Volume One: Flames at the Border Chapter Thirty-Nine: Murong Shanshan

A true man does not invite disaster upon himself. Though He Yu wore a suit of treasure armor, his neck was unprotected; a single thrust of the enemy’s halberd would spell his death. To provoke them now would be the height of folly. So He Yu abandoned all thought of resistance.

Several of the bandits fetched ropes and bound He Yu up tightly, wrapping him like a rice dumpling, then hoisted him onto a bamboo pole and carried him up the mountain.

His horse, Four Hooves Gathered, was slung along with him. He Yu found the scene almost comical: “Life is truly unpredictable. Only yesterday, I was a cavalry captain strutting my authority in the Chen Clan Fort. Today, I’m like a lamb awaiting slaughter—what a ridiculous sight.”

“But since they went to the trouble of tying me up and hauling me up here, they probably won’t kill me just yet.”

He Yu had never feared death on the battlefield, but the thought of dying passively, without a fight, filled him with unwillingness. He composed himself and quietly practiced his inner arts, channeling his true energy into his arms in an attempt to break his bonds. But the bandits, aware of his skills, had bound him with utmost care. The more he struggled, the deeper the ropes bit into his flesh, sending sharp pains through his arms.

A burly, one-eyed bandit noticed He Yu’s movements and slapped him several times with a hand as large as a fan. An honorable man can be killed, but not humiliated. Whether before or after his journey through time, He Yu had never suffered such an insult. Rage flared within him, and as he opened his mouth to curse, a salty tang welled up—blood trickled from his lips.

The one-eyed bandit sneered, “This brat is too unruly. If we let him be, he’ll be trouble. Better to kill him now and be done with it.” As he spoke, he drew his saber, preparing to strike.

“It’s over. I’m done for,” He Yu thought, his mind going blank as he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for death.

At that moment, another bandit interjected, “It’s bad luck to kill someone at our doorstep. This one is odd—I say we bring him up the mountain and let the chief decide.” The speaker’s voice was hoarse, marking him as a leader. Once he spoke, no one objected.

The one-eyed bandit tore off a strip of blue cloth and roughly tied it over He Yu’s face, then barked commands as they carried him up the mountain.

After being slapped, He Yu dared not stir up trouble again. Unable to see, he focused on listening to his surroundings. The mountain path grew steeper and steeper. The men carrying him switched out three times before the slope finally eased. From the tone of their conversation, He Yu surmised they were near the bandits’ lair—and their chief would soon appear.

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, He Yu felt himself dropped heavily onto the ground. The bandits set him down and removed the bamboo pole.

He had spent nearly two hours hanging upside down. His limbs were numb, and as his buttocks hit the earth, he toppled over, unable to support himself.

A bandit approached and ripped the cloth from his face.

Dazzling light stabbed at his eyes. Once they adjusted, He Yu glanced around. He was in a grand hall with six pillars draped in curtains, furnished with elegance. Surrounding the perimeter were low tables and candelabra; at the center stood a low couch covered with tiger skin. Behind the couch rose a wooden screen, carved with flying dragons and adorned with swords. Weapon racks lined the walls, and a bronze incense burner in the middle sent tendrils of fragrant smoke into the air.

Dozens of people stood or sat about. On the floor lay a yellow burlap sack, the outline of a person visible within, muffled whimpers issuing from inside—it must be Master Faxian’s disciple.

He Yu mused, “This place is neither here nor there. It doesn’t quite look like a bandit’s den, but it also doesn’t not. In any case, it’s nothing like the bandit stronghold at Liangshan Marsh described in old tales.”

Just as he was examining the hall, a shrill voice called out, “The Chief arrives!” The tone was so sharp, it could have belonged to a eunuch, and the display resembled an emperor holding court.

The bandits all stood and knelt in greeting. Amid the chorus of salutations, four young attendants wheeled out a four-wheeled cart from behind the curtain.

At the sight, He Yu’s heart leapt. “What a formidable man!”

The figure on the cart wore purple robes and appeared to be about fifty years old, standing at least nine feet tall—like a modern basketball player. Seated, he was nearly as tall as a standing man, and taller even than Chi Luobi, Murong Shao’s formidable attendant. He had a square jaw, a prominent nose, piercing eyes, and a bristling beard streaked with gray. His presence exuded an overwhelming authority.

The elder sat in the cart, clearly lame. With a slight wave of his hand, the crowd rose and stood respectfully aside. The air was more that of a military encampment than a bandit’s hideout.

A middle-aged man stepped forward and saluted. “We acted on your orders, Chief. We watched day and night in Guangwu City, but the two Murong scoundrels rarely show themselves, making it hard to strike. This morning, an old monk and a youth passed by. The boy gave his surname as Murong. We guessed that anyone named Murong in Guangwu City must be an enemy, so we brought him here for your judgment.”

He Yu thought, “So this crippled giant has a grudge against the Murong clan. The main targets escaped, so they snatched a bystander with the same surname to make up the numbers.”

The elder in purple nodded gravely. “If he bears the Murong name and comes from Guangwu, he’s surely no mistake. Well done, Captain Dong.”

A bandit moved to the burlap sack, untied the cord, and hauled out a slender figure—a girl. Her hands and feet were bound, her mouth stuffed with cloth. Though dressed as a youth, her struggles had undone her disguise; long hair spilled over her face, hiding all but a flash of pale neck.

“Untie her,” the purple-robed elder commanded. “I have something to say.”

A bandit stepped forward and freed her bonds. Once her hands were loose, she pulled the cloth from her mouth, flicked her hair back, and turned to face them.

A collective gasp swept the room. “A girl?”

