Chapter 8

From Junxian to Jianmen Pass.

The journey is only ten days long.

If one galloped without rest, it would be even shorter.

But that was clearly impossible; even if a man were made of iron, his horse would tire.

Added to that, enemies might ambush them—they must preserve their strength, and sufficient rest was necessary.

Dou Changsheng sat on the ground, watching the horse graze on grass, took a sip of cold water from his waterskin, then bit into a flatbread; the texture was naturally poor, mixed heavily with wheat bran, and each bite brought obvious discomfort.

Someone accustomed to fine bran couldn’t possibly eat this—not even a dog would touch it.

Of course, that was before he crossed over; now, having experienced hunger, he understood: for a single bite of food, he’d do anything.

Now he complained about this and feared that, but back in those first days after crossing over, if someone had handed him a pork knuckle, he’d have chopped the emperor twice himself.

He took another sip of water to wash it down, then personally untied another waterskin and began to water the horse.

Crossing over changed his life—he’d been a village boy, then a horse groom.

Now he was a young hero of the martial world.

After eating a little, Dou Changsheng felt much better, but fatigue surged up.

This time he took the long route, detouring—about fifteen days’ journey—while Black Eagle Elder and the others took the main road, taking only ten days.

They wasted seven days in Junxian, leaving twenty-three days; subtract the fifteen days of travel, and only eight days remained.

Time was extremely tight, because this journey would clearly not be smooth.

But Dou Changsheng wasn’t in a hurry, because he had no intention of reaching Jianmen Pass.

This route was merely meant to draw attention.

After watching the horse finish eating, Dou Changsheng tied its reins to a tree and began searching for a place to rest.

He didn’t stay with the horse because the horse was too conspicuous, prone to making noise and attracting pursuers.

As for losing the horse—compared to his life, it wasn’t even worth considering.

So after walking three or four li, even if enemies found the horse and assumed he was nearby, they’d search step by step—and find nothing.

Dou Changsheng eyed a tree with thick roots; after tidying it up and covering it with wild grass, he could hide perfectly.

When Dou Changsheng lay down, he couldn’t sleep right away.

Many things had happened today, most notably killing a man.

Suddenly,

Dou Changsheng regretted it.

Because he realized he’d forgotten to loot the corpse.

He was a pauper, couldn’t find three taels of silver on his person, and Wang Xiong, even without martial manuals, must have had some silver.

Showing off feels great, but later you end up in the crematorium.

The words of the old masters were indeed timeless truths.

While Dou Changsheng was lost in thought, he suddenly heard a clinking sound.

That snapped him alert—he immediately stilled his breath and focused, listening intently beyond the insect chirps.

As he listened, he recognized it: the clashing of metal, weapons colliding—someone was fighting.

Dou Changsheng grew wary, heart rising—he’d prepared so thoroughly, distrusting his luck, convinced staying with the horse would bring disaster, yet the horse stayed safe, and the place he chose as a perfect hideout was the one that drew trouble.

I hope they’re just passing by.

Five words surfaced in Dou Changsheng’s mind.

“Ai Haiké, you’re a renowned hero of the north—never thought you’d kneel to the Demon Prime Minister, become his lapdog.”

“Military pay concerns the survival of the north—how dare you rob it?”

“There’s no place left for you in this world.”

A hoarse voice replied: “What do you know?”

“Since Yu Yun became Viceroy of the North, he’s launched war after war, constantly demanding money and men.”

“In the past decade, my three sons have all died in battle—two already.”

“My fortune of ten thousand taels is nearly gone.”

“I ruined my family to support him, so he could win great victories.”

“Now the Prime Minister seeks peace; if we pay annually, the Hu Ren won’t invade south—how much better.”

“But Yu Yun refuses.”

“He even submitted a memorial urging war.”

“Giving money to Yu Yun is giving money; giving it to the Hu Ren is giving money too.”

“If I give it to the Hu Ren, no fighting, no more sleepless nights—my last son dies, and the Ai family line ends.”

“Zhao Manren, you’re young—you don’t understand the Prime Minister’s painstaking intentions.”

“The north has suffered too long; the Prime Minister doesn’t merely seek peace and avoid battle—he endures humiliation to let the north recover, three years to gather strength, three years to train—then our Great Jin, united, can sweep away the demonic influence and secure a hundred years of peace.”

