Chapter Four: Life Like a Dog

“Brother…” Zhang Qili began to sob, for upon the tail of a cavalryman’s horse hung the severed head of her elder brother.

Exhausted, Yang Lian collapsed onto the ground, his garments soaked through and clinging coldly to his skin, the chill sinking straight to his heart. But he had no strength left to care for such discomforts.

“Don’t worry, one day, I will avenge our people!” Yang Lian gasped for breath, speaking with great difficulty.

Zhang Qili’s shoulders shook with grief. At his words, she turned her tear-stained face toward him. “Really?”

“Truly,” Yang Lian replied, rising slowly to his feet, his eyes set with unwavering resolve. “But the dead cannot return. You must not lose yourself to sorrow. The day will come when I shall let you cut off their heads with your own hands.”

Zhang Qili was not afraid; instead, she nodded fiercely, her teeth clenched. “I will have my revenge!”

The two sat on the ground for more than half an hour, resting until Yang Lian regained some strength. Only then did he rise, leading Zhang Qili out of the dense forest. The rain had ceased, yet the sky remained gloomy and unclear, echoing the haze that shrouded their hearts.

By his estimation, it was around midday. Yang Lian studied the trees, orienting himself, and set out northeast. The bandits prowling the shores of Lake Tai ravaged the land, rumored to be secretly supported by Southern Tang. In such troubled times, fear must have gripped the people of Suzhou and Changzhou, and no one could say what measures Qian Wenfeng, the Military Commissioner of Zhongwu, would take. It seemed wiser to head north, toward Southern Tang.

Yang Lian’s mind was clear—though his status was unique and his hatred for the people of Southern Tang ran deep, “how can one catch a tiger cub without venturing into its lair?” Moreover, he bore a knife wound and his appearance had changed; unless one knew him well, he would not be recognized. He determined to travel to Southern Tang, and when he explained his intent to go to Jinling, Zhang Qili nodded with resolve, insisting she would accompany him.

Her eldest brother was dead, her third brother’s fate unknown, and she was left without kin. A young woman alone, she naturally wished to follow the one she loved—so long as Yang Lian would not return to his old ways of gambling and drinking. A man’s backbone should be made of sterner stuff.

Hand in hand, Yang Lian and Zhang Qili walked slowly for another half hour, until they spotted a village in the distance. Upon entering, they found it nearly deserted—most inhabitants had fled the ongoing strife. Rummaging through the houses, they managed to find a little rice and flour. Zhang Qili seemed lost in a daze, so Yang Lian took the initiative, gathering wild greens outside a house and cobbling together a simple meal.

A gentleman is said to keep far from the kitchen, and Yang Lian, a scion of a noble house, had surely never cooked before. Zhang Qili was amazed—how could Yang Lian cook, and so well? But her mind was troubled, and the thought quickly passed.

After they finished eating, Zhang Qili could not help but ask, “Brother Yang, are we truly going to Jinling?”

“We must,” Yang Lian replied, unconsciously clenching his fists as memories long buried surfaced in his mind. Some things, if they cannot be avoided, must be faced head-on. Perhaps inheriting the memories of this body’s former owner left him with little affection for the royal house of Southern Tang.

Zhang Qili trusted Yang Lian deeply and nodded in agreement.

All along their journey, they encountered many refugees—ragged and destitute. Yang Lian sighed inwardly. It was said that Southern Tang and Wuyue had suffered less from war, and since the late Tang dynasty, the south had become a fertile land of abundance, rivaling even the legendary “Land of Plenty.” The Tang court, in its waning days, had survived on the taxes from Bashu and the south. This showed how prosperous the region had become by the end of the Tang, its people enjoying great wealth.

Yet now, in this land once famed for its bounty, the people were scattered and homeless—a sign of how chaotic the world had become. First came the warlords, then the upheavals of Pang Xun and Huang Chao, and as Zhu Wen slew the last Tang emperor, the mighty Tang dynasty finally fell. Warlords proclaimed themselves emperors, waging endless wars, and the common folk suffered without end. Even the fertile south had come to this—a lamentable fate.

After walking for two hours, dusk began to fall. Yang Lian climbed a hill, surveying the land. Night was nearing, and they needed a place to rest, for only with rest would they have the strength to travel further. He checked the bag slung across his back—inside was half a catty of rice and flour, enough for one or two meals. Once their food was gone, they would face true hunger; they would have to find a way to survive. Yang Lian rubbed his temples, thinking of the current predicament—like a game of Europa Universalis III, with the Ming dynasty beset by troubles within and without—truly difficult times!

As dusk deepened, the campfire cast a warm glow across Yang Lian’s face.

That evening, luck was with him—he caught a wild hare at the edge of the woods. He skinned and cleaned it, skewered it onto a branch, and roasted it over the fire. Soon, the aroma of roasting meat filled the air. Sprinkling coarse salt, he ensured they would have a proper meal.

When the rabbit was done and had cooled, Yang Lian tore off a hind leg and offered it to Zhang Qili.

She shook her head. “You eat,” she said, taking a piece of breast for herself. Once it cooled, she ate slowly, legs pressed together, her thoughts heavy.

