The flute player wore a Turkic robe. Though made of leather, covered with luxurious silk on the outside and presumably soft, plush inside, it did little to make him appear more robust. The robe practically draped over him, clearly too large, emphasizing the thin, bony frame beneath. The flute was a dark, jade-inlaid purple bamboo flute. There seemed to be an innate harmony between the fingers on the flute and the holes, otherwise, it wouldn't have produced such heavenly music in the night. The leather robe was magnificent, but on the man, it gave off a disheveled air; the Turkic robe, inherently rugged, only accentuated the slender neck at the collar. In short, the man and the robe were incongruous, clashing, yet this very clash revealed a more masculine quality.
The man had long, cold eyebrows and a refined nose and mouth, but this refinement was hard. To Li Xiaomei, it reminded her of a bamboo paperweight from Guanzhong that her older brother had on his desk. It looked so gentle, but when you touched it, you could feel the hardness and coldness that ran deep in his bones.
The man sat on the shaft of a large cart, which was askew because one of the two wheels on the axle was broken, and the other had rolled to the side. Beside the cart lay dead bodies—a dozen or so, young and old, all killed by sharp weapons. The detached, barely alive bodies and the lone horse pulling the cart appeared all the more forlorn. Three men stood around the cart, their gazes colder than the icy stars on the grassland. They stared fixedly at the flute player and the flute in his hand, silent, motionless. Li Xiaomei, having heard the flute music shortly before, had drawn her knife and followed the sound. She carried a knife out of habit; for a woman of the grasslands, the knife was her soul, her companion. But she never expected to witness this scene. She had intended to merely glance at the flute player and leave. Having lived on the grasslands for over a decade, this was the first time she had heard such flute music. Of course, she possessed the skill to stealthily approach in the darkness, guided by the wind, without even disturbing a wolf. But to her surprise, she would see this scene.
The flute player's eyes were lowered; he was only looking at his flute. The flute's sound was soft and gentle, yet it contained a unique sense of solemnity, as well as a unique tenderness. He had very long hair, seemingly uncombed for days, which was scattered in the wind of the wilderness. His flute music intertwined with his hair, and as Li Xiaomei watched, a feeling that had never been touched in nineteen years slowly spread through her heart. And outside, it was such a desolate and dark night. The flute player's lips suddenly left the flute, and his voice, soft and gentle as if it came from a diabolo, rang out.
"You are also involved with those 400,000 dan of grain and fodder."
He sighed softly. His voice was low, as if he were speaking with great care and attention. "—Do you know how important and crucial these 400,000 dan of grain were, transported from Guanzhong? Guanzhong is exhausted, and the people are impoverished. Do you know how long it took to gather these 400,000 dan of grain, and how difficult it was to collect them? This is the grain sent to Suyab to help the 70,000 troops there get through the spring, the life-saving grain for building the Beiting Protectorate, and the hope of these 70,000 troops. Without it, the entire area beyond the Great Wall might no longer be the land of the Han people. The Turkic power might rise again, and the Kunlun barrier that the court painstakingly built might vanish in an instant. The iron cavalry of the Eastern Turks might once again march south, ravaging the border and oppressing the people. You just seized it so easily, but do you know any of this?"
His left shoulder was injured, and there was a dark brown stain on his robe, but he seemed unconcerned. He seemed only concerned with the words he had just spoken: "Especially since you shouldn't have killed these dozen or so innocent herdsmen just to force me to show myself. What did they have to do with this? Four hundred thousand dan of grain, transported from Chang'an to Hongliuyuan outside Gaotai Town, was robbed just like that. The grain was divided into three batches: the first batch was 150,000 dan, the second batch was 150,000 dan, and the third batch was 100,000 dan. You were afraid of alerting people, so you let the first two batches go and robbed the third batch at Hongliuyuan. Then you planned to chase after them and rob the second batch, but you didn't expect someone to act before you and rob the second batch in the Gejiashawo area. However, this suited your purposes perfectly. You then had an excuse to frame someone, and you put everything on Li Bo, the leader of the Five Righteous Men of Jingtie Mountain, and reported to the court, asking for grain and horses as supplies for the siege of Li Bo. Don't you think this is going too far?"
