Volume One: The Dragon Rises from the Wilderness Chapter Sixteen: Treachery

Night had fallen.

The darkness was deep.

Amidst the chaotic pile of rocks in the mountain hollow, Yu Ye was still busy. On the cramped patch of ground, he had dug a pit.

Beside the pit lay Old Feng the Seventh.

He had been struck by two arrows while leaping over the wall, both fatal. Knowing his days were numbered, he concealed his pain, never uttering a cry despite his failing strength. When he awoke from his stupor, he was already at death’s door; he forced himself to rally with the aid of liquor, only to entrust his final wishes.

His cares resolved, all else faded to nothing. He said he was tired, and so he slept, never to wake.

Perhaps, in his dreams, he would find the flash of blades and swords, and the joy of a life well-lived.

After Old Feng the Seventh died, Yu Ye continued to whittle away at the iron chains with his small sword. He was still cautious, as though reluctant to disturb that dream-bound soul.

The little sword could sever iron and stone, but it was too short, awkward to grip, and hard to wield with force.

It took Yu Ye two hours to remove Old Feng’s chains. By the time he freed his own hands and feet, night had fully descended. He did not rest, but began digging the pit among the rocks. The frozen earth made it difficult, forcing him to alternate between chiseling with the sword and clawing with his hands. He labored until the latter half of the night, and finally buried Old Feng.

“Sigh—”

Yu Ye sat on the ground, letting out a long breath.

Before him rose a small mound of earth. Gazing at it, he felt hollow and lost, his expression desolate.

When a man dies, he is nothing more than a pile of dirt.

Old Feng was buried here—an indignity, perhaps. But what else could Yu Ye do? He lacked the means to take him away. At least he had collected and buried the body, granting a measure of peace; when Yu Ye met his end, he might not be so fortunate.

A rogue chief—did he not lose all conscience?

As Old Feng himself had asked, was he a good man or a bad one?

Now, Yu Ye remembered clearly: it was Old Feng who had led him out of the dungeon and repeatedly saved him. He had covered their retreat alone, calm and decisive in the face of danger, ultimately freeing them from the Yan family’s pursuit. Even on the verge of death, he remembered his family, holding onto a tender thought.

Even if he was a villain, was he not also a man of loyalty and courage?

Ah, he is gone. Let him be. May his lone soul travel far—farewell!

Yu Ye pushed aside his chaotic thoughts, wrapped his tattered robe tighter, hugged his knees, curled up, and bowed his head deeply as a heavy weariness overtook him. He was exhausted and longed for sleep, yet before he closed his eyes, anxiety gnawed at his heart.

Whether he had companions or not, he was a fugitive hunted by the Yan family. He had not escaped danger and ought to flee under cover of night.

Resolved, Yu Ye was about to rise when something struck him, and he slapped his forehead.

Ah, he had nearly forgotten something vital.

Old Feng, unable to let go of his wife and young daughter, had asked Yu Ye to visit them. Yu Ye had been preoccupied with the chains and had not thought much of it, but how could he forget such a deathbed request? Otherwise, how could he repay his lifesaving debt?

Full of remorse, Yu Ye searched.

The small sword was still at his side. The animal skin pouch was half-buried in earth.

He picked it up and examined it.

Inside were several small pieces of yellow and white—gold and silver, most likely. Mountain hunters usually bartered; only wealthy families used precious metals, showing their rarity and worth.

Besides the gold and silver, there was an animal skin.

He remembered Old Feng’s instructions: the skin bore a map of Deer Call Mountain. Following the secret marks on it, one could find the valuables stored in Ping Shui Town, then deliver them and a message to North Mang Village.

Where was Deer Call Mountain?

And North Mang Village—he had never heard of it.

Yu Ye waved the skin before his eyes but could see nothing in the darkness. He returned it to the pouch, then, after some thought, took it out again, folded it, and tucked it into his inner belt.

This map was tied to Old Feng’s dying wish. Yu Ye dared not lose it, so he kept it close, lest anything happen.

He tightened his belt and picked up the small sword.

Three inches long, it could cut iron and stone but was merely functional, not magical—more like a child’s plaything in the village.

Yu Ye put the sword back into the pouch and tucked it into his chest.

By now, the night was pitch black. Dawn might be near; the sky was about to lighten.

Yu Ye pressed his hands to the ground and stood. As he rose, his legs went weak, his limbs powerless, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. He clung to a nearby rock to steady himself.

What was wrong?

It must be exhaustion and hunger, leaving him drained. Thankfully, the dragon venom had not flared, so nothing serious!

Yu Ye steadied himself and looked down at the mound.

