Tribe will be reduced to nothing."

Amuri grew urgent.

"High Priest, if we don't attack we'll starve! The grain will only last five days!"

Batulu gave him a glance.

"If a few hundred starve, the Qifu Tribe still has grit; we can rise again next year."

"Opposing the Royal Court means annihilation of the clan."

Qifugu clenched his fist on his knee.

"High Priest, when has the Royal Court ever cared about our lives?"

Batulu, leaning on his bone staff, rose slowly, his body hunched, his shadow in the tent twisted by the last glimmer of light from the fire basin.

"Leader, I have an unpleasant thing to say."

"That traveling merchant from Fengzhou is no good person."

The tent fell silent again.

Batulu's bone staff pointed toward where Qifugu was seated.

"He came to the Grassland laden with grain and salt, offering wine and salt to curry favor with the leader, then turned around and urged the leader to seize the He Lan Tribe's grassland."

"Think about it, what does a Central Plains merchant want?"

"He aims to pit us against the He Lan Tribe, causing the Grassland to slaughter each other."

"The Central Plains' calculations are strikingly loud."

Qifugu's voice sank.

"High Priest, are you saying he's using us?"

Batulu tapped the bone staff on the ground again.

"Whether it's beneficial or not, I dare not say definitively, but having lived seventy years, I've seen far too many Central Plains merchants who smile while handing over knives."

"When they give you salt, they smile sweeter than flowers, then turn around and sell you to your enemy."

"Leader, heed my advice: drive this man away, we'll slaughter horses to stave off hunger, endure this white disaster, petition the Royal Court for grain; even if we must lower our heads and admit cowardice, it's better than setting ourselves on fire."

A few elders in the tent nodded.

Amu Ri opened his mouth to argue, but someone beside him tugged his sleeve, and he didn't speak.

Qifugu gave no response.

He watched Batu Lu's hunched back disappear from the tent, the tent curtain flapped twice in the wind, and the snow outside grew heavier.

The meeting dispersed.

Gao Jiong crouched beside the convoy, warming a fire with a few pieces of dried cattle hide taken from a discarded tent; the flames leapt erratically in the wind and snow.

Songqi slipped back from the tent area, crouched beside him, and lowered his voice to the minimum.

"Chief, I've had someone keep watch on Qifugu's words in the tent."

Gao Jiong tossed a fragment of cattle hide into the fire.

"The High Priest objected?"

Songqi nodded.

He opposed fiercely, almost cursing Qifugu by name, calling you a demon from the Central Plains and saying he'll drive you out of the camp tomorrow.

Gao Jiong squinted as the smoke stung his eyes.

"What else did he say?"

Songqi scratched his knife scar.

He said he would report your scheme to the Royal Court, prompting them to send troops to deal with you.

Gao Jiong tapped his knee twice with his fingers.

"Report?"

"Yes, the old man threatened, saying that at first light tomorrow he'll send someone toward the Royal Court with a message."

Gao Jiong stood, patting the snow off his leather coat.

"Prepare two items."

Songqi tilted his head and looked at him.

"Which two?"

Gao Jiong retrieved from a hidden compartment under the carriage board a fist-sized cattle‑hide pouch containing several black pills the size of peanuts.

He also pulled a flat copper kettle from another hidden compartment, unscrewed its lid to sniff, and found it filled with burning knife.

He crushed three pills, tossed them into the copper kettle, shook it a few times, and the powder dissolved silently in the liquor.

"Chief, what is that?"

Gao Jiong screwed the kettle's lid tight and slipped it into his bosom.

"It's stock from the Bright Mirror Treasury, a fine Western Regions product; drinking it causes the heart meridians to rupture within the span of an incense stick, painless, the seven orifices bleed, much like the symptoms of dying from a rapid binge of cheap liquor."

Songqi's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Chief, are you going to visit that High Priest?"

Gao Jiong pried two gold ingots from the compartment of another carriage and weighed them in his palm.

"First courtesy, then arms; buy what you can, if you can't, that's that."

He gave Songqi a glance.

"Take two people with me; the rest watch the carriage."

Late night.

The blizzard eased a bit, but the world remained a white, boundless chaos.

Gao Jiong, wrapped in his leather coat, with Songqi and another Hidden Agent, braving the drifting snow, reached the front of the High Priest's camp tent.

On the cleared ground before the tent was a crippled old dog, curled in a snow hollow; when someone approached, it lifted its head and let out a muffled low growl.

Songqi fished a piece of meat jerky scented with sheep fat from his sleeve and tossed it before the dog's nose.

The dog sniffed, grabbed the jerky, retreated into the snow hollow, and fell silent.

Gao Jiong lifted the tent curtain and entered.

Batu Lu sat on a low platform inside the tent, an oil lamp lit before him; the wick was nearly spent, the flame no larger than a fingernail.