He spoke quietly, his voice devoid of anger, only a weary helplessness. "Now, who are you really? You can tell me, right?"
The three men stared at him intently, seemingly unwilling to speak. Their expressions were obscured by the darkness, but the muscles beneath their dark, close-fitting outfits appeared taut and taut. The man playing the flute suddenly raised an eyebrow: "The Ten Mighty Guards, is that it?"
The three men seemed momentarily shaken. They were none other than the "Ten Mighty Guards" under General Zhang Wuwei, the Grand General of Gansu and Liangzhou, but they hadn't expected the man to guess their identities. They had been ordered to intercept and kill the imperial envoy sent to investigate the whereabouts of 400,000 dan of grain. Initially, they thought it would be a simple matter, but the envoy's counter-tracking skills had truly surprised them. This man had been on their radar since entering Gansu, yet he repeatedly slipped out of their sight, and it seemed he had uncovered many secrets they absolutely did not want him to know. If they didn't kill him soon, they would never be able to return to see the Grand General. The wind was cold, and the stars were sparse in the grassland sky; it was springtime in Shuangshuzi. They had cornered this man on this desolate grassland on this spring night.
This was a flat grassland, interspersed only with occasional groves of tamarisk and jujube trees. The gentle slopes made it difficult to hide. But once on this grassland, the man vanished without a trace. Pursuit is always a double-edged sword for both the pursuer and the pursued. The Ten Mighty Guards, upon discovering their target was missing, immediately split into four groups to surround and capture him. They agreed that whoever spotted the target would blow a whistle—a specially made whistle by the Ten Mighty Guards under the Gansu-Liang General, made of jujube wood, its sound loud and audible for miles. But the night was quiet. They searched separately for two full hours, but still heard no whistle from their companions and found no trace of the target. So they began to kill, deciding to kill anyone they saw. Sometimes, killing is also a way to mask terror and release pressure. The dozen or so herders traveling at night in two horse-drawn carts were killed by these three men. They were Zhang Hua, the Iron Guard; Jin Ying, the Bronze Guard; and Di Junjian, the Water Guard. But the night was still dark, and the person did not come out.
What drew them to him was the sound of a flute. The sound came from the direction they had left after killing a dozen or so herdsmen, and they immediately returned. Upon their return, they saw a man playing the flute, his long hair, uncombed for days, billowing in the night wind. The flute music, which should have been gentle and feminine, inexplicably exerted an unprecedented pressure on the three of them. Keep in mind, all ten of them were handpicked from among General Gan Liang's 100,000-strong army, yet they still felt the pressure. They had been waiting, puzzled as to why their companions, the seven men, hadn't appeared yet, even though the flute music had clearly been playing for quite some time. Perhaps they had already arrived, the three of them in the open, while the seven remained hidden? Iron Guard Zhang Hua, the leader of the three, felt they couldn't wait any longer; any further waiting would only put them at a disadvantage in terms of morale.
He pulled a whistle from his pocket, took a puff, and began to blow. The whistle's sound was completely different from the flute's earlier melody; a piercing howl echoed across the still grasslands. As soon as the howl subsided, they were about to attack. But then the man said, "Actually, you don't need to blow it. They're already here."
Then, staring at the grass to his left, he said, "Come out!"
The grass paused for a moment, then suddenly stirred, and two figures leaped out. Both appeared to be injured, one in the leg, the other in the cheek, their eyes filled with resentment as they stared at the man. Half an hour earlier, they had been searching in the darkness when suddenly one felt a sharp pain in the face, the other in the leg, and immediately realized—they had been ambushed. But after the attack, the attacker had vanished. They dared not blow their whistle, for the enemy was in the dark while they were in the light, and that would immediately reveal their position. Only when the sound of the flute began did they stealthily approach, finding the three Iron Guards already there. They hid in the shadows, ready to strike, but the attacker had somehow seen through them.
