Chapter 75.

Every winter hunt of the Danxi, the sparring matches have always adhered to one unspoken rule—show your strength but don’t go for the kill. Sure, the clashing of blades and swinging of swords might leave a scratch or two, but no one’s ever been out for blood.

Until today.

In the fight between Yemang and Commander Cao, everyone saw it clear as day—Yemang went for the kill. If Cao hadn’t dodged in time, it wouldn’t just be his arm lying in the dirt. The crowd of Yan soldiers erupted with fury. Military medics rushed to carry the unconscious commander away on a stretcher, but the blood soaking the arena spoke louder than words, igniting a fire in every warrior present.

Glares of pure hatred burned into Yemang, the Tatars’ so-called champion, as he stood smug and victorious. A few hotheaded soldiers rolled up their sleeves, ready to jump into the arena for revenge, but their more level-headed comrades held them back.

Fight Yemang? Might as well hand him your dignity on a silver platter.

But the seething anger was hard to stifle. Watching Yemang preen in his moment of triumph, a sense of shame wormed its way into the fury.

Because the truth was plain—Yemang wasn’t just good; he was terrifyingly strong.

Commander Cao, renowned for his brute strength, had been thoroughly outmatched. When Yemang swung his axe, Commander Cao didn’t flinch. He raised his crimson-tasseled spear to block, but Yemang’s monstrous power cleaved through it like butter, taking Commander Cao’s arm in the same stroke.

From the stands, murmurs of indignation turned to open protests. “The matches are meant to be restrained! This Tatar went too far!” Yan officials, seated high above, couldn’t mask their displeasure. Whispers turned into pointed accusations against the Tatars for breaking the rules.

Yemang’s superior, Aharu, dismissed it all with a smug smile and a slow, deliberate reply: “Yemang is a man of immense strength. Even among our warriors, it’s hard for him to hold back sometimes. Today was an accident.” He paused, letting the air grow thick with tension before delivering the final twist. “But if your Yan soldiers are so worried, perhaps Yemang will fight barehanded. Surely, that would prevent any… unfortunate incidents.”

The arrogance dripped from his words. His expression left nothing to interpretation—“Your men can’t handle ours. Fine, we’ll give you a handicap.”

The officials who had been so eager to scold Aharu suddenly fell silent, faces red with suppressed rage. Their gazes darted among the assembled Yan generals, desperate to find someone—anyone—capable of shutting this Tatar up.

But it was useless. The older, battle-hardened warriors were either too frail or stationed at distant outposts. The younger ones, though promising, were no match for Yemang. Commander Cao had been their best hope, and now he was out of the game—literally in pieces.

Great Yan’s reliance on scholars over soldiers had left its military spine brittle. And now, in front of their emperor and a host of foreign guests, they couldn’t find a single man to defend their honor.

Emperor Longfeng’s displeasure was evident. His brow furrowed as his gaze swept across the assembly. His voice was sharp, commanding: “Who will fight next?”

The room froze. Soldiers avoided eye contact, shifting uncomfortably. A few brave souls considered stepping forward, not because they thought they could win but because losing with honor was better than cowering in fear.

But before anyone could move, a loud, confident voice cut through the tension like a blade: “Your Majesty, I volunteer! Let me take on the Tatar champion!”

All eyes turned to the source. Standing tall and unshaken was a figure most hadn’t seen before—a giant of a man, muscles rippling beneath his uniform, with the raw energy of a northern warrior. His heavy, broad-backed blade rested on his shoulder, and his fierce gaze dared anyone to question him.

This was He Shan. And though his name might not have rung a bell for most of the officials, one person knew him all too well. Sitting beside the emperor, Noble Consort Wen’s face darkened with fury. Her fingers clenched into fists as her eyes locked onto him, brimming with hatred.

This man, this rebel of the Red Army, had brought ruin to her family. Her precious son, gone too soon because of these traitors.

It’s such a damn shame that after coming back to the capital, those rebels ended up camped out at the Capital Camp, far outside the city, refusing to take any titles. Because of that, she never got the chance to get back at them like she deserved.

If He Shan wanted to face Yemang, so be it. Let the barbarian crush him to dust.

The emperor, however, was delighted. Here was someone bold enough to restore their honor. His stern expression melted into a satisfied grin as he waved his hand.

