Chapter Thirty-Eight: Deep in the Mountains and Dense Forests, the Young General in White

Southern border of Shu, deep mountains and dense forests stretching for hundreds of miles.

It was said that on the other side of this mountain range lay the lands of Southern Liang.

The State of Shu was situated in the heart of the continent, with Liang to the south and Yuanmeng to the north, threatened on both flanks. Its endurance to this day was, in truth, owed much to the aid of this treacherous terrain.

Within these ancient forests roamed fierce beasts and savage birds, and even spirits and monsters; thus, great armies could not easily traverse them.

More than half the border between Shu and Southern Liang was made up of such mountains and forests. Because of the dangers lurking within—the savage creatures and monsters—military expeditions were hampered, which helped ease much of the pressure on Shu.

This advantageous, easily-defended position was said to be the late Chancellor Ge’s design.

“It was said that the Chancellor, in his campaigns, could have taken the fight deep into Southern Liang and seized vast territories, but he halted here... Perhaps foreseeing his own approaching end, he laid plans for after his death, leaving Shu such a defensible position.”

Walking through the mountains, Qingyuan felt ever more admiration for Chancellor Ge’s wisdom.

Rumors spoke of a similar barrier to the north—the Remnant Sun Mountains—where the terrain was just as perilous and impassable for armies. Now, they needed only to guard the key passes.

“Alas, despite the advantage of the terrain, Shu is still wedged between two strong foes, Southern Liang and Yuanmeng,” Qingyuan mused, shaking his head. “With powerful enemies both north and south, and the army enfeebled after Chancellor Ge Zhan’s defeat years ago, the future looks grim for Shu.”

“Fortunately, at the Chancellor’s suggestion, the capital and most important people and resources were moved eastward, rather than remaining in the center.”

“That, too, has lessened much of the pressure.”

As he walked, Qingyuan explained the situation to the mountain demon Gu Cang.

Sometimes Gu Cang understood and nodded; sometimes he did not, but he would remember and ask later, never interrupting his master.

When he had finished explaining the history of these forests, Qingyuan said, “Now, with both armies facing off, the borders are almost entirely closed... To reach Southern Liang, one must go through the mountains—but caution is needed, for there are many monsters and spirits along the way.”

Gu Cang patted the long blade at his waist. “I’m not afraid.”

Qingyuan shook his head with a faint smile. “Never underestimate anything.”

Gu Cang scratched his head in confusion at those words.

...

The mountain paths were steep and treacherous.

Some swamps exuded poisonous miasma.

Some spiders and insects were venomous.

Qingyuan and Gu Cang, however, were untroubled; with their cultivation, they could resist such poisons, and Gu Cang, being a spirit, could drive away venomous creatures.

“These mountains hold many paths, each with its own dangers,” Qingyuan said. “I consulted Master Yun Jing, and this route is the safest—only some poisonous miasma and, ahead, a cliff where we must cling to the rock face to pass. For ordinary folk, even if they could keep their footing, fear alone could lead to disaster. But we are not ordinary, so we need not worry.”

Gu Cang, part monkey by nature, was adept at climbing and leaping among cliffs and forests, and so felt no fear—indeed, he was delighted.

Along the cliff, the two walked slowly, calm and unafraid.

Below their feet, thick clouds and mist swirled.

Beneath the mist, the abyss was unfathomable, its depths beyond sight.

At times, mishaps occurred.

Savage birds flew overhead; spotting the pair on the cliff, they would swoop down in attack.

Gu Cang was struck from behind, his clothes torn and his flesh wounded, but he did not flinch, as if he felt nothing at all.

He dared not move, lest he fall.

He drew his blade, pressing one hand to the rock, and with the other swung down, cleaving a bird in two.

Qingyuan remained steady; as another bird neared, he tapped it with his iron staff, striking it dead center.

The savage bird’s bones snapped, its wings failed, and it plunged into the abyss.

In the space of two blinks, two or three such birds had attacked and been cast down into the endless mist.

