Volume One: Flames of War on the Border Chapter Thirteen: A Dazzling Strike

A steward came forward to report, “My lord, this man is the grandson-in-law of Lin Su, the charcoal burner in the fortress. He hails from Jinling in Jiangzuo, and is named He Yu, styled Yuzhi. Having lost his parents, he came north to seek out his kin, but was waylaid by bandits and left frozen in the snow. Old Lin rescued him, and later gave him his granddaughter, Lin Denger, in marriage.”

Another steward added, “This He Yu is young, yet forthright and loyal, with a keen mind. None expected his martial prowess to be so extraordinary.”

Chen Jing nodded slightly. “Who would have thought that a land famed for literature such as the South would produce such a masterful young archer? Today has truly broadened my horizons.” He continued, “Pass down the word: regardless of the outcome of the remaining trials, this youth must be kept for our use.”

The third competition was the “March,” akin to an armed cross-country challenge. Each candidate carried a long spear, a ring-hilted saber at the waist, a sturdy bow, and fifty arrows, all clad in full heavy armor. They were to march swiftly around the perimeter of the training ground—twenty laps within half an hour, with only the top two hundred finishers deemed successful. This trial tested endurance and strength, making it the most grueling of all.

He Yu gauged that a single circuit was about two li, making twenty laps approximately twenty kilometers. To march twenty kilometers in an hour, fully armed, was a true trial of stamina and willpower. Yet, compared to the special training he endured in the past, this was hardly a challenge for him.

He Yu suspected that many would fail to finish, and indeed, after half an hour, only a mere hundred and twenty completed the course. He himself finished far ahead, lapping the second-place finisher by over four laps—a display of stamina so astonishing it caused another wave of commotion and admiration.

Adhering to a philosophy of quality over quantity, all hundred and twenty of them would proceed to the final trial that afternoon—the “Blade.”

As noon approached and there was still time before the final contest, the exhausted candidates sprawled in groups across the ground, panting heavily, too tired to rise.

The sun shone brightly, the day warmer than those before. He Yu removed his heavy armor, found a quiet spot, and sat on the ground to eat. Opening his basket, he discovered a golden-hued flatbread and, tucked inside, a chicken leg.

He Yu shook his head with a wry smile. “That girl Denger is always thinking of me—she saved this chicken leg yesterday just for today.”

Moved by her thoughtfulness, he ate his fill, dipping the bread in sauce.

The afternoon trial began: the “Blade” was, in essence, single combat on horseback.

Each candidate took a white-waxed lance, its tip covered with lime, and rode out to face an opponent. Whoever was struck on a vital point or unhorsed lost. This final contest was brutal: each man had only a fifty-fifty chance. Losers’ previous efforts were forfeit, but the victors would become official soldiers, earning generous pay.

As a modern special forces elite, He Yu was skilled in both marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat, but had no experience in mounted lance duels of the cold steel era. Battlefield combat was nothing like later martial arts sparring—it ended in a flash, with life and death decided in an instant.

While practicing Lin Su’s “Eighteen Formations for Breaking Ranks” these past days, He Yu had a sudden inspiration. He fused the close-quarters combat principles of wartime bayonet fighting into the mounted techniques, streamlining the nine maneuvers to three, calling them “Triple Thrust.” The result was formidable. He Yu was confident that no opponent could withstand his triple assault.

This final trial would be the ultimate test of skill, strength, nerve, and reaction—proving a warrior’s true combat ability. Mounted duels were thrilling and decisive, sure to be a spectacle.

The candidates drew lots, dividing into four groups of thirty, their order and opponents chosen by chance.

He Yu, calm and confident, drew his lot and collected his lance.

He was assigned as number thirty in the third group, meaning he’d be among the last, facing the last in the fourth group. When his duel ended, the contest would conclude.

At a signal, the matches began.

From the four corners of the field, four warhorses thundered forth, their riders facing off in pairs. After only a few exchanges, another signal sounded, and the winners were decided. Victors were jubilant; losers bore white lime marks on chest or back. All present knew that, on a real battlefield, those marked would already be corpses.

He Yu observed coldly. In this last trial, the difference in skill was glaring. The more accomplished fighters unhorsed their opponents with just two or three thrusts, while the less skilled fumbled helplessly, soon covered in white marks like spotted dogs. Some sore losers, their bodies speckled white, refused to leave the field even after defeat, tangling shamelessly with the victors, drawing jeers from the crowd.

Round after round, victors rejoiced, losers despaired—such was the norm, and none could complain.

At last, it was He Yu’s turn.

The signal sounded. He Yu mounted up, lance in hand, and spurred forward.