“Permission granted.”

He Shan nodded, blade in hand, and leapt into the arena with an air of unshakable dominance.

On the other side, Yemang—brimming with smugness after witnessing the prior scene and realizing the Yan Empire had no champions left—grinned wildly. "I don’t waste my axe on nobodies. Name yourself!"

"Your granddaddy," He Shan shot back, his words dripping with the rough defiance of his bandit roots. Though now a soldier, the raw edge of his outlaw days clung to him like a second skin.

During his time in the capital's barracks, He Shan had privately scoffed at the softness of his comrades, finding them beneath his notice. Yet whatever disdain he held for his own men was nothing compared to the seething contempt he reserved for these Tartar savages and their arrogance.

He didn’t bother with more words. Gripping the end of his thick-backed broadsword with one hand, He Shan swung it with ferocious precision. The massive weapon, weighing over a hundred pounds, howled through the air, its razor edge pointed directly at Yemang.

Yemang sneered at first, dismissing He Shan with a glance. But the moment their weapons clashed—his steel axe vibrating in his trembling hands as his palms went numb—he realized this wasn’t just some upstart soldier.

The sneer vanished, replaced by a hard-edged focus.

Meanwhile, He Shan remained utterly at ease, even as they exchanged blows. After only a few rounds, he burst into laughter, raising his brows mockingly. "This is it? This is what passes for skill? No wonder! When there’s no tiger in the mountains, I suppose the monkeys get to play king." He casually switched his grip, his stance relaxed yet deadly. "You're nothing special."

Yemang, fluent enough in Yan language to understand the insult, roared in fury. His twin axes launched into a relentless storm of attacks, each swing angrier than the last.

He Shan, however, moved like a predator toying with its prey. He sidestepped with ease, circling around Yemang like a shadow. Then, with a sudden leap, he raised his broadsword high and brought it crashing down from above with a thunderous force.

The onlooking soldiers erupted in cheers. "Well done!"

The move was a calculated mirror of the technique Yemang had used earlier to defeat Deputy General Cao—a bitter irony that wasn’t lost on the crowd.

Forced into defense, Yemang crossed his axes to block the descending blade. But He Shan’s strike carried the weight of a falling mountain. The impact sent a jolt of agony through Yemang's arms, nearly disarming him.

Yet He Shan wasn’t done. In a flash, he raised the broadsword again and brought it down with even greater force. The weighty blade seemed to dance in his hands, an extension of his will. Yemang could do nothing but kneel under the relentless assault, his knees slamming into the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The very arena platform cracked beneath him.

The move was devastating, both in its execution and its impact. The audience erupted in thunderous applause, their roars echoing across the arena.

From his vantage point, Crown Prince Yin Chengyu watched with sharp interest, turning to Xue Shu beside him. "He Shan’s strength is unparalleled. He’ll be a great warrior someday. No wonder you couldn’t best him back then."

The comment, casual yet pointed, made Xue Shu bristle. "When have I ever lost to He Shan?" he shot back, his tone firm, almost affronted. "Yes, his strength is immense, but if we were to face off, the odds would be six to four in my favor." His pride glimmered through his words as he added, "If Your Highness doubts me, I’ll gladly step into the arena and prove it."

Yin Chengyu’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, unreadable. Finally, he shifted his attention back to the arena. "There’s no need. I believe you."

By now, the fight below had reached its climax. Yemang, battered and desperate, refused to admit defeat. But He Shan had no patience for futile resistance. In their final exchange, he saw an opening and severed Yemang’s right arm in a single, ruthless stroke.

The Tatar warrior collapsed, bloodied and spent. His willpower shattered, he fell to his knees, unable to continue. The crowd exploded into chaos, cheers mingling with shouts of outrage. In the Tatar delegation, some had already leapt to their feet, their fury barely contained.

He Shan, however, was unbothered. With a mocking bow, he threw Yemang’s earlier words back at him. "Blades don’t have eyes. Oops. Guess I got carried away."

The faces of the Tartar envoys darkened, their anger simmering just below the surface. Only their leader, Aharu, managed a strained smile. "A bet is a bet. We accept defeat."

But his composure didn’t last long. With a sharp gesture, he sent another warrior into the ring.

It made no difference. No matter how many challengers the Tartars threw at He Shan, they all fell one by one. Fifteen bouts later, He Shan stood triumphant, the unshakable king of the arena.