He still clutched the bone staff in his hand, and a beast hide bearing Rouran Script lay on his knee.

When someone entered, his gaze shifted from the hide to Gao Jiong's face.

"In the dead of night, what brings you to my tent?"

Gao Jiong pulled two gold ingots from his chest and placed them on the low platform.

"High Priest, I'm here to atone."

"The daytime matter left the High Priest displeased; I can't bear it in my heart."

"These two gold ingots are a small token of my goodwill."

Batu Lu lowered his head to glance at the gleaming gold ingots, then looked up at Gao Jiong.

"Do you think I can silence you with gold?"

Gao Jiong's smile curved even wider.

"High Priest, you misunderstand; I'm merely a trader, nothing more."

Batu Lu struck the bone staff against the ground.

"Young man, I've lived seventy years; I've seen every kind of trick."

"Your smile is false, your liquor is sweet, your blade hides in your sleeve."

"At first light tomorrow, I will send someone to the Royal Court to report your deeds in full detail."

"Leave now; I won't trouble you, and you have half a day to exit the Qifu Tribe's territory."

Gao Jiong's finger paused for a breath inside the leather coat's cuff.

He looked at Ba Tu Lu.

In Ba Tu Lu's eyes there was no greed, no fear, only the stubbornness of an old animal guarding its den.

Gao Jiong withdrew that smile.

"High Priest, I have one final question."

Ba Tu Lu's finger tightened on the bone staff.

"I?"

Gao Jiong's voice flattened, flattening so that the oil lamp's flame inside the tent flickered down.

"No need for the gold ingot; I won't waste it either."

He pulled the flat copper pot from his bosom.

The moment Ba Tu Lu saw the copper pot, he lifted the bone staff three inches.

"What do you intend to do?"

Gao Jiong unscrewed the pot lid, and the scent of wine drifted out.

Songqi lunged from behind, his two arms locking Ba Tu Lu's neck and right hand.

Another Hidden Agent stepped forward simultaneously, restraining his left hand and bone staff.

Ba Tu Lu struggled twice; his seventy-year-old frame under the two strong men's hands was like dry firewood.

His voice squeezed out of his throat, laced with anger and shock, but was crushed into fragments by Songqi's arm.

"You…"

Gao Jiong's left hand clamped Ba Tu Lu's chin, his five fingers pulling hard to both sides, forcing the temporomandibular joint to its limit.

The copper pot's spout entered Ba Tu Lu's mouth.

When the wine poured in, Ba Tu Lu's body convulsed violently a few times under Songqi's arm, and his throat's swallowing reflex guided the wine down his esophagus into his stomach.

Gao Jiong drained all the wine from the copper pot, then pressed the spout against Ba Tu Lu's mouth corner, letting the overflowing wine run down his cheek, soaking his collar and the robe across his chest.

Songqi released his grip.

Ba Tu Lu's body tilted to the side, his fingers clawed at the air twice, catching nothing.

His pupils dilated a circle in the last light of the oil lamp, his voice rose from deep within his throat, shattering to the point of being barely audible.

"You… will… face retribution…"

Gao Jiong looked at him.

"High Priest, what I do never requires retribution to settle the account."

Ba Tu Lu's body twitched seven or eight times on the low platform, each twitch becoming shorter and weaker.

Black‑red froth began seeping from his mouth corner, and fine strands of blood streamed out from his nostrils and eye corners.

In less than the time of a single incense stick, the convulsions stopped.

Ba Tu Lu's body slumped softly beside the low platform, and the bone staff in his hand rolled to the ground.

Gao Jiong crouched, reaching to feel Ba Tu Lu's pulse on his neck.

"It's over."

Songqi swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

"Chief, what do we do next?"

Gao Jiong stood, slipped the empty copper pot back into his bosom, and retrieved the two gold bars from the low platform.

"Strip his outer robe, leaving only his undergarments, and carry him to the snow on the wind‑sheltered side outside the tent."

"Don't wipe the blood from his mouth corner and nose; leave it."

"Dump a few wine jars from the tent onto the ground to make it look like this old man got drunk at night."

"He staggered out of the tent, his clothes unfinished, froze outside; with the white disaster weather, it's perfectly normal for a dozen old men to freeze to death."

Songqi and the Hidden Agent acted, removing Ba Tu Lu's outer robe and felt hat, leaving only a thin undershirt and trousers; they carried him to a wind‑sheltered slope twenty steps outside the tent and placed him in the snow.

Gao Jiong splashed half a jar of wine onto the tent floor, then tilted a wine jar and set it beside the low platform's leg, turning Ba Tu Lu's former seat into a mess.

The three slipped out from behind the tent and vanished into the swirling snow.

The next morning, herders found Ba Tu Lu's corpse outside the tent.