“Yu Yun is a mere military thug—he understands nothing of governance. Only the Prime Minister can bring peace and prosperity to the north.”

“Zhao Manren, hand over the military pay. I’m your elder—I won’t harm you.”

Zhao Manren pleaded urgently: “Elder, you’ve been deceived by the Demon Prime Minister. The Hu Ren’s new Wolf Lord is young, rose to power swiftly, won every battle, and swept across the steppe—he is a lord unseen in a thousand years. Yet at the height of his power, brimming with ambition, he halted his advance—not immediately invading the south, but secretly uniting all the steppe tribes.”

“He’s covertly recruiting our Great Jin martial artists, backing northern bandits and horse thieves.”

“After years of preparation, once Jianmen Pass falls, hundreds of thousands of iron cavalry will pour south—who can stop them?”

“The talk of peace is pure fiction.”

Ai Haiké flew into a rage: “Bullshit!”

“This year, the Hu Ren Wolf Lord welcomed the Western Living Buddha into the steppe, promoted Buddhism fervently—his desire for peace is known to all.”

“This year, he even sent envoys to the capital to negotiate our two nations becoming brother states, never to wage war again.”

“But you?”

“You slander the Prime Minister.”

“It’s only because he advocates peace—if it succeeds, the Hu Ren won’t invade south, wars end, and you can’t kill enemies to earn merit, can’t be ennobled or become ministers, can’t gain power and wealth.”

“As the saying goes: cutting off someone’s livelihood is like killing their parents.”

Zhao Manren sighed: “Elder, you’ve been too deeply deceived by the Demon Prime Minister.”

“The Demon Prime Minister rose by offering his daughter to the palace—how could he be any good?”

“How could such a man truly care for the nation? His current push for peace is merely because he’s taken Hu Ren gold, deliberately removing the Viceroy to create a vulnerability in the north’s defenses, giving the Hu Ren their chance to invade.”

“Elder, you are deluded.”

Dou Changsheng watched the two men fight while trading insults.

He felt his scalp crawl and his stomach churn.

What rotten luck—he couldn’t believe it.

The military pay destined for Jianmen Pass wasn’t just his shipment.

But each route was supposed to be highly secret—yet he’d stumbled upon two in a row.

As for the truth of their arguments, Dou Changsheng didn’t care—he was a transmigrator, what did he care about the nation? He simply sided with whoever paid him: Viceroy Yu Yun, since the Wang Fu was his employer.

He slowly shifted, peering through a gap toward the sound.

Though night had fallen, the moon was bright, and the two were close enough—he could see Ai Haiké was an old man with silver hair.

He wielded a great sword, each strike wide and powerful, radiating force.

Zhao Manren was younger, around thirty, a bundle wrapped on his back.

He held a long sword, moving lightly, circling constantly.

Zhao Manren couldn’t defeat Ai Haiké—Dou Changsheng knew the moment he saw them.

It wasn’t that Dou Changsheng had sharp eyes—it was that Zhao Manren’s clothes were torn in many places, clearly battered and wounded, while Ai Haiké was unharmed, his great sword swinging with terrifying momentum.

Save him?

Or not?

Doubt flashed through Dou Changsheng’s mind.

But instantly, he made his choice.

Watch the situation.

No complex reasons, no morality involved.

Purely because both were Primordial Spirit cultivators—he couldn’t beat either.

If no opening appeared, his intervention wouldn’t help Zhao Manren—it would only be a burden.

In games, nothing annoyed him more than a useless teammate.

Dou Changsheng slowly moved, silent, drawing his long sword.

Then he waited patiently—he knew only one strike, so he’d hide like a venomous snake in the grass, waiting for the prey to expose a weakness, then strike with open jaws.

Wang Xiong had died by this very tactic.

Dou Changsheng imitated the daylight ambush, waiting for his chance.

Time passed slowly; Zhao Manren’s true strength was equal to Ai Haiké’s, but he’d already suffered attacks, draining his stamina and true qi, and with his wounds, he could barely hold on.

He narrowly escaped death multiple times, but his wounds multiplied.

His heavy breathing reached Dou Changsheng’s ears—Zhao Manren was now very close. Dou Changsheng held his breath, eyes fixed on Ai Haiké.

Ai Haiké bore a scar across his face, grotesque in appearance; his frame was lean, yet his Primordial Spirit qi was immense, his great sword swinging with devastating power.

