Chapter 835: I Made It!

A squad of Tufang soldiers marched deep within the Sui Wasteland.

The old general walked beside the corpse of the Demon Lord, feeling both sorrow and relief.

In this campaign, Tufang Kingdom deployed ten battalions: the largest with over eight thousand men, the smallest with over five hundred, totaling more than twenty-three thousand troops.

Five battalions were ambushed in the wasteland, three were nearly annihilated near Huangtu Town, and the remaining two waited for reinforcement—now they had retrieved the King’s Head of Household.

The corpse was incomplete—even the head was missing.

Beside him, a young officer’s face was grim, tears streaming down.

The old general frowned: “This is a military march. Save your crying for when we return to the capital.”

The young officer wiped his tears: “By the time we return to the capital, it’ll be too late to cry—the King is dead, and we’ll all be executed with him.”

The old general glanced around, lowering his voice: “Who told you we’ll be executed?”

The young officer whispered even lower: “Prince Holman will surely have us executed. Before we marched, he warned us: if we fail to seize the Sui Wasteland, we must sacrifice our lives for the Empire’s glory! Now the King is dead, our crime is worse—we have no hope left.”

The old general shook his head: “Prince Holman said the same thing before—when we fought Shang Kingdom. We lost that war too, yet we survived. Young man, don’t overthink it. You’re lucky.”

The young officer’s eyes widened: “General, I respect you, but now you tell me I’m lucky? Isn’t that mocking me?”

The old general looked at the King’s body: “Surviving this campaign after following him is already great fortune. Think: before he ascended, how long had we gone without losing to Shang Kingdom? Since he became King, have we won a single meaningful battle?”

The young officer sighed: “Actually, we had a chance to win this time—we just lacked patience.”

“Patience?” The old general chuckled bitterly. “Do you think our King rushed to attack Huangtu Town because he lost patience? He rushed because no one would sell us grain.”

We received word from Huangtu Town: anyone willing to sell us grain had been killed by a man of high moral standing.”

Ever since the King decided to come to Pulu Province without supplies, I knew how this war would end. He wanted to bring more soldiers. He needed a victory. But in the end, he gained nothing.”

The young officer was stunned: “We lacked grain? The King never told us that.”

The old general shook his head: “Why would the King tell you? If you and your soldiers knew you might starve, wouldn’t you start thinking of other options?”

The young officer still didn’t understand: “So attacking Huangtu Town was wrong?”

“Attacking Huangtu Town was right—we just weren’t prepared,” the old general said, gazing at snowflakes drifting from the sky, his face filled with regret. “Last time in the Pulu War, we were far better prepared. Though we ultimately lost, we at least saw a glimmer of hope.”

“If we’d prepared better this time, if the path to the Sui Wasteland had been wider, if we’d chosen a target other than Pulu Province—if we’d chosen the Sleeping Lands—”

The young officer felt the chance for victory was greater now: “The Shang Kingdom’s Grand Secretary once said we had ample confidence to win this war.”

“You mean Qiao Yi?” The old general’s eyes flashed with coldness. “I know this man well. In the Shang royal court, he was once an outsider. Ten years ago, he couldn’t even get a seat at important meetings. Qiao Yi reached his current position not through sincerity.”

“He lied to us?” The young officer couldn’t believe it. “What did he gain?”

The old general scanned the wasteland before him: “Li Qi led the powerful families and gangs of Pulu Province in battle here—that’s the benefit Qiao Yi gained. Whether we win or lose here means nothing to him.”

He likely predicted the outcome of this battle in the Sui Wasteland from the start. Think: how many cities has Qiao Yi captured? Doesn’t he know our strength?”

“If Prince Holman had led the army, we might still have had a chance. But with the King here personally, I saw little hope from the beginning.”

The young officer worried more about his life: “General, do you truly believe Prince Holman will spare us?”

The old general was certain: “Besides the King, Prince Holman holds the most power in the Empire. He reached this position not through loyalty to the King.”

Our King is too young. He believed Qiao Yi so easily—he even believed people like Dan Chengjun.”

“Remember this when we return: how the King died doesn’t matter—it’s his own fault. What matters is who becomes the next King.”

Nian Shangyou held the battle report, trembling, unsure how to tell Qiao Yi.

But he couldn’t avoid it—this was a report from the Sui Wasteland, the very thing Qiao Yi cared about most: “Lord, news from the Sui Wasteland: Tufang Kingdom has been defeated.”

