Volume One: Flames on the Border Chapter Sixty-Eight: Startled Many Times in One Night

Murong Lin had been indulging in sweet dreams. No one expected Tuoba Gui, with his exceptional abilities, to rise so swiftly; within a few years, he not only stood toe-to-toe with Great Yan but even seemed poised to supplant it. Thus, relations between the two powers deteriorated, ending in enmity, and Murong Lin’s one-sided infatuation faded without a trace. He was shameless by nature; if he couldn’t have her by marriage, he’d simply take her by force. A lecher at heart, his true desire was Tuoba Yan’s beauty.

He estimated Pingcheng’s garrison at no more than twenty thousand, while he commanded sixty thousand men—conquering the city seemed a foregone conclusion. The thought of Tuoba Yan’s celestial allure left Murong Lin disoriented and feverish with anticipation.

The second surprise attack proved highly effective. He Yu himself felt fatigued and was about to leave the watchtower with the others to rest when Cui Hao rose to block their path. In these past few days, Cui Hao’s strategies had never missed their mark, earning him unanimous praise; none regarded him as a mere child anymore.

Cui Hao spoke: “Generals, the rule is never more than three. We’ve only ambushed them twice so far. In my humble opinion, we should strike the camp once more. Murong Lin, already hit twice in one night, will never expect a third assault now that dawn is breaking.”

The hour was nearly dawn, so a swift campaign was necessary; if the enemy managed to entangle them, their exposure would surely lead to a bitter fight, which would be disadvantageous. Yet Cui Hao’s plan targeted a common psychological weakness; should it succeed, they would surely reap great rewards.

Everyone paused, debating the matter.

“Cui Hao is kin,” someone thought, “If his plan succeeds, all will be well; if it fails, it will be hard to escape suspicion of favoritism.” Thus, though Cui Liang found his nephew’s proposal sound, he hesitated to make the final decision and turned to Tuoba Yan for her verdict.

Tuoba Yan had spent these days coordinating all fronts, worn out to exhaustion; her face had grown thinner, her exquisite eyes showing signs of fatigue yet appearing even larger, casting a mesmerizing pale blue light like clear lake water. Her beauty was innate: her long hair had a natural chestnut hue, her eyes were deep sapphire, her figure robust and statuesque, her skin smooth and white like mutton-fat jade—so radiant that others felt ashamed to look upon her directly.

Tuoba Yan glanced at He Yu, her gaze lingering on his face. “Master He’s insight is uncanny; let’s hear his thoughts.”

She trusted He Yu deeply now, not only for his talents in both civil and military matters, but because he was alone, unaffiliated, and without ulterior motives. There was also a simple, inexplicable fondness. To Tuoba Yan, she simply liked being near He Yu and hearing him speak, though her status made her cautious not to be too obvious. Now, with such a question before her, she posed it without hesitation.

For some reason, Qingyun had felt a sense of insecurity these days, fearing Tuoba Yan would replicate her own struggle with Deng’er for a husband, and eventually develop feelings for He Lang.

She was even somewhat regretful—she should never have let He Yu come to Pingcheng. Competing with Deng’er for He Lang, though embarrassing, was not truly worrisome, for Qingyun’s family and status far surpassed Deng’er’s, and her looks were not inferior. As the aggressor, she felt little concern.

Now things had turned. Tuoba Yan’s beauty was enough to cause despair, and her status—Princess of Great Wei, the second most powerful in the realm—was simply incomparable.

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Back at Chenjiawu, the only commanders were the Li father and son and her own brother, so Qingyun had to manage a myriad of affairs. Now, in Pingcheng, with many more strategists and generals, she, a woman, need not concern herself with such matters. With nothing to occupy her hands, her mind grew troubled and restless.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for your inquiry. In my opinion, Young General Cui’s plan is entirely feasible. Murong Lin, though cunning, would never imagine we would raid his camp three times in a single night. The Yan thieves, after a long forced march, have not yet settled; after two attacks, their losses are severe—even iron men would relax at this point. Now, at dawn, is the very hour for lighting fires and cooking in camp; a surprise attack now would surely have remarkable results,” He Yu explained confidently.

Hearing He Yu’s analysis, the group agreed it made sense and responded in unison, “No time to lose, General Cui, give the order.” Cui Liang nodded, issued instructions, lit a red lantern on the watchtower’s west side, and waved it twice in the air.

The cavalry in Pingcheng’s west had previously been under the command of a thousand-man captain, who had witnessed He Yu’s methods. Upon seeing the signal, he dared not delay, quickly assembling his troops for the ambush as planned.

As expected, Murong Lin’s army, still unsettled, suffered back-to-back assaults, losing men and horses without even catching a glimpse of the enemy.

At dawn, they assumed the night’s troubles were over. Yet as soon as Murong Lin lay down, alarms sounded again—this time, the western camp was under attack. Another volley of arrows, then the enemy vanished, leaving only scattered hoofprints. He Yu had trained them thoroughly: strike swiftly, never linger. The thousand-man cavalry split into ten units, each with a hundred men, retreated separately, and regrouped at an agreed location. Pulling men out was easy; gathering them again proved far harder. Thankfully, He Yu had established absolute discipline, issuing a “ten-kill order” and, after three days of drills, achieved seamless coordination.