With a sharp, commanding voice, Yin Chengyu spurred his horse forward, cutting through the tension like a blade. “He Shan has already won fifteen rounds in a row,” he declared, his words carrying a faint, biting disdain. “Now what? Are the Tartar warriors admitting they can’t win one-on-one and resorting to cheap, relentless tag-teaming?” His smirk deepened. “Sure, the rules don’t technically forbid a carousel of opponents, but the day grows late, and dinner awaits. If the Grand Chancellor refuses to concede, why not settle this properly in the hunting grounds tomorrow?”

He sat astride his horse in gleaming silver armor, his long hair tied back neatly. Frost clung to his brow, evidence of the icy battlefield, adding an extra edge to his already frigid demeanor.

Aharu met his gaze, his pride crumbling under the weight of humiliation. After a moment’s strained silence, he forced a hollow laugh, masking his defeat. “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth, doing his best to appear magnanimous.

With that, He Shan emerged the victor.

Exhausted but exhilarated, He Shan strode back to his place, his blade still in hand, his presence unshaken despite his fatigue. The room buzzed with excitement, none more so than the emperor himself. Longfeng, having reclaimed his nation’s honor, beamed with pride.

Summoning He Shan forward, he promised a generous reward. “Which battalion are you from? Why have I not seen you before?”

Before He Shan could respond, Yin Chengyu’s voice rang out once more, playful yet deliberate. “Father, He Shan is one of the leaders we recruited during the Shandong campaign. Things have been busy since our return, and I must’ve forgotten to recommend him for a title.”

The emperor’s expression froze for a moment as recognition dawned. He Shan was none other than the former rebel leader of the Hongying Red Army. Memories of Yin Chengzhang’s death in the rebellion stirred his distaste, but He Shan had just restored the empire’s honor with his victory. Moreover, Longfeng had publicly promised to reward him.

Caught between his emotions and his word, the emperor’s face shifted through a spectrum of emotions before finally settling. He looked around at the cheering generals, their enthusiasm unwavering, and conceded. “Very well. I bestow upon He Shan the title of Commanding General of the Fourth Rank!”

His tone sharpened as his gaze flicked to Yin Chengyu, whose faint smile lingered. Suspicion gnawed at him—was this outcome orchestrated by the crown prince?

Irritated, he rose abruptly. “It’s late. Begin the banquet!”

The feast, a grand celebration of the day’s triumphs, was a boisterous affair.

He Shan, now the center of attention, was surrounded by his peers, who poured him drink after drink in admiration. Meanwhile, the Tatar and Oirat envoys, subdued and licking their wounds, kept to themselves. Aharu and Princess Uju sat quietly, while Mubai’er, the Oirat representative, brooded, nursing his drink and barely participating.

Midway through the revelry, scouts from the vanguard returned, reporting that the beasts in the hunting grounds had been driven to the central area and the perimeter secured.

Tomorrow’s hunt was ready to commence.

Yin Chengyu stepped away to inspect the arrangements, with Xue Shu following close behind. Seated nearby, Yin Ciguang, took the opportunity to excuse himself as well, weary of the banquet’s stifling air. He intended to retreat to his quarters for rest.

From the shadows, Noble Consort Wen noticed Yin Ciguang’s departure and gestured to a lady-in-waiting. Moments later, a maid carrying a wine jug approached Mubai’er under the guise of refilling his cup. Leaning close, she whispered, “The Princess has had too much to drink and stepped out to the west corridor for some air.”

Mubai’er's eyes narrowed, his suspicion flaring. “Who sent you?” he demanded, his tone icy. The maid merely curtsied and retreated, leaving him to grapple with the temptation.

After a moment of hesitation, Mubai’er rose, his mind made up. He strode quickly toward the west corridor, his steps purposeful and quick.

Outside, Yin Ciguang, overcome by the banquet’s fumes and the day’s exertion, succumbed to a coughing fit. Concerned, his maid helped him to a sheltered corner to rest. After catching his breath, his voice raspy, Yin Ciguang dismissed her. “I’m fine. Go back and fetch me some hot tea. I’ll wait here.”

Reluctant but obedient, the maid hurried back toward the hall.