Qiao Yi nodded slightly, offering no comment.

Nian Shangyou doubted he hadn’t made himself clear—he waited for Qiao Yi to ask for details.

But Qiao Yi asked nothing. After a pause, he looked at Nian Shangyou: “Any other news?”

“Yes,” Nian Shangyou hesitated, thinking long and hard, unsure what news to report.

San Tou Cha—he should care about San Tou Cha.

San Tou Cha had good news.

“Lord, the Tempering Camp has seized Tushi. Xu Han has retreated to Renshi!”

“Good!” Qiao Yi’s face lit up. He studied the report carefully.

A thunderous roar came from outside the cave. Qiao Yi’s joy slowly faded.

“With Tushi and Haishi lost, the underground city is nearly fallen. Once the underground city falls, San Tou Cha will fall quickly. At this point, the Peddler still hasn’t split his forces—doesn’t he know how vital San Tou Cha is?” Qiao Yi couldn’t fathom the Peddler’s thinking.

As he pondered, Qiao Yi heard Nian Shangyou muttering to himself.

“I always knew Tufang couldn’t win—”

Qiao Yi frowned: “What are you saying?”

“Nothing, Lord. I’m just worried about our current battle situation.”

Qiao Yi pointed to the cave entrance: “If you’re worried, go out and see for yourself. I sent you to lead troops, not to be a messenger.”

“Yes!” Nian Shangyou stepped back two paces and turned toward the cave entrance.

I’m not here just to be a messenger—I’m also his bodyguard, his driver, his order-bearer, his errand boy.”

All these roles have nothing to do with leading troops.

Even now, Nian Shangyou didn’t know what to do next.

Qiao Yi called out: “Shangyou, if you find the Peddler’s trail, report it to me immediately.”

“Yes!” Nian Shangyou replied.

Lord, have you ever thought of me when you speak?

If I find the Peddler’s trail, will I even survive to come back?

Outside the cave, Nian Shangyou saw endless mist and corpses littering the ground.

This was Wulao Valley—the name was apt. Enter the valley, and you might as well be imprisoned in this thick fog forever.

Under the protection of hundreds of Totem soldiers, Nian Shangyou marched toward the valley’s southern exit. After walking over three li, two green vines suddenly dropped from above, sweeping across the valley floor.

The sweep severed over a dozen heads. Three Totem soldiers died instantly. Five were critically wounded.

Nian Shangyou, being shorter, escaped the vines—luckily. But his next stroke of luck might not come.

The vines returned, no longer targeting necks—now they swept for ankles.

In combat strength, the Totem soldiers were evenly matched. But in individual skill, differences were vast.

Before these vines, that difference meant life or death. A soldier with three heads could survive losing one.

But most soldiers had only two feet. Lose one, and you’re dead.

Nian Shangyou’s skill was good—he leapt straight up, dodging the vines. Nearly half his soldiers, wounded in the feet, collapsed.

The two vines swept again, hugging the ground. Soldiers already wounded couldn’t escape—those lying on the ground could only wait to be sliced apart.

Swish!

The vines circled once more. Many soldiers’ bodies were severed, limbs and organs scattered everywhere.

Blood splattered Nian Shangyou’s face. He was numb now.

These two vines were surely controlled by a Grass Cultivator master. Where he was, no one knew.

Several soldiers jumped onto the cliff face to escape the vines—suddenly, sharp spikes erupted from the rocks, piercing their bodies.

This proved a Stone Cultivator master lurked on the cliff—though his whereabouts remained hidden.

A dark cloud rolled in. After thunder and lightning, several soldiers turned to charcoal. Was the Lightning Cultivator master hidden in the clouds?

Torrential rain poured down. Raindrops struck Nian Shangyou’s hand, pierced through his palm, and fell to the ground dripping with blood—another Water Cultivator master was here.

Every corner of Wulao Valley hid unseen masters—each strike could kill dozens of Totem soldiers.

Such overwhelming power made Nian Shangyou suspect they were stronger than the group from Eighteen Wheels.

The intelligence said the Peddler only had a band of Ironbone Warriors who fought in the Sui Wasteland years ago—how had they reached such high cultivation on Qunying Mountain?

Had I known this, I never would have attacked Qunying Mountain.

But what good is regret? I’m not the one who makes decisions.

Now Nian Shangyou could barely save his own life.

