Chapter 84: Killing the Enemy

Pan Yue gripped his broadsword, aimed at the Tartar’s back, and drove it down hard; as he fumbled for Pan Yun’s throat, the Tartar’s eyes bulged wide, his mouth opened, and blood gushed onto Pan Yun’s head.

He rolled halfway over, trying to see who killed him, but collapsed before he could finish.

Pan Yue shoved the corpse aside and pulled Pan Yun away from the still-biting Tartar, shouting into his ear: “Pan Yun! Pan Yun! He’s dead—let go! He’s dead!”

Pan Yun released his grip, raised his foggy eyes to his brother, and opened his mouth—blood spilled out.

Pan Yue saw at once that his internal organs were damaged; his eyes burned red as he helped Pan Yun lean half-sitting against a tree.

He turned, pulled the blade from the Tartar’s back, and charged toward the other two Tartars still entangled with his men…

Jin Zhangli hurried after him, stomped on the Tartar’s hand as it reached for a sword, and snatched it up.

Without horses or swords, the Tartars could only fight hand-to-hand—and they had swords.

Eight of them killed three Tartars.

Though all were badly wounded, each covered in blood, bruised and swollen, they were elated.

“Once off their horses, Tartars don’t seem so terrifying.”

“If Zong Silang hadn’t run out, he wouldn’t have had to die.”

They fell silent, staring at the severed head lying not far away.

Pan Yue ignored them; he ran back to Pan Yun, felt his body, and asked: “Where does it hurt?”

Pan Yun felt pain all over, especially in his abdomen; tears welled up as he struggled to speak: “Big brother… I… I think I’m going to die.”

Pan Yue wiped the tears and blood from his face, but more kept coming; he pretended not to see and scolded softly: “Don’t talk nonsense—I see you’re fine.”

Pan Yue pulled a string from his collar; tied to it was a small red cloth pouch hanging around his neck.

He untied the pouch and pulled out a piece of paper, now charred to black coal.

It had burned away, yet still showed its original triangular fold; when he touched it, the paper crumbled to ash.

Pan Yue stared at it, unsure if it would work, but shoved it into Pan Yun’s mouth anyway: “Swallow it.”

Pan Yun recognized it—the talisman their little sister had sent them; after receiving it, their father had sewn three cloth pouches, each holding one talisman for them to wear.

He’d always thought it was merely symbolic—a reminder that their sister still thought of them; he wore it not because he believed it could protect him, but because it was her prayer, and when he missed her, he could touch the pouch and feel comfort.

Yet now, this talisman truly had protected him.

He’d felt it—the moment the blade swung toward his neck, the pouch on his chest burned hot; his foot slipped, he fell, and the sword struck his back instead; his back felt as if covered by a stone slab.

He heard the thud, felt the force of the blade striking him—but he was unharmed.

Remembering the talisman’s miracle, though swallowing ash made him nauseous, he opened his mouth and ate it all.

Pan Yue pulled out his own pouch, untied it, and took out his talisman.

His talisman was warm, half-charred, but not yet reduced to ash.

Pan Yue’s eyes lit up; he slipped his talisman into Pan Yun’s pouch, then hesitated, unwilling to let go—he pulled it out and shoved it into Pan Yun’s mouth: “Just eat them all. Folk tales say talisman water cures illness—maybe swallowing works better than wearing.”

This talisman was worse than ash—it smelled of burnt paper and faint incense, but this one carried a strange, bloody stench.

Yet he’d just drunk a Tartar’s blood—what wasn’t fit to swallow now?

He chewed and forced it down.

Pan Yue stared intently at him: “How do you feel?”

Pan Yun felt a little stronger; he smiled at his brother: “I feel better.”

Pan Yue: “Good.”

He turned to look at the others; no one dared step outside—whether more scattered Tartars lurked beyond, none knew; all sat or lay quietly on the ground.

Three corpses lay scattered among them.

Pan Yue scanned them, chose one, stepped forward, stripped off its armor, raised his broadsword, and brought it down—its head rolled free.

Jin Zhangli and the others stared wide-eyed.

Pan Yue said: “This head belongs to my brother. The other two—divide them yourselves.”

Jin Zhangli and his brother Jin Zhongwu exchanged glances, looked at the remaining four, then rose, seized a sword, and chopped off one head: “This one’s ours. The last one’s yours.”

The four exchanged glances—no objections.

Without Pan Yue’s plan, Pan Yun and the Jin brothers wouldn’t have leapt from the trees to drag down the three Tartars—they’d never have killed them.

The four whispered among themselves and decided to include the dead Zong Silang, splitting the credit for that head equally.

They were all exiled families of disgraced officials, all young; a Tartar’s head was still a great reward.

It could improve their families’ lives.