The three guards felt a surge of confidence when they saw the two men step forward, but where were the other five? The man suddenly spoke, "No need to look anymore." He reached for his waist, and the guards, thinking he was about to attack, involuntarily took a step back. The man simply pulled something from his waist and threw it to the ground. A clanging sound followed, and the ground reverberated with the sound of metal scraping against metal. The man said, "They're all here."
Li Xiaomei stared intently, but the night was too dark and the distance too far. The thing was too small to see clearly, but she could vaguely make out what it was, which seemed to be a few iron plates.
Zhang Hua was taken aback—yes, it was an iron token, five in total. The command tokens of the Ten Mighty Guards, the General had decreed: "The token is the man, the token is dead, the man is dead." Now the tokens were there, but in the enemy's hands. And where were the men? Could it be that those five, without uttering a sound for help, had already… The man looked up at the sky: "I didn't want to kill, but I had no choice. Today, I must kill ten."
Before he finished speaking, Iron Guard Zhang Hua spat out the whistle from his mouth, the whistle hanging around his neck, and then he struck. —They couldn't wait any longer; no one dared to wait longer against such an enemy. Fortunately, he was wounded, likely from his five comrades. The weapons used by the Mighty Ten Guards were nothing special—just ten swords. Now only five remained, but five were already formidable. But what they wanted wasn't formidable power, but for the enemy's life.
Their blades flashed dull, only a faint glint of light on the edge. As soon as the Iron Guards attacked, the Bronze Guard Jin Ying and the Water Guard Di Junjian followed suit. This was a well-practiced formation, perfect for killing ten enemies at a time, leaving no one unscathed. The two who appeared later retreated, aiming to withdraw at least three zhang (approximately 10 meters) to form a pincer movement, where their throwing knives would be most lethal. The flute player also moved, not to meet the three Iron Guards head-on, but to chase after the retreating two. They retreated quickly, and he chased quickly, but the three blades chasing him were equally swift. This battle was no longer a martial arts contest; only the flash of blades and the killing intent were visible, without any set moves, just a swift and deadly strike.
In chess, the first move matters; in a knife fight, speed is paramount. Since life is a journey through time, taking another's life is simply a contest of speed. The faster one wins.
The two men retreated, surprised that the man was so agile, even though his shoulder injury was clearly serious.
The two men worked in perfect coordination. Seeing themselves being pursued, one suddenly fell, but not as a stumble; he continued to retreat, his body sliding backward like a snake along the grass. The other, however, leaped backward in quick succession. The essence of a formation lies in its variability. By changing their formation, they prevented each other from reaching the same height, and from simultaneously attacking both of them. The enemy had a chance to kill one of them, but in the instant of the kill, the other would seize the other's vital point.
They didn't know which of their opponents would suddenly strike; the one driven out would certainly be in grave danger. But in a battle on the battlefield, wasn't it just a game of dice? Death was a matter of probability, while survival required a desperate struggle. The Iron Guard's three swords were dull and lifeless, their blades as thin as threads, and those threads trembled. Li Xiaomei had witnessed an extremely dangerous and fierce battle today. She was also a master, and of course, she knew how formidable it was.
True masters understand that, aside from martial arts duels, no one is invincible in a life-or-death struggle. Invincibility is like a dream, while in a life-or-death battle, life hangs by a thread.
The man's Turkic robe suddenly billowed open, obscuring Li Xiaomei's view as she stood behind him. She couldn't see what the man was doing. The man let out a whistle, put his flute in his mouth, and lunged at the man lying on the ground, knowing the latter was at a greater disadvantage.
