Chapter 6: He Is a Professional

"Waste!"

Zhu Rong gathered all the Zhu clan disciples together and scolded them harshly.

Li Shuang walked over holding a skewer of lamb chops, took a bite, and watched Zhu Zhao and the others cowering like chicks before Zhu Rong.

Beixiurong was a remote place, but it had one advantage: plenty of cattle and sheep.

The Zhu family lacked everything except cattle and sheep.

"Second brother, what’s going on?"

Zhu Rong, perhaps tired from scolding, or perhaps drawn by the aroma of Li Shuang’s lamb skewers, sat back down on his chair.

"What are you eating? Give me one!"

Li Shuang sat beside Zhu Rong and handed him the skewer.

At that moment, Zhu Zhao spoke up in his defense.

"Uncle, it’s not my fault. Every tribe around here survived by living on the edge of the blade. How can we possibly collect taxes and grain for the court?"

"You dare say that? The garrison troops in Pingcheng demand taxes and grain from us—if we don’t pay on time, it’s family annihilation."

Zhu Zhao was deeply resentful.

"Those useless wastes can’t even fight against Po Liu Han Baling, but they know plenty of ways to bully us!"

Zhu Rong’s face darkened. What Zhu Zhao said was exactly what he himself thought—but Zhu Rong was too calculating to show it.

"I thought it was something serious. Isn’t it just about taxes and grain?"

The moment Li Shuang spoke, Zhu Rong’s gloomy expression instantly brightened.

"Third brother, do you have a plan?"

"Leave it to me. No problem."

Zhu Rong nodded and instructed Zhu Zhao.

"You go with your third uncle. Serve him carefully."

As they were leaving, Zhu Rong added one more instruction.

"By the way, third brother, when you visit the nearby tribes, don’t use your Han surname—take a Xianbei name. Avoid trouble."

With the military clique centered on Pingcheng in decline, most Hu people left behind in the northern frontier fell into poverty. In contrast, those Hu who had moved to Luoyang earlier thrived.

In Luoyang, Hu nobles and Han aristocrats banded together, looking down on their own kin, calling them “country bumpkins!”

Coupled with the Wei court’s consecutive military defeats against the south and north, the Hu left behind in the frontier naturally blamed Hanization for the Wei’s loss of martial virtue, and thus deeply hated Han people and Han culture.

"Xianbei name?" Li Shuang laughed. "I’m not familiar with any!"

Zhu Rong bit off the last piece of meat from his skewer and muttered.

"Then call yourself Daye. Daye Shuang."

Zhu Zhao resented this boy younger than him but senior in rank.

In his eyes, martial strength was the only thing that truly mattered.

Zhu Zhao shared the same view as most Hu people in the northern frontier.

Han people and Hanization were the reason the Wei court had declined.

If Han ways were truly effective, how did they lose this great empire and flee to the south?

Thus, Zhu Zhao deeply distrusted Li Shuang.

If even seasoned veterans of Beixiurong couldn’t handle this, how could a Han man possibly succeed?

"Third uncle, are you really capable?"

Li Shuang noticed Zhu Zhao’s skepticism and distrust, but he didn’t care.

While several Qihu horse servants were preparing the horses, Li Shuang asked:

"Which tribe nearby is the hardest and most defiant?"

"Definitely Qifu Moyu!"

"How convenient."

"What’s convenient?"

"Don’t ask so much. Bring the imperial credential and the secretary from your elder brother’s staff—come with me!"

…

If Zhu Rong and Yuan Tianmu were Hanized Hu people, then Qifu Moyu was a Fugu version—a throwback Hu.

He wore his hair loose, dressed in the left-lapel style, kept filthy braids, wore Hu furs, went months without bathing, and spent his days in his great tent drinking, bedding women, riding out to hunt, or raiding for grain.

After the defeats at Zhongli, the Rouran southern incursions, and the Liuzhen rebellions, the Wei court’s authority collapsed, and many northern tribes embraced this Fugu trend—essentially a Xianbei version of rednecks.

Their daily slogan: “Make Xianbei great again!”

As for how to make it great? Naturally, by reviving the old Xianbei virtues!

Look at those decadent new Xianbei in Luoyang—pretending to be refined, living in multi-courtyard mansions, wearing fine silk robes, feasting on delicacies, playing with beautiful Silla slave girls…

Could that work?

No, it couldn’t!

Those decadent new Xianbei probably couldn’t even ride a horse or draw a bow—how could they raid the Han people in the south?

"Chief, the Zhu family has come again!"

Qifu Moyu was drinking with his men when he heard this, and he grinned with excitement.

"That little sissy from the Zhu family is back again, coming to demand taxes and grain—does he have the guts?"

"But chief, this time there’s also a young man with him. His clothing looks Han!"

"Han? Is he from Luoyang?"

Qifu Moyu instantly perked up, grabbed his sword, and marched out with his men.

"Today I’ll show that little sissy and that Han barbarian a real lesson."

Outside the tribal camp, dozens of horsemen approached slowly.

Qifu Moyu had already lined up his men in a threatening formation.

"Xiao Tumo, who’s that beside you?"

Qifu Moyu mocked Zhu Zhao, showing him no respect whatsoever.

Zhu Zhao, facing the sea of hostile faces, felt a surge of panic and didn’t know how to introduce Li Shuang.

"He is..."

"I am the imperial tax collector, Daye Shuang!"

Li Shuang dismounted, holding the imperial credential, and stepped before Qifu Moyu.

"Why haven’t you bowed before the imperial credential?"

Looking at the dark-skinned boy, Qifu Moyu, after a brief standoff, finally yielded.

Just as he was about to kneel and bow, he was stopped.

"Wait!"

"What is the envoy’s meaning?"

"The imperial credential is a sacred object. Are you going to bow like this?"

"Then how?"

Li Shuang shook his head.

"A barbarian ignorant of propriety!"

Qifu Moyu was utterly confused as Li Shuang explained:

"When encountering the imperial credential, one must bathe, cleanse the ground with willow branches and dew, lay down a white fox pelt, and only then may one bow."

"I never heard of such a rule!"

"Of course you didn’t—otherwise, why would I be here?"

"But I don’t have a white fox pelt!"

Li Shuang smiled faintly and gestured for his men to bring a box.

"The court cares for its people. Knowing this situation would arise, it had already prepared a white fox pelt."

The box opened, revealing a white fox pelt inside.

Qifu Moyu’s face lit up—he reached to take it, but Li Shuang stopped him.

"The court’s provision of this white fox pelt is not free. The chief must bear the cost."

Qifu Moyu, wary, asked:

"How much?"

"Three hundred thousand!"

"You little brat, how dare you ask that? One lousy white fox pelt for three hundred thousand? Why don’t you just rob us?"

Li Shuang showed no anger. He summoned Yuan Tianmu’s secretary.

"Record: Qifu Moyu disrespects the imperial envoy, shows no reverence for the imperial gift, refuses to perform proper obeisance before the credential, and behaves with insolent arrogance!"

Then Li Shuang turned to Qifu Moyu, sneered, his star-like eyes sharp as blades.

"Chief, your reckless defiance—do you mean to emulate the Liuzhen rebels and plot rebellion?"

Qifu Moyu broke into a cold sweat and hurriedly cried:

"Don’t record it! Don’t record it! I’ll pay! I’ll pay! But my tribe doesn’t have that much cash—can I pay in cattle, sheep, and grain?"

Zhu Zhao stood aside, watching Qifu Moyu groveling, and silently shouted:

Holy shit!