His fighting style was brutally forceful—Dou Changsheng watched one slash, reflecting the moonlight like a streak of white silk unfurling.

Dou Changsheng knew the moment had come.

In an instant, he thrust forward with a single sword stroke.

Primordial internal qi surged out, flooding into the longsword, its tip spitting forth a radiant aura.

Three inches of aura, utterly dominant.

Like a meteor piercing the sun, it shot straight toward Ai Haikè’s back.

If this strike landed, it would pierce clean through Ai Haikè’s chest.

The pure white primordial internal qi, against the night, blazed like the sun’s radiance, illuminating all around. Ai Haikè had just swung his blade—his old force spent, new force yet unformed—when his keen perception instantly sensed the lethal threat behind him.

Ai Haikè decisively abandoned his blade, never considering changing his technique. Decades of combat experience told him exactly what to do in this situation.

After dropping his blade, Ai Haikè twisted one foot in a bizarre motion, then shot into the air like a great bird taking flight.

The sword, swift as a meteor.

Suddenly, it missed.

Dou Changsheng froze.

He had prepared this strike for a long time.

He never imagined the enemy would evade it this way.

Yet the result was still fruitful—he had directly disarmed his opponent.

Dou Changsheng’s strike had failed, but he did not strike again; instead, he slowly sheathed his three-foot blade.

Watching Ai Haikè land and stand afar, watching him warily, Dou Changsheng clasped his fists and said: “Old Master, you had three sons—one stayed home to guard it, two joined the army and died for the nation—your entire household was loyal and noble.”

“Truly admirable.”

“All in the northern lands are grateful. I have no wish to strike at you, Old Master.”

“This strike was merely a warning.”

“Please leave of your own accord.”

As long as I am not embarrassed, the embarrassment belongs to others.

Ai Haikè looked at Dou Changsheng and said irritably: “You meddling brat.”

“The Chancellor’s grand plan of a hundred years has been ruined by men like you.”

Zhao Manren stepped forward and spoke up: “No need for more words—the Old Master is already confused.”

“With your profound primordial internal qi, if he refuses to leave, seize him.”

Ai Haikè glared at Zhao Manren and snapped: “You fellow, truly a dog barking on behalf of your master.”

Finally, his gaze turned to Dou Changsheng, and understanding flickered in his eyes—he had recognized Dou Changsheng’s origins, and sighed: “I received word this morning that a member of the Wang family from Shengzhou had disguised himself and come. I never expected to meet him tonight.”

“Others say this strike carried no intent to kill—only a warning. I do not believe it.”

“But I believe a Wang family scion.”

“Your foundational technique was flawless, yet your internal qi circulation was clumsy, reducing its power—if you had fully mastered it, I could not have avoided it.”

“Had you used the Wang family’s ancestral sword art, I would have been dead just now.”

“I owe you this favor, Old Master.”

“But there is one thing I must say.”

You chose wrongly. Yu Yun is merely a military brute, obsessed with military glory. The shogunate has bled the north dry, and the court has been devoured until it can bear no more.

Now, the north recognizes only the shogunate, unaware of the court—it has become a state within a state. How could the court possibly tolerate Yu Yun?

“For the sake of the realm, for the sake of the north, peace talks are the only path to lasting stability.”

Ai Haikè did not wait for Dou Changsheng’s reply; he simply bid farewell and turned away, leaving at once.

Zhao Manren watched Ai Haikè depart and finally exhaled in relief—but immediately turned wary eyes toward Dou Changsheng. Before Zhao Manren could speak, Dou Changsheng spoke first: “Brother Zhao, no need to be wary.”

“I am also transporting military pay to Jianmen Pass.”

“I am with Black Eagle Elder’s faction.”

Dou Changsheng explained, then deliberately stepped back before continuing: “We go our separate ways. Do not gather together.”

“I won’t ask about your affairs; don’t ask about mine.”

“No need to guard against each other, waste your energy. Each of us stays safe—we’ll meet again at Jianmen Pass!”

What a joke.

Staying with Zhao Manren meant trouble.

I can barely handle one group of pursuers—if there were two, I dare not imagine how dangerous it would be.

Zhao Manren’s retreating step halted, and a look of embarrassment crossed his face—he had just suspected Dou Changsheng was staging a double act with Ai Haikè.

Watching Dou Changsheng depart, he could not help but praise: “Such loyalty and righteousness—this is what it means to be a true hero.”