Volume One: Flames on the Border Chapter Thirty-Three: Root and Branch

He Yu, calm and composed, took up a four-stone bow, nocked an arrow, and with a swift motion, drew and let it fly toward the target beyond the gate.

A crisp snap rang out—the arrow struck dead center, burying itself to the very fletching. The feathers quivered, humming in the still air.

All present at Chen Manor knew that He Yu was unparalleled in archery and horsemanship, a master on the battlefield, famed for his cunning. Yet none had imagined such superhuman strength. Their spirits soared; thunderous applause broke out.

Stacking bows, drawing one atop another, grows ever harder with each added bow. Chiluobi, born with prodigious strength, could manage four but five was utterly impossible.

Yet He Yu, after snapping the five-bow string with ease, showed not the slightest flush nor breathlessness, and his arrow struck true—such prowess, both in strength and skill, was rare even in legend, beyond the reach of mortal men.

Murong Shao, crestfallen as a defeated rooster, forced a salute toward He Yu. “Captain He, your divine skill humbles me. I shall return another day to seek instruction.”

Without waiting for He Yu’s reply, he led his retinue away, their defeat clear. The storm dissipated as quickly as it had come. Everyone present was awestruck, bowing in deep admiration for He Yu.

Chen Qingyun gazed steadily at He Yu’s handsome face, her eyes dazed with admiration.

With Murong Shao gone, it was time to deal with Diao Bao.

The crowd gathered around Chen Jing and moved to the rear courtyard. There, Diao Bao sat in his wooden cage, eyes closed in resignation.

Chen Jing gave the order. “Bring them forward.”

Soon, two women and a youth, hands bound, were brought before the assembly. They were Diao Bao’s family—captured during the recent fall of Tianxiong Fort.

The two women: one, an elderly lady of dignified bearing, Diao Bao’s wife; the other, a young maiden of striking beauty, Diao Bao’s daughter, Diao Lan.

The boy was Diao Bao’s youngest son, Diao Yun, about thirteen or fourteen, his chin raised in stubborn defiance.

Diao Bao’s brothers, sons, and nephews had perished in the fighting. These two women and one boy were all he had left in the world.

Chen Jing said coldly, “Diao Bao, so you find yourself here at last. Open your eyes and see who remains at your side.”

Diao Bao slowly opened his eyes, looked around at his wife and children, and a trace of sorrow crossed his face. He said, voice bitter, “Victory and defeat—such is the fate of men. There’s no need for more words. Do your worst. A true man does not flinch.”

Li Ling spoke in a somber tone. “Sect Master Diao, death is upon you. Do you still feel no remorse? If you die, so be it, but must your children follow you to the grave? Is that not a tragedy?”

Diao Bao sighed deeply and fell silent, lips twitching with inner turmoil.

His wife glanced at him through the bars and gave a grim, broken laugh. “Old fool—would you never heed my words? Now your recklessness has doomed us all. When you’re in the afterlife, how will you face the ancestors of Tianxiong Fort?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Diao Bao, voice trembling, pleaded, “Enough, old woman. What’s done is done. Regret serves no purpose now.”

She ignored him, turning to Chen Jing. “Master Chen, today you have triumphed completely. Surely you mean to end us all.”

He Yu found it curious. “Chen Jing is a powerful figure, addressed by all as ‘Sect Master,’ but this lady calls him ‘Master Chen’—they must be old acquaintances.”

The others thought it odd as well. These three had been captives for days, yet showed no sign of hardship; their clothes were clean, and the ropes on their wrists freshly tied. Clearly, they had not been kept as harsh prisoners, but rather under gentle house arrest.

Chen Jing bowed deeply to the old lady. “I would not dare.”

At his signal, some attendants came forward and untied the three.

The old lady stretched her limbs and sighed. “Master Chen, you truly are a man of feeling. Yet I have wronged you, and can only thank you with my death.”

Chen Jing’s lips trembled as if to speak, but he said nothing. The young maiden, eyes fixed on him, began to weep as she spoke. “Master Chen, do you remember the springtime five years ago, when we rode together under the apricot blossoms? Who would have thought that friends of old would become enemies today? I, Diao Lan, beg for nothing but the lives of my parents and little brother. As for myself, I accept whatever fate you assign me.” Her voice was plaintive, moving all to tears.

Chen Jing hesitated in silence, torn within. To spare the root would be to invite future trouble. Mercy for an enemy is cruelty to oneself—a truth he could not ignore.

Diao Bao’s defeat was a blow, but his influence lingered. To set him free was to risk a return of danger. Most troubling was his son, Diao Yun—unyielding and full of resentment, no easy foe for the future.

Should Chen Jing wipe out the family, even the woman he once loved would perish. If he killed the parents and the brother, Diao Lan would not wish to live. His face was clouded with indecision, his mind in fierce conflict. The crowd sensed his struggle but dared not intrude, standing respectfully aside.

At that moment, a shrill voice broke the silence. Diao Yun, teeth clenched, cried out, “Chen Jing! If you dare, then kill me! If you lack the courage, let me go. One day I will return and raze Chen Manor to the ground!”

Such recklessness invites doom. The boy’s bravado dragged him to the very gates of death.

Diao Bao shook his head in despair, his spirit broken.

His mother, shocked by her son’s outburst, covered her mouth and wept, knowing that Chen Jing would now show no mercy.

