Chapter Seventy-Three: Nightfall on the Grasslands

The peoples of the grasslands were most adept at song and dance; though the air was cold, the spirits of the soldiers remained undiminished. As evening descended, a massive bonfire blazed at the center of the camp, around which the soldiers formed a wide circle. In the midst of them, some soldiers and the maids who attended Xiao Yiyi joined together in singing and dancing, filling the air with lively excitement.

Zhao Yu watched the scene, unable to suppress a sense of puzzlement. The Jurchen from the north must be nearly at Shangjing by now—how could everyone remain so cheerful?

Children of the steppe were not ones for coyness. Xiao Yiyi sat beside Zhao Yu without hesitation, her lovely face tinged with happiness and a gentle blush, her affectionate gaze lingering upon him so intently that Zhao Yu felt almost embarrassed under her scrutiny.

Ever since the day in Bianliang when Zhao Yu shielded her behind himself, this seemingly frail young man had etched himself deeply into her memory. Accustomed to the rough-hewn men of the grasslands, the dignified and refined Zhao Yu clearly touched her heart in a way others could not; otherwise, she would not have pleaded with her aunt to arrange a match.

Moreover, her investigations over the past days had revealed that this young man was far from as simple as he appeared on the surface.

“Can you handle the fiery liquor of the steppe?” she asked.

He chuckled, “To tell you the truth, I’ve drunk even stronger spirits than these—and besides, I’ve prepared a grand gift for you.”

“What gift? Oh! Do you still have that dagger with you?”

A girl’s mind is ever-changeable; evidently, the gift Zhao Yu spoke of was not as important as the one she had given him.

With a slight smile, Zhao Yu produced the dagger. It had originally hung at his waist, but upon seeing Xiao Yiyi earlier, he had removed it and tucked it into his bosom. Now, at her question, he brought it out with solemn care.

Seeing how much Zhao Yu valued her token, Xiao Yiyi’s eyes sparkled with joy, though a mischievous glint soon flickered across them. She smiled slyly, “I heard that Miss Zhou from the Zhou family became a nun because of you. Now that you’ve come to the grasslands, isn’t that letting her down?”

At the mention of Zhou Xiruo, Zhao Yu sighed softly. Fate was unpredictable; but for his own deliberate choices, Zhou Xiruo would surely have been his princess by now.

“Miss Zhou is a fine girl, but we’ve only met twice—our feelings never ran that deep. In fact, I hope she finds a good family soon, so that Lord Zhou’s wishes may be fulfilled.”

Xiao Yiyi pouted slightly, “You men are all the same—always eyeing what’s in the pot while eating from the bowl.”

Turning her head, she found Zhao Yu watching her with a half-smile, and couldn’t help but retort, “What are you looking at? Am I wrong?”

“You seem to know a lot about my affairs.”

Exposed by Zhao Yu, Xiao Yiyi blushed and wanted to argue, but words failed her. She turned her face aside.

Just then, she felt her small hand enveloped by a warm palm. Startled, she tried to pull away, but the grip only tightened, and her whole body seemed to flush with heat.

Zhao Yu’s gentle voice sounded beside her, “Ours is a friendship forged through adversity. I won’t make grand vows, but since Heaven has destined us to be together, I promise to cherish you and never let you suffer the slightest grievance.”

She had never heard words like these before; though not quite love confessions, Zhao Yu’s sincerity sent her spirit drifting, uncertain where she was.

Their eyes met, emotion streaming between them, and their hands unconsciously clasped tighter...

Yet, at such a crucial moment, there is always someone to spoil the mood.

As Zhao Yu had anticipated, Yelü Min had always been a determined pursuer of Xiao Yiyi. Though she cared nothing for him and he knew she was already betrothed to a prince of Song, he clung to her like a stubborn burr.

He sat opposite, watching Zhao Yu and Xiao Yiyi’s tender exchange. After several bowls of strong liquor, he could no longer contain his jealousy. He slammed his bowl down, strode into the circle, and pointed at Zhao Yu, shouting, “Southerner, I challenge you to a duel!”

Xiao Yiyi, caught in a moment of emotion, was startled and angered by Yelü Min’s interruption. She was about to rise and rebuke him, but Zhao Yu gently restrained her.

For the days ahead, he would need to interact with these Khitan men; if he could not command respect, progress would be difficult.

Zhao Yu knew his own limitations well, but in truth, he had no intention of fighting.

“Brother Xiao Yi, is this all right with you?” he asked.

If Wu Song or Lu Zhishen were to fight, Zhao Yu feared Yelü Min might be badly injured—those two were formidable indeed.

Yan Qing bowed and stepped forward.

Seeing Zhao Yu send a servant, Yelü Min was furious. “Zhao, do you dare insult a Khitan warrior?”

Zhao Yu replied calmly, “Brother Xiao Yi is like a brother to me; his actions represent mine. Where is the insult? If Commander Yelü dares not fight, he is welcome to step aside.”

Though Zhao Yu clarified that Yan Qing was not a servant, the liquor-clouded Yelü Min still felt gravely insulted, thinking to himself, “I’ll deal with this one first, then settle accounts with you.”

With a roar, he lunged at Yan Qing.

Yelü Min was tall and burly, while Yan Qing was slender; standing together, they seemed mismatched, almost as if in jest. Yelü Min was famed as the foremost Khitan warrior, so the outcome seemed certain.

The surrounding Khitan soldiers cheered as Yelü Min moved to attack.

Xiao Yiyi grew anxious, turning to Zhao Yu, “Yelü Min is formidable—let them not fight. If your man is hurt, it would not be good.”

“Don’t worry; don’t be fooled by Brother Xiao Yi’s appearance...”

No sooner had Zhao Yu finished speaking than, in a single exchange—by means unknown—Yan Qing had already sent Yelü Min crashing to the ground.

Everyone present, including Xiao Yiyi and the Khitans, stared in astonishment, and the scene fell eerily silent.

This tumble sobered Yelü Min considerably. He shook his head, stood, and turned to Zhao Yu, “Han, do you practice sorcery?”

Yan Qing smiled, “Let me tell you, this is the most common Han martial skill—redirecting force with finesse. If you didn’t see clearly, this time I’ll go slower.”

Yelü Min would not yield so easily. Regaining his stance, he threw another punch at Yan Qing.

Yan Qing did not dodge; he met Yelü Min’s fist with his own hand. At the moment their fists met, Yan Qing’s arm twisted like a swimming fish, lightning-fast, coiling around Yelü Min’s wrist. With a deft step and a gentle swing of his arm, using Yelü Min’s own momentum, he sent the towering warrior flying once more.

This time, Yan Qing moved slowly enough that many Khitan warriors saw the technique clearly. After a brief silence, thunderous cheers erupted.

To revere heroes is a universal human instinct, regardless of nationality.

Yelü Min was a true man; after being thrown again, he realized that in close combat, he was no match. He hesitated, considering whether to challenge for mounted skills, when Zhao Yu spoke again.

“Brother, might you display your wild staff technique?”

With Zhao Yu’s words, everyone noticed that the large monk beside him had a dozen wine sacks at his feet. At this moment, he was about to pour another down his throat; had Zhao Yu not called out, the sack would surely have been emptied.

Regardless of his martial prowess, his capacity for drink alone was enough to be called heroic.

Originally, Lu Zhishen had not intended to accompany Zhao Yu to Shangjing, but remembering that Zhao Yu was traveling to foreign lands, he felt uneasy and decided to follow...