He sought shelter from the deadly rain, yet dared not approach the cliffs—the vines still slithered beneath his feet, ready to sever his legs or split him in two.

His body was riddled with blood holes from the rain. Despair settled in—then two dull thuds echoed. One soldier used a Blade Cultivator technique to sever the vines.

This soldier was unusual: all three of his heads were Blade Cultivators. Together, they used over a dozen techniques before finally cutting the vines—proving how resilient the green vines were.

One soldier approached Nian Shangyou. His left head was a Grass Cultivator, the center a Body Cultivator, the right a Literature Cultivator. The Grass and Body Cultivators worked together, growing thick lotus leaves over his body, armored like crab shells.

He used the lotus leaves to shield Nian Shangyou from the rain.

Three other soldiers used Wind Cultivator techniques, working in unison to disperse the rain clouds above.

Nian Shangyou wiped the blood from his face. He’d survived—but had no time to feel joy.

He led the remaining soldiers southward, unsure what awaited next.

“I really know nothing—I believe whatever he says,” Nian Shangyou muttered again. “It’s simple: lying to me is easy. If he couldn’t fool me, how could he fool Tufang Kingdom? He even tricked the Demon Lord to death…”

Protected by the Totem soldiers, Nian Shangyou barely reached the southern exit of the valley. Of hundreds of soldiers, only a dozen remained.

The scenery here was breathtaking. Nian Shangyou saw cliffs towering beyond sight and mist like a fairyland.

“What beautiful cliffs! Don’t they look just like the entrance to Wulao Valley?” Nian Shangyou’s mind was fractured—he shouted to the few surviving soldiers, “Look! There’s another cave down there—isn’t it identical to the one we just came out of?”

The soldiers looked down the cliff. There, indeed, was a cave.

Nian Shangyou grinned: “Guess who’s inside?”

The soldiers said nothing.

Nian Shangyou spoke mysteriously: “He’s not inside. I’ve seen several such caves—they look the same, but they’re not. Each cave is different!”

Though he spoke like a madman, the soldiers knew he wasn’t insane.

Nian Shangyou was right: this valley seemed infinite—exit led back to entrance.

But this valley isn’t circular; the previous valley and this one only resemble each other in appearance, meaning many valleys are linked end to end in a chain.

Precisely because there are so many valleys, the Totem Army has been scattered across every corner of different valleys, then picked off one by one by the experts within them.

Did Qiao Yi foresee this step? Did he anticipate the consequences of entering Mist Prison Valley?

He probably didn’t. He had previously planned to retreat the same way he came, back to Wuyou Flat—but he lost the chance, because he himself ordered troops to block the path back to Wuyou Flat.

He had no choice: Shiba Lun and the various heroes had already caught up; the two armies were still clashing on the road between Shengxian Peak and Qunying Mountain, and Totem Army casualties had already exceeded ten thousand.

Now caught between two fronts, did Qiao Yi foresee this outcome?

Perhaps he did.

At Jianren Gang, he publicly led over fifty thousand Totem soldiers, while secretly hiding over twenty thousand more underground; with so many men, he didn’t even bother attacking Wuyou Flat—he insisted on assaulting Qunying Mountain.

He must have his reasons, but Nian Shangyou, having traveled this path, felt the situation was far from optimistic.

How many died in this valley? Twenty thousand? Thirty thousand?

We still don’t know how many experts are hidden within this valley.

Qiao Yi has his reasons; Nian Shangyou has his own thoughts.

Right now, Nian Shangyou faces two choices: one is to retrace his steps and report back to Qiao Yi.

The journey back would force him to relive every danger he’d already faced, and even after reporting, Qiao Yi might force him to venture out again.

The second option is to press forward, scouting the conditions ahead.

The dangers they’ll face won’t be less than those behind them—perhaps they’ll even encounter the Peddler himself.

After careful deliberation, Nian Shangyou chose a third path: he sat down in a cave beneath the cliff.

Several surviving soldiers followed him into the cave; one soldier spoke up.

Totem soldiers rarely speak, but when they do, it’s urgent: “What if the Peddler enters this cave?”

Nian Shangyou answered calmly: “If we detect the Peddler’s whereabouts, we must report it to Commander Qiao.”

The Totem soldier agreed this was correct—but the real issue was: “If the Peddler comes, we won’t survive.”

Nian Shangyou remained utterly calm: “Are we cowards who fear death?”