Opposite him, a black steed charged out from the fourth group, tall and spirited—half a head higher than his own white horse. Its rider was long-armed and broad-shouldered, with a fierce face and a beard the color of wheat. He looked to be no more than twenty.

As soon as he appeared, cheers broke out. He Yu was puzzled until he heard someone exclaim, “Little Zhang Fei is up—this will be good!”

A memory surfaced: this “Little Zhang Fei” was named Li Yu, styled Jiyu, the youngest son of the fortress chief steward Li Ling.

Li Ling had four sons; two were dead, leaving only the eldest and the youngest. The eldest, Li Jun, styled Bojun, served as the fortress’s cavalry captain, commanding all troops.

The Li family stood only below the lord himself, and Li Yu, with his martial skills, was a rising star, always greeted with applause.

He was famed for his skill with the spear and his fierce appearance, earning the nickname “Little Zhang Fei,” after the legendary general of the Three Kingdoms.

Of course, some of the applause was mere flattery.

“So, a second-generation scion—and a capable one at that,” He Yu thought, instantly on guard.

“Hyah!”

“Hyah!”

Both men spurred their horses, lances leveled, charging at each other.

Lances spun, lowered, and thrust!

He Yu, man and weapon as one, struck first, leaving a white mark square on Li Yu’s chest.

Mounted duels were not like the earlier contests; to fall was to be utterly humiliated. So, as soon as his lance touched Li Yu’s vital point, He Yu withdrew his force—showing mercy, for the sake of future dealings.

“This Li Yu seems overrated,” He Yu thought, withdrawing his lance, waiting for the signal to return to the ranks and end the day’s contest.

But five seconds passed, and still no signal. Li Yu hesitated, then sneered, thrusting his lance at He Yu.

Though the winner was clear to all, the judge had blatantly cheated, protecting the steward’s son. Many in the crowd noticed, exclaiming in outrage.

Caught off guard, He Yu had no time to block. Fortunately, his harsh special training had honed his reflexes. Sensing danger, his body instinctively leaned back; a flash of white grazed his helmet and sent it flying.

His hair disheveled, He Yu narrowly dodged, losing a few strands in the process—a truly sorry sight.

Some exaggerated their cheers, eager to ingratiate themselves; many others, however, remained silent, their faces showing contempt. These were the silent majority—aware of right and wrong, but lacking the courage to speak out, expressing their dissent only in silence.

He Yu was no coward, but his moment of mercy had nearly brought him dishonor.

Li Yu, missing once, struck again. He knew that even if his victory was tainted, as long as he unhorsed his opponent, the crowd’s discontent would fade in a few days, and only the final victor would be remembered.

Victory forgives all—a near-universal truth. In the end, it is always the one who laughs last that is remembered by the people.

His next thrust was lightning-fast, aimed straight at He Yu’s throat—a vital spot with no armor. A hit would mean death or crippling injury.

Li Yu’s horse towered over He Yu’s, and from above, he struck with lethal intent.

A gasp arose from the crowd.

He Yu, lying back on his horse, saw the lance tip coming—nowhere to evade. Gritting his teeth, he shot out his left hand, caught the lance, and wrenched it aside.

Li Yu and his mount together weighed more than a thousand pounds; the force of the blow made He Yu’s left palm burn with pain, and blood welled up where the lance had scraped through.

Li Yu, seeing his thrust deflected, urged his horse closer and, without a word, drew out his iron mace, swinging it down.

But He Yu, with a thunderous shout, sprang up from the saddle, man and lance united, and struck upward at an angle.

A sickening crack—Li Yu’s tall frame was hurled from the saddle, crashing to the ground, unconscious.

The heart-protecting bronze mirror on his chest was shattered. Had it not been for this, he would have been skewered like candied fruit.

All or nothing—He Yu’s creed was to repay blood with blood, to answer ruthlessness in kind.

His thunderous blow was both self-defense and a killing strike; so fierce was his force that his lance splintered in his hand.

For a moment, the field fell deathly silent. Then, suddenly, the crowd erupted in wild cheers.

Justice, though often suppressed, will erupt through the cracks when the time is right.

A medic rushed out to tend to Li Yu. This time, no signal was needed—it was plain that He Yu had won. To unhorse one’s foe was the equivalent of a knockout in later boxing—swift and decisive.

He Yu tossed his broken lance to the ground and rode back to his place.

A stir swept the dais, and an official stepped forward to loudly announce the final results of the recruitment.

Though the contest had been full of twists and turns, He Yu’s days of relentless training had not been in vain; he had successfully earned his place.

The day was late. As the official finished reading the results, the great contest came to an end. The crowd, still buzzing with excitement, poured toward the exit, discussing the day’s events with great enthusiasm.