The small mound was packed firm, with a layer of frost, utterly unremarkable. The discarded iron chains were all buried. Even if the Yan family found the spot, they would discover nothing.

So, Old Feng the Seventh—farewell!

Yu Ye stood in silence for a moment, then turned and vanished into the darkness.

The winter night before dawn was bitterly cold.

At this hour, people slept soundly in warm beds. Even wolves and badgers did not venture out to hunt. Yet someone, undaunted by the cold, slipped out of hiding. He glanced all around, then bolted north.

After more than ten miles, dawn broke, the sky faintly bright.

He crossed snowy wasteland toward a patch of forest. Between the trees was a small mountain pass.

In the dim morning light, Yu Ye ran on without stopping, bursting into the pass before finally slowing, bending over with hands on knees, gasping for breath.

Had he escaped the Yan family?

Yu Ye straightened, still panting, lips cracked, throat burning. He grabbed a handful of snow and stuffed it into his mouth, feeling instantly refreshed.

Somehow, he had lost a boot, leaving his left foot bare. The remaining boot was split in several places, so both feet were in similar shape.

His robe was too tattered to cover him, his body filthy. Bloody scabs made him look even more alarming. Yet he felt no discomfort or cold—was it the dragon pellet, or the purple ginseng fruit?

He reached into his chest. The animal skin pouch was safe. The map he kept close was also unharmed.

As he caught his breath, Yu Ye looked into the distance.

Beyond the pass was a wide road, the snow still covering it, showing tracks of carts and horses, but he had no idea where it led and saw not a soul.

With no one around, he ought to hurry away; only by leaving far behind could he escape danger. As for what the future held, he would deal with that in time.

Yu Ye tore a piece from his robe and wrapped it around his foot to protect it from sharp stones, then braced himself to continue his uncertain journey. But before he left the pass, a sudden gust struck. Startled, he turned, but fell with a thud and lost consciousness.

What had happened?

He had been ambushed!

This was the question Yu Ye pondered upon waking, which he soon answered.

A cloth covered his eyes; he could see nothing. His limbs were stiff and unresponsive, unable to move. Yet he heard hooves, his body bouncing with their rhythm. Clearly, he had been captured alive and tied to a horse’s back. He recalled being struck before fainting, and now, considering his situation, what else could it be but an ambush?

Someone must have hidden above the pass and attacked him unawares. Despicable!

But who was this villain?

Though Yu Ye could not open his eyes or move, his mind raced. No sooner had he resolved one question, angering him, than another arose, sinking him into gloom.

He had not escaped, after all, and had fallen again into the Yan family’s hands.

What would happen next?

More torture, forced to reveal Old Feng’s whereabouts, or beaten to death, dragged outside the manor and buried, or locked in the dungeon, never to see the light of day again?

Ah, a wretched life—let fate decide!

But why blindfold him?

And why, when the pass was only ten miles from the Yan family’s estate—a quarter hour on horseback—had so much time passed, yet the horses still galloped? By the sound, only two horses rode together.

Yu Ye, unable to contain his curiosity, tried to speak.

He was desperate to know who ambushed him and where they were taking him, but his words would not come; even with his mouth open wide, nothing happened.

Just then, the running horses finally slowed. Hooves clattered over stone, and light footsteps approached.

Yu Ye listened intently. His arms tightened, and he was lifted from the horse, his feet dangling as he was carried. He could only submit, silently awaiting his fate. After about the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, he was suddenly dropped to the ground. Someone struck his back, and a strange force surged into him. Gradually, sensation returned to his limbs, and he tore off the cloth from his eyes.

A cave?

Not the Yan family dungeon, but an unfamiliar cave, four or five yards across, with three entrances—spacious and bright. The left entrance, about one yard wide, let in a patch of warm sunlight. The right entrance was several yards high, hidden by grass. The third entrance was dim, its destination unknown.

Yu Ye stood, legs weak. He steadied himself and shuffled forward.

He moved toward the left entrance.

Looking out, the sky was high, peaks towering. From above, he saw mountains layered, clouds drifting. Peering down, he saw a steep cliff more than twenty yards high, with pavilions and houses nestled among pine trees, but no people, lending an eerie silence.

He walked toward the right entrance.

Around it grew wild grass and moss. A mountain stream trickled down, forming a small pool on the ground. The overflowing water slowly flowed out, faintly accompanied by the rumble of a distant waterfall.

Yu Ye circled the cave, but still saw nothing revealing.

He reached into his chest, his expression changing.

The pouch with the small sword was gone.

Lost, or stolen?

He searched again, but the animal skin pouch was nowhere to be found. Just as his anxiety peaked, he heard a surprised voice: “Oh, seven days are nearly up, and you awoke already…”