The Totem soldiers shook their heads together: “No.”

Nian Shangyou, with firm courage and conviction, told them: “Since none of you fear death, let’s wait here for the Peddler!”

Everyone nodded, their expressions resolute.

Nian Shangyou asked: “Any wine?”

A Qi cultivator pulled out a wine flask.

“Any food?”

A Strength cultivator unslung the sack on his back; inside were plenty of braised meat and salted fish.

“Magnificent!” Nian Shangyou sighed. They filled their cups, laid out the food, ate and drank, bravely awaiting the Peddler’s arrival.

The Peddler, two valleys away, was fighting a group of Totem soldiers.

First three or five hundred surrounded him, then three or five thousand.

The Peddler’s tactics were clear: once enemy numbers reached a certain threshold, he stopped engaging, immediately shifted position—but he had to enter the battlefield swiftly, bound by the Life Pact.

He used Duanjing to carve a path, broke through the encirclement, hugged the valley walls, and swiftly relocated, searching for new targets.

After walking three or four li, the Peddler’s arm trembled; he hissed in pain.

A squad of soldiers had cut a green vine from the cliff.

The Peddler exhaled: “Good—thankfully, they didn’t cut the willow tree beside it.”

He bandaged the wound on his arm; several other wounds on his back were still bleeding.

These wounds wouldn’t heal, because they were scars left by the valley’s combat.

When the Peddler fights, Mist Prison Valley fights.

When Mist Prison Valley is wounded in battle, the Peddler is wounded too.

That is the Life Pact.

The Peddler leapt onto a rock and gazed into the distance; he looked toward Suihuang Plain.

“Fighting well, brother!” the Peddler smiled, then touched his neck.

Another wound had appeared on his neck.

Apply some snow cream.

The Peddler had just rubbed on the snow cream when another wound appeared on his cheek.

After the cheek came the knee.

After the knee came his eyebrows—he was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, walking slightly hunched.

He took a sip of yellow wine, then used a Voice cultivator’s telepathy: “Old Train, you’ve got to break in soon!”

Putting down the wine flask, the Peddler pushed his cart—he still had to go out and fight.

Li Banfeng returned to Huangtu Town with the two heads of the Demon Lord, plus the one head Zhao Xiaowan had personally severed—now the Demon Lord’s three heads were complete.

Zhao Xiaowan handed the heads to Yao Xin, ordering the Suihuang Iron Bones to carry them through the entire city.

Li Banfeng had rented out every teahouse and tavern in town, rewarding the Iron Bone breed and the heroes of the Four Great Families and the Two Major Guilds.

Not just food and drink—he handed out piles of silver coins.

Zhao Xiaowan specifically reminded him: “Husband, give extra silver to the old Iron Bone breed who fought with me—they’ve suffered so much!”

Li Banfeng said: “Double the silver—and provide them with a full household setup! I want to meet these heroes myself!”

Zhao Xiaowan introduced each of the old Iron Bone breed to Li Banfeng: Tan Jinxiao, of course; Chen Yongnian was already familiar; the old driver Liu was an acquaintance; only the old horse keeper was slightly unfamiliar.

During the Second Pro War, this horse keeper was a camp commander; Tan Jinxiao, Chen Yongnian, and Old Liu had all been his subordinates.

Several other old Iron Bone breed hadn’t served under this horse keeper—but among the former camp commanders, he was the only one still alive, so in this battle, all the old Iron Bone breed followed him.

“Only he’s left alive—” Li Banfeng looked at Zhao Xiaowan, “My darling, what happened to the other camp commanders?”

Zhao Xiaowan paused; she thought she’d made it clear: “They’re all gone.”

Li Banfeng glanced at the thirty-odd old Iron Bone breed and asked: “What about the other veterans?”

Tan Jinxiao glanced back: “Everyone who could come, came. Some older ones with no cultivation base probably couldn’t make the journey.”

“And?” Li Banfeng turned again to his wife, “Aren’t there some who went to Qunying Mountain? How are they?”

“To Qunying Mountain?” His wife looked confused, then asked Tan Jinxiao, “Which of you went to Qunying Mountain?”

Tan Jinxiao stared blankly for a long time: “Who went to Qunying Mountain? We never heard of that!”

Chen Yongnian, Old Liu, and the horse keeper had never heard of it either.

“Trouble!”

Li Banfeng lifted his hat brim, eyes wide, staring into the distance.