Then, the other man, who had leaped backward, had a chance to throw his throwing knives. He struck. This time, he didn't throw just one—if he had only thrown one knife in this split second, he wouldn't deserve to be among the Ten Guards of Might. He threw three knives in total, arranged in a crooked triangular formation, flying towards the man in a highly irregular and even skewed manner. The man leaped like an eagle swooping down on a rabbit; the man who had fallen backward closed his eyes—
He wasn't unfamiliar with battle; seeing his opponent leap towards him, he knew he had no chance. Yet, he still swung his blade—not in self-defense, but to give the three throwing knives a second chance, ensuring his opponent wouldn't escape death after his own. The blade narrowly missed the man's abdomen; the man must have felt the chill in his chest and abdomen, but his hand was already gripping his opponent's throat. A single press and twist, and life and death were decided. The struggles of this world are indeed cruel and magnificent.
Even more dazzling was the fleeting brilliance in the eyes of the man who had fallen and retreated, his life force suddenly fading before he died. He didn't look at the man, but at the three knives flying towards him from his companion. The three knives vaguely touched the enemy's robe at the moment his life ended.
The man who threw the knives barely controlled the outcome of his throw. The effort had left him feeling utterly exhausted, as if he were facing a life-or-death struggle. He saw the three knives touch the man's body, and a sense of relief washed over him. But then, the man blew into his flute—which he held horizontally, the hole of which was also held—and with a flick of his tongue, he blew, sending a burst of starlight from the horizontal flute's end. —A featherless arrow! Whether anyone in the martial world knew of this hidden weapon was unknown. The thrower only felt the lightness and speed of the hidden light; it felt like a touch of frost as it pierced his brow. That light was as fine as a feather, as delicate as an eyelash, as fleeting as a hair. After that brief flash of pain, it vanished from sight, for it had already struck the target. The man who died by that hidden weapon would never know that this technique was originally called "Eyelash Before My Eyes, Yet Unseen."
A good concealed weapon is so hidden that it is difficult to see.
Li Xiaomei watched nervously as the three throwing knives clung to the man's robe. Behind the knives were three blades, sharp as threads, trembling, as the three Iron Guards charged towards him. The man, unaware of his perilous situation after chasing the retreating two, suddenly inhaled, turned, and his robe spun. The robe was made of leather, inherently flexible, and with this spin, he deflected the top knife. The second knife sliced a long gash in the robe. Then, the man gasped in pain; he couldn't dodge the third knife, which pierced his left shoulder. His left shoulder was already injured; this piercing wound compounded his injury. But this was something he had already planned; he preferred the second injury to crippling his right shoulder. Now, he faced the three incoming blades. He couldn't dodge, absolutely couldn't. But combat isn't about evasion for survival; his attack was a killing blow, a race against time. In chess, the first move matters; in a narrow passage, the brave prevail. He simply waved his right hand towards his lips, a swift grab and a pull, as if drawing a thread from a flute. Even the sharp-eyed Li Xiaomei couldn't see what he drew from the flute, only a dim light—a weapon, thin, sharp, and strangely supple, was drawn from his flute.
The flute is 18 feet long, and that thing is also 18 feet long. This strange blade and the opponent's sword light simultaneously slashed at the vital points of their respective opponents. No one knew who would be faster in this life-or-death competition.
With a painful groan, the man exclaimed, "A fine knife!" The words, spoken amidst the intense pain, sounded even more brutal.
"A fine knife?" — Li Yongrong suddenly saw stars. He'd been stabbed? She didn't know why she was worried about a stranger, someone she always disliked from the court. Then she saw a spray of blood erupt on the man's left shoulder. He was injured on his left shoulder; he seemed unfair to his own left shoulder. Then she saw the strange light in his right hand retract, disappearing instantly into his flute.
He won. A thin line appeared on the throats of all three Iron Guards; he—was just a fraction faster than them.
Survival of the fittest, a single kill for a chance—this is the unwritten rule of the martial world. Li Xiaomei closed her eyes briefly; he had won! But the weapon in the flute that had won him his life seemed to have never existed. —She didn't know that the strange weapon in the flute was called 'A Touch of Thread,' also known as 'Red Killer.' That 'Touch of Thread' was a line of bewitching red, and according to old legends, a woman who encountered this 'Touch of Thread' was almost destined to experience an unfortunate love affair.