“Should we return to the city now?” Pan Yue stood behind a tree, gazing into the distance. “Wait a while longer.”

After the battle, they all trusted Pan Yue; if he said wait, they waited.

Pan Yue stared fixedly ahead, glancing back now and then at Pan Yun leaning against the tree; he was more anxious than anyone, more desperate to return to the city—but he couldn’t. Not until he confirmed the guard battalion had sent out troops; otherwise, they’d be easy targets.

After nearly half an hour, Pan Yue saw dust rising in the distance; his eyes brightened, he studied the direction and movement of the dust, then turned sharply: “We leave now.”

Pan Yue helped Pan Yun onto a horse, tied the severed heads and armor to the saddle, swung himself up, sword in hand, and rode ahead.

Jin Zhangli and Jin Zhongwu shared one horse; the remaining four lifted their most severely wounded comrade onto another, placed Zong Silang’s head on his lap, and ran alongside, guarding the horse.

Eight of them, mounted and carrying heads, trotted for a long while until they reached Datong City.

The gate guards spotted them, ordered them to halt from afar, checked their identities and the heads on the horses, then let them in.

Soldiers inside waited specifically to receive them.

Three Tartar heads meant nothing to Datong’s garrison—they saw them often.

!. Read

The rice harvest was nearly complete; Tartars from the north frequently raided southward.

Minor clashes occurred constantly.

The imperial court had questioned the Tatars repeatedly, but they never admitted these raiders were soldiers—or even civilians.

When asked, they claimed the raiders were bandits, and that they themselves suffered from them, having failed to eradicate them despite multiple campaigns.

Thus, Datong Prefecture always sent troops to “suppress bandits” during this season, gaining minor victories—but no one had ever seen nine exiled convicts, unarmed, kill three Tartars.

The soldier compiling records carefully examined their wounds.

A battalion commander strolled over: “What’s going on?”

“These exiled convicts killed three Tartars.”

Qin Captain stepped forward, glanced at the blade cuts on the three heads, scanned the wounds on Pan Yue and the others; seeing Pan Yun’s pale lips, needing Pan Yue’s support to stand, and the others’ many injuries, he said: “Nine men killed three—what’s there to doubt? Record it.”

“Yes!”

The soldier confirmed their names and backgrounds, and logged their achievement.

The three heads were confiscated, the horses surrendered; the soldier glanced at Captain Qin, then tossed the armor and swords back: “Go home and wait. Once the bandits outside the city are wiped out, we’ll tally the merits.”

Pan Yue accepted, slung the armor on his back, bowed to Captain Qin, then shouldered his sword and helped Pan Yun home.

Captain Qin clicked his tongue: “I hate these bookish types—but they’ve got some guts. Who is he? Exiled official’s family? Which one of his kin got in trouble?”

In Great Ming, exile and military conscription mostly targeted those who committed attempted murder or serious crimes.

Neither offense reached the death penalty, so they were exiled or conscripted.

The former were exiled alone; the latter could implicate their families. So this young man, refined and exiled, was clearly an official’s son.

The soldier said: “Their father is Pan Hong. We don’t know what he did. If you want to know, I’ll find out.”

Captain Qin was about to wave him off when another soldier passed by: “Pan Hong? I know him—I handled his family’s exile. He was a censor, accused of bribery and dereliction of duty, but rumor says he was framed—he angered Master Wang in the palace, so they sent him here.”

Captain Qin spat: “What ‘Master Wang’? He’s a eunuch.”

The soldier grinned sheepishly, thinking: The Emperor calls him ‘Master’—how dare we small soldiers defy His Majesty?

Only here in Datong, far from the capital, could Cao Jixiang not hear news—otherwise, Captain Qin would’ve ended up like Pan Hong.

The soldier left; Captain Qin took notice of the Pan family—he sent someone to investigate them.

Pan Yue helped Pan Yun walk a stretch; Jin Zhangli ran to rent an ox cart, helped load Pan Yun onto it: “You’re taking him home?”

Pan Yue: “No—first, the clinic.”

He said: “Brother Jin, please go home and tell my father to bring money to the clinic.”

Jin Zhongwu glanced at his brother, nodded, shouldered his own spoils, and strode toward the exile village.

Pan Yue took Pan Yun to the clinic.

The doctor took one look and knew his internal organs were damaged; after feeling his pulse, he said: “It’s not life-threatening, but not minor either.”

Pan Yue: “Please tell me honestly.”

“He’ll live, but needs long-term care. Medicine is expensive. Treat it now, and you can cure it completely. If you only take life-sustaining medicine, he’ll carry the illness for life—damaging heart and lungs, likely leading to consumption.”

Pan Yue turned pale.

The doctor comforted: “He was kicked in the waist and abdomen—but such injuries are rare—he’s lucky to be alive.”

(End of Chapter)