Didn’t the Peddler say Qunying Mountain had Iron Bone breed?

Didn’t he say the Iron Bone breed were guarding Qunying Mountain with him?

If there are no Iron Bone breed, what’s left on Qunying Mountain?

Just him?

Li Banfeng turned to Che Wushang: “Bring Hai Chi Laoche—come with me!”

Che Wushang didn’t know why Li Banfeng was in such a rush, but he didn’t ask; he grabbed the cart handle: “Where to?”

Where to?

To Moxiang Shop or to Wuyou Flat? Both lead to Qunying Mountain.

Li Banfeng didn’t know the path from Wuyou Flat to Qunying Mountain.

“To Moxiang Shop!”

Li Banfeng sprinted off, racing toward Moxiang Shop.

At the street of Moxiang Shop, dozens of Totem soldiers were scouring the area for Blood Fang Demons.

Of the seventy thousand Totem soldiers, only these few had lucked out: taking advantage of the Peddler being wounded, they found a hidden exit, escaped Mist Prison Valley, and used the Yunmen Array to plummet directly from the clouds onto Moxiang Shop.

Now they urgently needed Blood Fang Demons to meet them—but after checking several rendezvous points, they found no sign of them.

Where had the Blood Fang Demons gone?

One soldier pulled out a brush and wrote hundreds of “find” characters on the ground; these characters swiftly crawled along the earth, helping them track the Blood Fang Demons.

Soon, a dozen “find” characters returned, circling the soldier—meaning they’d located the Blood Fang Demons.

The soldier gathered the others and followed the “find” characters to Yan Sha Zhai. They stood at the entrance for a moment, saw no Blood Fang Demons—but saw a storyteller setting up a table outside.

The storyteller slammed his wooden clapper and recited a set poem to the crowd:

“Brush tip plucks down the Hu sky’s moon, ink pool drowns the northern chieftain.

Confucius and Mencius’ pavilion teaches war tactics, Qu Yuan and Jia Yi’s ranks array the Spring and Autumn.

One letter cuts down ten thousand cavalry, half a stanza of ‘Tai Li’ repels nine marquises.

Gentlemen, look at the river’s heart—lonely sail still urges the Top Graduate’s boat!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve come to the right place!”

These soldiers didn’t recognize Shu Wanjuan, but they sensed something was wrong.

The characters they’d sent out had been used by Shu Wanjuan.

They turned to flee—but the eight lines of the set poem, seven characters each, fifty-six characters formed fifty-six barriers, trapping them on the spot.

“Since you’ve come, stay and hear the whole story!” Shu Wanjuan set down his clapper; the fifty-six characters transformed into fifty-six armored soldiers, clashing with the dozens of Totem soldiers.

One Totem soldier wasn’t trapped—he looked unusual.

Totem soldiers are tall and imposing; this man stood at average height, no extra heads, wore a blue-green robe, gold-rimmed glasses, a slicked-back oiled hairstyle, and a pale purple scarf.

People dressed like this were common in Moxiang Store; Shu Wanjuan had indeed not noticed him.

He was a Xi Xiu—literary cultivation plus martial cultivation.

His Xi Xiu technique concealed his form, and with the nimble body movements of martial cultivation, he escaped Yan Sha Zhai undetected.

The snow held many written characters, all monitoring the surroundings; this soldier understood literary cultivation methods and knew he could not loiter on the street indefinitely, or he would reveal himself.

He entered a narrow alley, and two written characters followed him from behind.

He turned into a noodle shop; those two characters did not enter, lingering outside the door.

The waiter brought a menu: “Sir, what would you like?”

The soldier ordered a bowl of mutton noodles; the waiter smiled: “You know how to eat—mutton noodles are our shop’s specialty.”

Soon the noodles arrived; the soldier devoured them greedily, and the characters outside, seeing nothing suspicious, left the shop.

Many in the noodle shop were discussing: “Have you heard? A monster appeared on the street—no one knows its origin.”

“Which street? The one that was dripping blood all the way?”

The soldier remained silent, finished his bowl, and the written characters were already far away.

He exhaled deeply, stood up, and headed for the door; the shopkeeper stepped forward to block him: “Sir, you haven’t paid for your noodles.”

The soldier had no money; he was a Xi Xiu, so he tore off a scrap of cloth from his body, transformed it into a banknote, and shoved it into the shopkeeper’s hand, saying: “Keep the change.”