Yang Lian only smiled, saying nothing more. He ate half the rabbit himself, leaving the rest for Zhang Qili. She found a large leaf, washed it, and wrapped the remaining meat. With little money and scarce food, they had to be frugal.

Night fell, stars scattered haphazardly across the sky. The two found a clean patch of ground, lit a fire to ward off wild animals, and lay down to sleep in their clothes.

Yang Lian could not sleep. Though he now had a grand purpose, the details still needed careful thought. He knew this journey was a leap into danger—there were many paths he could take, but this one thrilled him with its challenge. “How can one catch a tiger cub without entering its lair?” Such was his character.

Zhang Qili, exhausted from the day, soon breathed evenly in sleep. Yang Lian sat up, gazing intently at the flickering fire. Few figures from the mid-to-late Five Dynasties lingered in his memory—Chai Rong, Zhao Kuangyin and his brother Zhao Guangyi, and the poet-emperor Li Yu, who once wrote, “How much sorrow can one man have? As much as a river of spring water flowing east.”

But thanks to the memories of this body’s former owner, he now recalled many more: Zhou Ben, who claimed descent from Zhou Yu, his son Zhou Ye and Zhou Hongzuo, the current emperor Li Jing of Southern Tang, his eldest son Li Hongji, his sixth son Li Congjia, and even affairs in Wuyue. The military governor of Zhongwu, Qian Wenfeng, was the son of Qian Yuanzan, who had succeeded his post three years prior.

Yang Lian sifted through all he knew, gaining a clearer understanding of the current situation. As the fire died, he added more wood, preparing to doze off in his clothes when, suddenly, hurried footsteps broke the silence of the night.

His hearing was sharp, and at once his heart leapt—at this hour, deep into the night, in such a deserted place, who could be approaching? He hurried to Zhang Qili’s side, about to speak when she shuddered and opened her eyes.

“Get up, someone’s coming!” Yang Lian whispered.

Zhang Qili immediately sat up, listening intently, but heard nothing. Still, she trusted Yang Lian. The night was dark and visibility poor. Yang Lian pointed ahead, whispering, “Hide inside. No matter what happens, unless I call you, do not come out!”

At first, Zhang Qili shook her head, but seeing Yang Lian’s determined gaze, she nodded and quickly slipped into the dense woods.

Yang Lian doused the fire, relieved himself to extinguish the embers, and retreated into the forest, settling beside Zhang Qili. Her small, cold hands gripped his sleeve tightly, trembling with fear. Yang Lian gently took her hand, feeling the cold sweat—she was clearly terrified.

He patted her hand reassuringly, urging her not to panic. As the fire died, darkness enveloped them, save for a sliver of crescent moon peeking through the clouds with chilly indifference.

The footsteps drew closer; soon, they could hear the labored breathing of the newcomer. Yang Lian tensed, lying low in the underbrush, eyes wide and alert. Zhang Qili clung to his sleeve, trembling.

A shadowy figure emerged into view, and Yang Lian was startled. The man was covered in blood, limping heavily—clearly wounded. He leaned on a staff as tall as himself, making his way toward the forest.

Suddenly, the man sniffed the air, his wariness evident. He circled the area, then crouched by the fire’s remains, feeling the ground.

Yang Lian’s heart skipped a beat—this man was cautious indeed! He must have caught the scent of urine. Realizing his mistake, Yang Lian cursed himself inwardly.

The stranger’s face lit with grim satisfaction. The urine was still warm, the earth still held heat—the fire had been extinguished not long before, and someone had recently slept here. Who they were was unimportant. More crucially, he caught the lingering scent of food—someone had dined here hours earlier.

Famished and wounded, he set his sights on those who had eaten here. Rising, he drew a short knife from his waist. The blade was nicked and only half remained—a sign of fierce battle.

His eyes gleamed with murderous intent as he scanned the area. If it were daylight, he was confident he’d spot the hiding place at once. But the darkness was thick; for now, he could only search for traces, knife at the ready.

“A wooden hairpin,” he murmured, picking it up. From this, he deduced a woman was present. Studying the footprints, he judged that only two people had sheltered here. He let out a cold laugh.

Yang Lian heard every word. Turning, he realized Zhang Qili’s hairpin had slipped from her hair at some point, giving them away. She remained unaware, still clutching his sleeve.

Yang Lian frowned—he had made several mistakes that would have been fatal under different circumstances. But the darkness offered a slim chance of survival. The stranger was clearly a dangerous man. One wrong move and they would die here, unburied. He had to be cautious.

He dared not speak, fearing the man would hear, and simply squeezed Zhang Qili’s hand, signaling her not to panic. He gestured that, no matter what happened, she must keep silent and remain hidden.

Zhang Qili glanced at him, her eyes bright with determination. She bit her lip and nodded. At this moment, she could only regret being born a woman and not being able to help.

The man advanced toward the thicket but did not enter. Instead, he stopped a dozen paces from the edge, holding his knife level with his chest, every inch the cautious predator. Suddenly, he sneered, “There’s no use hiding. Come out! If you behave yourself, I might spare your life.”