The old man curled in a snow hollow, face down, with dried blood on his mouth corner and nose, wearing only a thin undershirt, his skin frozen a bluish‑gray.

The tent was saturated with a strong wine odor, the floor stained with wine, a wine jar toppled beneath the low platform's leg.

Someone rummaged inside the tent; even the bone staff had rolled into a corner.

When the news reached Qifugu's ears, he was squatting at the Royal Tent gate, gnawing the last piece of horse jerky.

His hand stopped.

"Frozen to death?"

"Last night?"

The messenger general gasped heavily.

"Hmm, several wine jars were tipped inside the tent, the ground was all wine; the High Priest probably drank too much at midnight, left the tent and couldn't return, and was frozen alive outside."

Qifugu's lips moved a few times.

He glanced toward Gao Jiong's caravan in the distance, then withdrew his gaze.

He remained silent for a long while.

The generals stood in a line behind him, none speaking.

The High Priest is dead.

The dissenting voices vanished.

Inside and outside the tent, only wind, snow and hunger remained.

That afternoon, Gao Jiong came to the Royal Tent again.

Qifugu sat on the low platform, a bowl of chilled horse blood placed before him.

He did not mention the High Priest.

Gao Jiong also did not mention it.

The two faced each other for over ten breaths, and Qifugu spoke first.

"When can you unload those three hundred shi of grain and two hundred cotton coats?"

Gao Jiong sat on the old wool blanket opposite the platform, his knees propped with his hands.

"Did the leader agree?"

Qifugu's voice rose from beneath his teeth.

"If I don't agree, what else can be done?"

"The High Priest is dead, the grain only lasts three days, and this morning another sixty cattle and two hundred sheep died."

"If I don't seize the He Lan Tribe's pasture, in seven days the Qifu Tribe will be another old man frozen to death in the snow."

Gao Jiong's mouth twitched slightly.

"As long as the leader understands, that's fine."

His voice was low enough that only the two of them could hear it clearly.

"The grain and coats will be unloaded this evening, but there is one matter I, the officer, must first clarify with the leader."

Qifugu looked at him.

"What matter?"

Gao Jiong drew a line on the Mudi with his hand.

"The He Lan Tribe cannot be taken head‑on by the Qifu Tribe; the leader's brothers have starved for three days, their strength wanes, the warhorses are more than half broken, and if we fight frontally, even though the He Lan Tribe has been weakened by a calamity, the leader still cannot win."

Qifugu's complexion darkened.

"Then what exactly is the way out you speak of? I can't just punch my way through, can I?"

Gao Jiong's index finger traced a second mark on the Mudi.

"I, the officer, will fight for you."

Qifugu was stunned.

"Fight for me? You, a traveling merchant with dozens of workers, will fight the He Lan Tribe for me?"

Gao Jiong rose from the old wool blanket, bent and stepped out of the tent toward the convoy, then turned back.

"The leader, come with me to see something."

Qifugu rose from the platform and followed him to the front of the last chained wagon at the convoy's tail.

Wind and snow battered the oilcloth of the wagon canvas, making a crack‑and‑pop sound.

Gao Jiong had Songqi hand him a short axe.

He said little, swung the short axe and snapped the chain in one cut.

The sound of the chain breaking rang sharply, piercing the wind.

Gao Jiong lifted the heavy oilcloth and tugged it toward the back of the carriage board.

Qifugu saw what lay on the carriage board.

His mouth opened, his fingers grasped the wagon edge, and his knuckles showed an abnormal white amid the frost‑bitten swelling.

Three hundred Horizontal Blades.

Three hundred Great Zhou Fine Steel Horizontal Blades, emitting a faint blue cold light, were neatly stacked in an iron frame, handles outward.

The blades reflected a chilling glint under the hazy snowlight that made one's tooth roots tingle.

Gao Jiong drew a Horizontal Blade from the frame and casually tossed it toward Qifugu.

The blade spun once in the air, its handle forward, landing in the outstretched palm of Qifugu.

Its weight and feel made Qifugu's five fingers close around it.

He lowered his head to look at the blade in his hand.

The edge was thin yet heavy, the spine thick and straight, the grinding angle unlike any curved sword on the Grassland, and the balance point sat exactly two inches in front of the guard.

He turned, raised the blade, and struck the thick pine stake used to tether a horse beside the tent.

The sound of the blade entering the stake was not a sharp "ka".

It was an extremely short, muffled hiss; the stake split cleanly in the middle, the cut surface smooth enough to see the growth rings.

The pine stake as thick as a bowl's rim was bisected in one stroke.

Qifugu stared at the blade in his hand, then at the broken stake, his Adam's apple bobbing three times.

From behind came the sounds of several generals sucking in cold air.

A Muri leapt from the side, snatched the Horizontal Blade handed over by another Hidden Agent, and weighed it in his hand.

"This blade is thirty percent heavier than our curved swords, yet over five times faster."