The camp was struck again. Murong Lin leaped from his cot, sword in hand, and strode outside to hear his returning commanders report: the enemy collapsed instantly, fleeing in all directions, impossible to pursue. They noted the enemy wore no armor, allowing rapid escape, so their heavy cavalry could not catch up.

“Instant collapse, instant collapse—damn you for collapsing instantly…!” Murong Lin raged, about to vent his fury with bloodshed, barely restraining himself enough to instead kick the reporting officer over.

He had commanded armies since youth, but never faced such a helpless situation. He ground his teeth in rage; the leaders, seeing his livid face, dared not offer comfort. The world said that, among Emperor Murong Chui’s sons, only Prince Zhao, Murong Lin, was truly adept at warfare; today, he seemed no better than the rest. Their relationships had always been superficial, and now, with disaster striking, each harbored their own schemes.

After tallying losses, the scale of casualties was severe, owing to their total lack of preparedness. Murong Lin had not considered Tuoba Yan a real threat, but after suffering such losses, he became cautious, issuing orders: “Organize light cavalry for round-the-clock vigilance, and pursue any enemy sighted without mercy.” His instincts told him that behind Tuoba Yan lurked a terrifying adversary, one who fought with unpredictable tactics and was extremely difficult to handle.

“Tuoba Yan, Tuoba Yan—if you fall into my hands, I’ll…” Murong Lin simmered with hatred, pondering his strategies for storming the city.

He settled the wounded, secured the camp, and arranged ambushes away from the main encampment. After breakfast, Murong Lin led his generals to observe the enemy and assess their tactics.

The colossal city walls of Pingcheng stood like mountains in the morning mist, wind whistling, guards unmoving atop the ramparts, weapons in hand. Most deadly of all, the open ground before the moat was riddled with trenches and traps, both obvious and concealed, the ground near the wall bristling with iron caltrops, barricades, and other obstacles. Clearly, Pingcheng’s defenders had no intention of sallying forth.

Murong Lin cursed inwardly: “I had hoped to intimidate Tuoba Yan into exhausting herself, but she’s been anything but idle, creating such a commotion.”

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At that time, there were few methods for defending a city—other than reinforcing the walls, all relied on the soldiers’ determination. He Yu, coming from modern times, had knowledge of later defensive tactics; once properly arranged, they spelled disaster for any attacking force.

“If I’d known, after taking Chenjiawu, I should have pressed forward quickly with light troops. Delays only caused trouble,” Murong Lin regretted, thinking, “To assault Pingcheng, I’ll need to fill in these trenches first—a task that will take time.”

He immediately ordered his men to fill the pits and trenches. They were deep and numerous, keeping Murong Lin’s army busy for two full days. During this time, Murong Lin sent cavalry day and night to hunt the enemy outside the city, but after two days’ searching, not a trace was found.

Tuoba Shao reasoned: “Pingcheng’s surroundings are vast and sparsely populated; the enemy could hide anywhere, making them hard to find. Rather than searching endlessly, we should tighten our defenses. Another possibility: after their successful ambush three days ago, the cavalry returned to the city to help defend it, since the garrison is currently short-handed.”

Tuoba Shao’s analysis made sense; the other leaders, unwilling to chase fruitlessly after Murong Lin, agreed. One general said, “Your Highness, the area around the city is deserted. If there were a large force still outside, supplies and lodging would be an issue. So we needn’t worry too much—now that the trenches are filled, let’s press the attack. If the city comes under strain, any hidden forces outside will reveal themselves, then we can pursue them relentlessly.”

“General Pei’s words are sound, matching the principle of attacking what the enemy must defend. If we take Pingcheng, the hidden troops outside will disperse without a fight.”

Murong Lin saw the logic and had to accept it. At least, during these two days spent filling trenches by day, there were no more night raids, suggesting the enemy may have indeed retreated inside.

But Murong Lin was still overly optimistic. That very midnight, alarms sounded yet again—this time, both east and west camps were attacked simultaneously. Thanks to ample preparations, the camp was chaotic but not panicked; the enemy, wary, kept their distance, loosed their arrows, and fled quickly. After repeated night raids, the morale of the Later Yan army suffered. Amid the confusion, the camp regained calm, but soon enough, horns and drums blared simultaneously on both flanks. The soldiers rushed to prepare for battle, but the enemy never appeared—it was a feint.

Thus the night passed in a harrowing cycle, some alarms real, some false. The real ones brought showers of arrows; whether they hit or not, the attackers vanished immediately. Murong Lin and his men were harried all night, their nerves fraying. At dawn, another blow came: the wells nearby had been filled, and the river water polluted. They had to fetch water from distant sources for cooking.

The soldiers sent to fetch water did not return. When more were dispatched to check, they found the first group had been shot dead by the river. That morning, with no water, they could not cook. One couldn’t expect men to storm a city on empty stomachs.