Qingyuan sheathed his staff at his waist. “Let’s keep going.”

Gu Cang returned his blade with a grunt of assent.

Though such attacks were fortuitous, tales of them were common.

Had ordinary people taken this path, startled by such an assault, most would have tumbled to their deaths.

Sometimes it was savage birds that caused their fall; at other times, mischievous mountain monkeys would pelt travelers with stones.

...

The weather was unpredictable. The morning had dawned bright.

But now, not yet noon, a sudden rain had begun.

The downpour was fierce, the drops as large as broad beans, crashing down and splattering from the leaves, scattering countless sparkling droplets.

Yet the rainfall was brief.

In the villages of Li, such a shower was called “mountain-crossing rain.”

Wind followed the rain, sweeping swiftly onward.

After the rain, the forest was a mire.

Raindrops fell from the leaves; beads of water glistened in the grass.

A young officer in white armor leaned against a tree, sitting in the mud, his mind foggy.

The rain fell upon him, stinging the wounds on his body, mixing blood with water as it ran down.

The grass beneath him was wet and sharp, digging painfully into his flesh.

His gaze was unfocused, yet his jaw remained clenched. Not a sound of pain escaped him.

Suddenly, a rustling came from the woods.

His dull eyes snapped into focus, a glint of alertness returning. Ignoring his wounds, he sprang to his feet, teeth bared against the pain.

He gripped a long spear, a sword at his waist, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s.

“Who’s there...” he ground out, his voice squeezed between clenched teeth, for his injuries made speaking almost impossible.

From the woods emerged a man.

His features were refined, dressed in a white robe edged in blue; though soaked by the rain, he remained composed, not the least bit disheveled.

Behind him followed another, cloaked in black so that his face was hidden, a blade at his waist.

At the sight of the blade, the young officer’s eyes flashed with murderous intent.

It was a standard-issue long blade of the Shu army.

“Southern Liang... the White-Clad Army?”

Qingyuan, seeing the young officer in white armor, raised an eyebrow.

He examined the young man—perhaps just past twenty, dressed in white armor and robes, with a spirit and bearing far above the common run.

Qingyuan observed him closely, then withdrew his gaze, thinking, “I have seen soldiers in my time, but never one so sharp. If this is but a junior officer, and if all under Chen Zhiyun are such elite troops...”

“The tales of seven thousand breaking hundreds of thousands under Ge Zhan are not exaggerated...”

But what, he wondered, was a junior officer of Chen Zhiyun’s White-Clad Army doing here?

Seeing the young officer’s face full of hostility and murderous intent, Qingyuan frowned slightly.

“Let’s go,” he said, turning to Gu Cang. “Pay him no mind.”

The two continued on.

The young officer gripped his spear tightly, motionless, his expression unchanged, not even blinking.

As Qingyuan passed him, he paused, took out a bottle of medicine, and tossed it over. “This is for your wounds. Your injuries are severe—your life is at risk...”

Crack!

The young officer swept his spear, shattering the medicine bottle, then lunged forward, spear cutting through the swirling dust of the broken vial.

The attack was sudden and fierce, the blade of the spear cold as death.

“Kill!” the officer shouted, his cry merging with the flashing spear tip, the force of his shout and weapon rolling forth, enough to startle spirits and drive away ghosts.

Even Qingyuan, with all his cultivation, felt his energy stall, his thoughts blur.

In that instant of hesitation, the spear was already at his face.

“Excellent!” Qingyuan’s mind conjured the image of a nine-tiered jade tower, steadying his spirit.

He regained his senses, turned his head aside, dodged the spear, and reached to grasp its shaft.

Just then—a flash of steel swept in from the side, piercing the officer’s armor, entering from the right and exiting from the left.

The blade was stained with blood.

The young officer fell dead on the spot.

Gu Cang withdrew his blade, sheathing it, then suddenly grunted heavily.

Qingyuan started, then, somewhat surprised, murmured, “Fate?”