"Is this a Central Plains army sword?"

Gao Jiong folded away the traveling merchant's bowed smile, his voice even as it left his mouth.

"Three hundred Horizontal Blades are enough to arm the leader's elite three hundred warriors."

"The people who handed you these blades, the He Lan Tribe's broken curved swords that are ground with iron plates, will be shattered on impact."

Qifugu's hand gripping the blade trembled.

It wasn't from the cold.

Gao Jiong stepped in front of him, tapping his fingers twice on the edge of the carriage board.

"Leader, I will give you another item."

"Tactics."

He crouched, pulled a thin wooden board from his boot, and on the board a burnt charcoal stick sketched a rough map of the He Lan Tribe camp.

"White disaster weather, visibility no more than ten steps; even if the He Lan Tribe is on guard, sentries cannot see a figure beyond thirty steps in the blizzard."

"I will help the leader arrange a plan of attack."

"The troops split into three routes."

His fingers drew three lines on the board.

"First route: the leader personally leads a hundred men, charges straight at the He Lan Tribe leader's main tent, and takes the Human Head."

"Second route: A Muri leads a hundred men, first burns the He Lan Tribe's Provisions store tents, cutting off their retreat."

"Third route: leave fifty men on the east side of the He Lan Tribe camp to create chaos, set fire and raise smoke, so they cannot discern the direction or number of the attack."

"All set out during the blizzard, faces wrapped in White Cloth, bodies cloaked in white felt, and only draw their blades when they reach the He Lan Tribe tents."

"Enter at midnight and finish before dawn."

Qifugu crouched on the ground, staring at the map on the board for a while.

His breathing grew heavy.

"You even know the layout of the He Lan Tribe camp?"

Gao Jiong flipped the board over; the back showed the He Lan Tribe sentries' distribution and patrol routes.

"When I was trading, I visited the He Lan Tribe three times, each time giving wine to their sentry chief; after drinking too much, their tongues loosened and they spilled everything."

Qifugu exhaled a puff of white vapor.

"When do we strike?"

Gao Jiong looked up at the sky.

To the northwest, a darker, thicker cloud layer pressed down, and the wind speed increased.

"Tonight."

"The stronger the wind, the better."

"The deeper the snow, the better."

He stood up and handed the board to Qifugu.

"The leader selects the men, distributes Horizontal Blades, eats and drinks to fullness at dusk, and departs at night."

Qifugu took the board, and pressed his finger firmly on its surface.

He turned and walked toward the camp, his voice cutting through the wind and snow.

"A Muri! Gather all those above centurion rank to the Royal Tent for a council!"

Gao Jiong stood beside the caravan, watching Qifugu's back disappear into the flying snow.

Songqi stepped forward.

"Chief, really sending them out tonight?"

Gao Jiong slipped the board into a hidden compartment in his boot.

"The iron city is red-hot; if we don't strike while it's hot, it will cool and become unworkable."

"Chief, what about us? Follow them?"

Gao Jiong shook his head.

"I will not touch the blood of the He Lan Tribe."

"The blades are given, the routes drawn; the rest is for Qifugu to handle himself."

"We just watch from the perimeter; if any fish slip through and run south, I don't want extra mouths spreading the news to the Royal Court."

Songqi nodded.

"Understood."

Dusk.

Three hundred Horizontal Blades were distributed to the three hundred most desperate warriors of the Qifu Tribe.

In the open space between the tents, those who received blades slapped each other's shoulders in the wind and snow; a young herder clutched his Horizontal Blade to his chest, his fingers repeatedly tracing the iron floral pattern on the hilt, his face both excited and feral.

Night fell.

The blizzard added another level of intensity in the darkness.

The wind howled, and shards of ice struck faces like knives.

Qifugu stood at the camp's exit, wrapped in white felt, his face bound with White Cloth, only his blood‑veined eyes visible.

Three hundred Suicide Warriors and two thousand young strong men formed three columns behind him.

The Horizontal Blades lay beneath the White Cloth, still sheathed.

Qifugu turned his head and glanced at the camp.

The tents leaned crookedly in the blizzard, a few butter lamps leaking weak yellow light through the seams.

He turned back, took large strides, and stepped into the wind and snow.

The three squads quickly split in the darkness, each melting into the white hell in different directions.

Gao Jiong stood on a high slope on the east side of the camp, the collar of his leather coat puffed out by the wind.

Songqi and forty Hidden Agents were scattered in depressions on both sides of the slope, crossbows cocked, daggers drawn.

The wind and snow were so fierce that nothing could be seen.

Gao Jiong fished out the iron plaque from the Mingjing Office in his chest, flipped it over twice on his fingertip, and slipped it back inside.

His voice was half‑torn by the wind, and only Songqi heard the last few words.

"Minister, the first fire, it's lit."