He Yu had heard from Faxian that his disciple disguised herself as a man. Seeing the bandits’ shock, he thought, “What a foolish lot! They thought they’d caught a boy, and now with a blink he’s a girl. Let’s see how the elder handles this.”

The purple-robed elder studied the young woman and suddenly asked, “Young lady, is your surname Murong, with the given name Shanshan? And is your father the Prince of Fanyang, Murong De?”

The young woman, weary from her ordeal, remained seated. At his question, she struggled to her feet, saluted, and replied, “Thank you for your concern, elder. I am indeed Murong Shanshan.”

Her words, spoken in Mandarin, were as melodious as a warbler’s song, soothing the heart. She had been facing away from He Yu, but in saluting, she revealed half her face.

In that fleeting glance, He Yu felt as if he were dreaming. She possessed a flawless oval face, skin as white as snow and smooth as silk, delicately arched brows, eyes bright as autumn water, red lips, pearly teeth, a delicate nose, and hair as black as a waterfall cascading down her back—a beauty without flaw from any angle. Her bearing was noble and refined. Compared to Tuoba Yan, who was serene and gentle, Murong Shanshan was dazzlingly brilliant; it was impossible to say which was more beautiful.

“In the north there is Yan Yan, radiant as the sun; in the south there is Shanshan, faint and fragrant.”

Together, Tuoba Yan and Murong Shanshan were known as the Twin Jewels of the Xianbei. If this maiden were not Murong Shanshan, who else could bear that name?

He Yu was astonished to discover that Faxian’s female disciple was none other than the famed Xianbei beauty Murong Shanshan. No wonder Faxian had said that any harm to her would provoke a storm.

Prince Murong De of Fanyang, younger brother to Emperor Murong Chui of Later Yan, was a man of great power, and Murong Shanshan, his only daughter, was cherished like a pearl in his palm. Folk tales claimed she loved learning, excelled in letters, and often dressed as a Han lady—now proven true.

Murong Shanshan stood quietly in the hall, serene and composed as a flower drifting on water, moonlight illuminating her. The bandits, awed by her beauty, shrank back in shame, not daring to make a sound.

The purple-robed elder laughed. “The Prince of Fanyang, Murong De, is a hero among men. Since you are his daughter, you must be intelligent—perhaps you can guess who I am?”

He extended his right arm, revealing a strange weapon from his sleeve—a halberd with a hooked blade, reminiscent of a modern hook-sickle spear.

Murong Shanshan considered for a moment. “That is a hook-halberd. For decades, only one man has wielded it across the land: the Martial King of Mourning, Ran Min. Ran Min fought with a double-edged spear in his left hand and a hook-halberd in his right, and was invincible. Now only the halberd remains—the spear must have been lost.”

She sized up the elder. “Judging by your stature, I venture a bold guess: you must be a descendant of the Martial King of Mourning.”

“Haha! You are indeed the daughter of a general, to guess so readily. I am the late emperor’s youngest son—Ran Yu.” The elder’s laughter rang out, tinged with bitterness and hate.

He Yu’s heart sank. Ran Min was the descendant of the Begging-For-Life Army, later serving Later Zhao, where his martial prowess earned him the emperor’s favor—so much so that the emperor considered making him heir. Later, Ran Min usurped the throne and founded Ran Wei. Fearing rebellion from the Hu peoples, he issued the infamous Order to Slaughter the Hu, killing countless people of non-Han descent.

Eventually, Ran Min was defeated by Murong Ke, the great general of Former Yan, captured, and his state destroyed. The Emperor of Former Yan, Murong Jun, demanded, “You, a lowly servant, how dare you call yourself emperor?” Ran Min replied proudly, “In these chaotic times, you barbarians, beast-hearted though man-faced, plot rebellion and usurpation. Why should I not claim the throne, I, a hero of my age?”

Murong Jun, furious, had Ran Min flogged three hundred times, then sent him to Longcheng, and finally executed him at Echeng Mountain. After his death, it was said all the grass and trees within seven miles withered, locusts swarmed, and drought struck the land.

Murong Jun, terrified, sent envoys to offer sacrifices to Ran Min, granting him the posthumous title Martial King of Mourning. That very day, snow fell heavily.

Ran Min is a complex figure, often glossed over in history books. He Yu, a lover of martial valor, remembered his story well.

Former and Later Yan were of the same lineage. Emperor Murong Jun and General Murong Ke were elder brothers to Emperor Murong Chui of Later Yan and Prince Murong De of Fanyang. Though Former Yan had fallen, the blood feud endured.

As the youngest son of Ran Min, the purple-robed elder would inevitably seek revenge on the Murong clan. Ran Min had been captured by Murong Ke, now deceased, so the burden of vengeance fell to his brothers and nephews.

Ran Yu’s laughter abruptly ceased. Speaking as if to himself, yet addressing all present, he said, “When the late emperor fell in battle and our country was destroyed, the Murong clan slaughtered my family to the last. Only I survived. For years I have dreamed of revenge, but alas, before I could act, my great enemies Murong Jun and Murong Ke died. Now, I have no choice but to offer you in sacrifice to the late emperor.”

A murderous gleam flashed in his eyes, chilling all who saw it.

A flicker of fear passed through Murong Shanshan’s eyes, but she quickly composed herself and spoke calmly: “You are the son of the Martial King of Mourning, and our clans are mortal enemies. It is only right that you take my life. I ask but one thing: after my death, please deliver this to Master Faxian at Baofeng Temple. Let him explain to my father, so that no war is started on my account, and the people spared needless suffering.” As she spoke, she drew a string of nanmu prayer beads from her robe and offered them with both hands to Ran Yu.