Indeed, Chen Jing’s brows knitted, his jaw clenched, and a look of grim resolve came over him.

He stepped back, bowed deeply to the two women, and said, “Chen Jing respectfully bids you farewell, madam, lady. May your journey be peaceful.” Without another glance, he strode away.

The old lady stood frozen in silent grief.

Diao Lan stood stupefied, murmuring, “Master Chen... Master Chen...”

Diao Yun, realizing his fate, began to wail in terror.

A cruel smile flickered across Li Yu’s face. At his gesture, seven or eight guards came forward and dragged Diao Bao’s family to the small parade ground for execution.

He Yu could not bear to watch. Though he was no stranger to killing on the battlefield—where it is kill or be killed—the thought of executing two defenseless women, one a young maiden, left a bitter taste in his heart.

He slipped away from the crowd, heavy-hearted and oppressed by a feeling he could not name. Evening was drawing near. Seeking solace, he headed home toward the Plum Pavilion.

Halfway there, he saw Chen Jing, hair disheveled, stumbling toward him from the opposite direction. Catching sight of He Yu, Chen Jing called out desperately, “Yu, where is Diao Lan?”

He Yu started, suddenly understanding. “After giving the execution order, Chen Jing couldn’t bear to witness Diao Lan’s death and walked away. But the more he thought, the more his heart ached, so now, in haste, he’s come to save her.”

He Yu had seen many powerful men, resolute and ruthless. But Chen Jing’s decisiveness was always tempered by a touch of warmth and hesitation—a human kindness at odds with his station, and indeed a dangerous trait. Yet this was precisely what He Yu respected in him; his mind was deep, but his heart not cold. Perhaps this was a trait they shared.

He Yu replied, “My lord, I fear it is already too late...” But Chen Jing, not listening, ran toward the small parade ground. He Yu, uneasy, decided to follow.

It was not far, and they arrived quickly. The grounds were deserted, the last rays of spring sunlight lifelessly slanting across the high walls. The sentence had been carried out—Diao Lan’s beauty had withered, lost to the world.

Chen Jing gripped the gate, panting, a guttural sound in his throat, his composure lost.

He Yu paused, then tried to comfort him. “The dead cannot return. My lord, please restrain your grief. For Lady Diao, perhaps this is a release. Given today’s events, Diao Bao and Diao Yun could not be spared. To let the lady live alone, having lost her family, would only deepen her suffering.”

Few words, but they struck to the heart.

Chen Jing was stricken, but not bereft of reason. He slumped down, saying, “Yu... ah... leave me. I wish to be alone for a while.”

Seeing Chen Jing calmer, He Yu bowed and quietly withdrew.

Happiness can be shared, but pain is a solitary burden. At moments like this, silence is more healing than empty comfort.

Back at the Plum Pavilion, He Yu found Deng’er already aware of the day’s grim events. Seeing his troubled spirit, she was especially gentle. He Yu forced a wry smile, chiding himself for bringing dark moods home, making Deng’er anxious on his account. He roused himself and exchanged a few playful words with her.

Before coming to this world, He Yu’s home life had been far from happy. But after crossing over, he found warmth in family, even believing that ancient people had simpler hearts and fewer worries than modern ones. Yet after more than half a year, he realized the truth: there are always conflicts, everywhere and always. It was true for Chen Jing, for Chen Qingyun, for Deng’er, for the Li family—and for himself. Perhaps life’s fate is nothing but meeting challenges, seeking transcendence through suffering.

Deng’er gently took his right hand, noticing a patch of abraded skin at the base of his thumb. The scab was newly formed, but somehow had been torn again.

That afternoon, He Yu had injured his hand drawing the bow too forcefully; the string had snapped back and cut him.

Deng’er’s heart ached. She breathed softly on the wound, then produced a small celadon vial, sprinkled white powder on his cut, and carefully wrapped it in white silk.

He Yu looked at the vial, his thoughts moving. “This bottle—I’ve only ever seen it with Chen Qingyun. Its medicine is rare and precious. How did Deng’er get it?”

Deng’er, reading his mind, smiled and explained, “Lady Chen saw your injury and sent Xue Nuer to bring this. I kept it for you.”

The injury was small and easily overlooked, but Chen Qingyun had noticed—her thoughts were clearly all for him. Ah, the hardest thing to bear is a beauty’s kindness. Such debts cannot be repaid.

Still, Deng’er and Lady Chen had been at odds lately; Lady Chen had not visited in some time. Why would Deng’er accept her goodwill?

Surely, it was out of care for He Yu. Lady Chen’s medicine was better than their own. To spare her husband pain, Deng’er accepted it. Her devotion was beyond measure.

Two women contending for one man—what was once overt now became subtle. This sweet trouble always gave He Yu a headache; best not to dwell on it for now.

After tending his wound, Deng’er turned aside, hesitated, and spoke softly: “Husband, may I ask you something? Please answer me honestly.”

He Yu was taken aback by her seriousness. “Ask, my dear. I’m listening.”

Deng’er said carefully, “I know you care for me, and I for you. But I am of humble birth, hardly worthy to aid your great ambitions. Lady Chen loves you deeply. If... if you wish, I would gladly... serve her as well, just as before. I mean it... truly...”

Her voice grew smaller, finally breaking into sobs. Her heart was full of sorrow, yet she did not wish to hold He Yu back.