The shopkeeper took the money, slipped it into the drawer, and the drawer began creaking.

Inside the drawer was a Kui Xiu artifact; other items might fool it, but money never lied.

The shopkeeper rushed outside and shouted: “You tricked me with fake money!”

The soldier ignored him, walking quickly forward; the shopkeeper grabbed a stick and chased after him: “Damn it, I don’t cheat people—I charge by bowl, and you dare cheat me?”

He swung the stick at the soldier; the soldier turned and kicked the shopkeeper to the ground.

The shopkeeper’s ribs were broken; he struggled to rise: “I’ve been to Lüshui City, I’ve been to Kudai Kan, now I’m in Moxiang Store—I thought this was a place for scholars, so I ran an honest business. You’re bullying me? I won’t take this lying down!”

He dragged his stick and charged again.

The soldier turned around, ready to kill the shopkeeper; before either side could strike, the soldier was kicked down by Lu Laoban and pinned to the ground.

The soldier tried to rise, but Lu Laoban pressed harder, his toe sinking into the soldier’s chest: “In Pulu Province, this is the way things are—some things the Neizhou never taught you.”

After killing the soldier, Lu Laoban was about to check the shopkeeper’s injuries when he heard Li Qi’s voice in his ear: “Hurry to Qunying Mountain,

only the Huolong is up there.”

Li Qi, running along the road, used Yuan Miao Ping to contact Lu Laoban.

Lu Laoban looked up at the sky—he did not know that the Huolong was also watching from the hillside.

He looked at the shopkeeper and smiled.

This kid runs his business dishonestly; the Huolong has punished him before, but he never learns.

Didn’t expect him to back down today.

Even the Ironbone breed from Suihuang Plain didn’t back down.

The underground city has lost Haishi, lost Tushi, and Ren Shi may soon fall too.

If we lose the battle, we can fight again.

Xu Han didn’t back down, Zhang Wanlong didn’t back down, the heroes of Baifeng County never back down!

San Ying Gate didn’t back down, Bai Hua Gate didn’t back down, several heroes didn’t back down—they boarded Hai Chi Lao Che and are now rushing here with their junior brother.

Those old comrades didn’t back down; they’re almost inside Mist Prison Valley.

The Peddler tore off a piece of gauze, wrapped his wounds in multiple layers, and the blood soaked through several layers.

Biting down on the gauze, he tied a knot and smiled.

Bai Le Gate has posted posters—there’s a song night tonight.

The wontons from Wu’s Shop on Tou Dao Ling are ready.

The Ye Lai Xiang Newspaper has printed the evening edition.

Boss Feng from Li Gou has opened a new general store.

That kid Ye Haolong is out sleepwalking again.

Why hasn’t the big iron gate at Tie Men Bao been closed yet?

Ku Dai Kan’s dance hall has new acts!

Ye Songqiao’s sedan bearers haven’t packed up yet.

Huangtu Bridge now has lights at night too.

Fool’s City is beginning to resemble its former self.

The sound of reading has returned to Mo Xiang Shop.

What a wonderful Pulu Province!

I can’t get enough of it!

The Peddler smiled: “I’ve made it!”

Below the slope, over thirty thousand Totem soldiers are gathered.

Originally over seventy thousand, now only these thirty thousand remain.

Nian Shangyou rushed to Qiao Yi’s side with battle reports: “Lord, they’ve broken in—Shiba Lun has entered Mist Prison Valley!”

Qiao Yi pulled Nian Shangyou under the command flag and used a magical artifact to muffle their voices: “Shangyou, I’ve just uncovered the Peddler’s method—he’s using a Life Pact technique, a tactic of Pact Cultivators.”

When he fights, the valley fights with him; when he doesn’t fight, the valley doesn’t fight either.

Now he’s severely wounded and surrounded—we encircle but don’t attack. He won’t dare move; if he doesn’t move, the valley won’t move either. Immediately take your men and find the valley’s exit.”

Nian Shangyou said: “But Shiba Lun has already broken into the valley.”

Qiao Yi grabbed Nian Shangyou: “Move fast—I’ll send troops to hold off Shiba Lun. You must find the exit ahead of them. Once we leave Mist Prison Valley, Pulu Province is ours!”

Nian Shangyou nodded and was about to lead his men to search for the exit when suddenly, drumbeats echoed from the slope.

Mi dang dang dang!

The Peddler pushed his cart down the slope!