It was then that Mubai’er arrived, catching sight of the retreating maid. Recognizing her, his eyes darkened, and his pace quickened. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

Yin Ciguang coughed violently for a while, swallowing a homemade pill before he finally started to feel a bit better.

Ever since the Crown Prince's protection, he no longer worried about survival every damn day. The herbs he needed were delivered in full, and his health had improved significantly. The persistent cough had even stopped bothering him for a while. But just as he'd gotten used to the relief, it came back with a vengeance, hitting him harder than before.

He was about to lean against a pillar to rest for a moment when the sound of footsteps suddenly broke the stillness. He looked up, recognizing the person approaching. His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly stood up, hands crossing in front of his abdomen, offering a polite bow. He had no idea that Mubai’er was specifically looking for him—he thought they had just happened to cross paths and he would exchange pleasantries and move on.

"Your Highness," Mubai’er returned the bow, but didn't leave. His gaze lingered on him, taking in every detail, a hint of surprise in his eyes.

Previously, his request to marry this princess of Dayan had been for political reasons. Since Yin Ciguang always kept his head lowered, Mubai’er hadn't seen his face clearly before. He had only assumed the princess was extremely frail, much weaker than the women from their own grasslands, as if a gust of wind could blow her away.

But that didn't matter—he never intended to marry her for affection. A noble woman from Great Yan, no matter how prestigious, could never bear him heirs, so her weakness was irrelevant. His father had already chosen a more suitable bride for him. Once he passed this hurdle, he would marry someone else.

To Mubai’er, the Great Yan princess was nothing but a symbol.

But now, looking at the poised woman standing before him, the dim, fragmented light from the lanterns scattered across her, she exuded a quiet beauty that almost stopped him in his tracks. Her posture was impeccable. Her neck was long and gracefully curved, her back straight, and her hands, pale and slender, rested elegantly across her abdomen. Every inch of her was exquisitely delicate, a striking contrast to his own rough, weathered experiences.

Mubai’er had seen countless beauties, but none quite like Yin Ciguang. Her beauty was like a delicate orchid in a secluded valley—a rare find, impossible to overlook. His desire to possess her sparked, a hunger he hadn't expected.

Without thinking, he took a step closer, his voice lowering slightly, almost coaxing, "Your Highness doesn't look well. Is something bothering you?"

Yin Ciguang stepped back, his eyes sharp as he met Mubar's gaze, his tone icy and defensive. "I’m fine. No need for concern, Prince."

Without waiting for the return of her maid, he turned to leave, his senses on high alert, sensing danger approaching. But Mubai’er didn't let him pass.

Mubai’er’s imposing figure blocked his path effortlessly, the strength of his frame evident compared to the fragile figure before him. He was quick to step closer, his eyes glinting with determination.

“I promised your Emperor that I would show you my sincerity. If you're feeling unwell, there's no need to treat me as an outsider.” Mubai’er closed the distance further, a knowing smile creeping onto his lips. "I saw your maid go toward the banquet hall, so she won't be back for a while. My quarters are just ahead. How about a cup of tea to rest?"

His words might have been framed as an offer, but his actions were forceful, and he reached to take Yin Ciguang's hand.

Yin Ciguang had played the role of a delicate princess long enough, but he had never endured such an insult. His face turned pale as he recoiled, his hidden hand trembling slightly with anger. Yet, he managed to keep his voice calm. “Prince, please, respect yourself.”

The sight of her startled expression only seemed to fuel Mubai’er’s interest more. Just as he was about to move in closer, Yin Ciguang's maid returned, rushing forward and calling out “Your Highness,” her sharp gaze focused on Mubai’er.

With the sudden obstacle, Mubai’er frowned and stepped back.

“Let’s go.” Yin Ciguang lowered his gaze, no longer acknowledging Mubai’er, and quickly called for his maid as he hurried away.

Mubai’er stood still, watching his retreating back, a confident smirk spreading across his face, his mind set on claiming what he desired.

———TN: Alright, listen up, readers. Patience is the name of the game. Translating an entire chapter takes time—this isn't a quick, slapdash job. I’m doing this solo—no editor, no proofreader, just me pouring in the work, and guess what? It’s free. When I’ve got the time, I’ll churn out as much as I can and post it. But don’t you dare rush me or start comparing my pace to someone else’s. If I’m moving slow, deal with it.