Chapter 3: Monks Gone Mad-The Scholar from a Humble Background(I am an ostrich.)

The raids of the Hu cavalry into the lands of Jin had long become commonplace. Most of them rode swift horses, coming and going like the wind. To call them locusts would not be an exaggeration; wherever they passed, they burned, killed, and plundered, taking all valuables and women with them. The elderly and children left behind were put to the sword on sight. After their depredations, regardless of losses, they would gallop away, their mobility rendering the Jin armies helpless—by the time the troops arrived, all that remained were clouds of dust kicked up by departing hooves.

Santong was fiercely loyal. As he emerged from the forest and saw his brothers slaughtered beneath cavalry hooves, his throat tightened for a long while before grief finally overwhelmed him and tears flowed uncontrollably.

Foot soldiers could never withstand such cavalry charges, let alone these amateur bandits playing at outlawry.

“There is no peace for the people in a land torn by war,” Zhang Chi mused, quoting poetry.

Suddenly Wei Diaoer cried out, “Oh no!” and, trembling, pointed ahead. “The stronghold!”

Everyone followed his gaze. Deep within the dense woods, a thick column of smoke was rising.

“Back to the stronghold, quickly!” Santong shouted desperately. Their families and elders were there; how could they not be anxious? With a shout, the bandits rushed toward the smoke at breakneck speed.

The stronghold was not far; hurrying over two hills, they arrived in the time it takes to drink two or three cups of tea.

Yet, was this truly a stronghold? Zhang Chi wondered privately, for it was nothing like the grand bandit fortresses of legend—not one sentry every five paces, nor a grand gate, nor a mighty hall for sworn brotherhood as in the films. It resembled a small, humble village more than anything else.

The houses were crude wooden structures, thatched to barely keep out wind and rain, but now set aflame by the invaders. Scattered across the settlement lay the corpses of elderly and women. At the sight, Santong’s eyes turned red with rage; with a furious curse, he charged into the stronghold. A Hu cavalryman rode at him, saber raised. Unarmed, Santong instinctively tried to block with his arm. Fortunately, the horse’s jostling made the rider’s cut unsteady; otherwise, Santong would have lost his right arm. Even so, a large chunk was sliced from his shoulder.

Blood gushed out, but the pain only stoked Santong’s ferocity. With his loved ones and brothers slain by these invaders, he became like a wounded beast, throwing himself at the horse with brute strength. The horse could not withstand the onslaught and collapsed, sending its rider tumbling. Santong rolled and leapt onto the Hu soldier, snatched the saber, and drove it through the man’s chest.

Wei Diaoer, somehow finding a bamboo pole, gave a shout and thrust it at another rider. As the horseman turned, the pole struck his throat, unhorsing him and ending his life at once. But the force of the blow sent Wei Diaoer sprawling, his tailbone aching fiercely—twice in one day he’d landed on it, and now he feared it was truly broken.

The returning bandits, eyes bloodshot, charged the scattered raiders with reckless fury.

Enraged, even the power of displaced peasants could become formidable, Zhang Chi thought. Fortunately, there were only a dozen or so cavalry, likely just a small squad. Any more would have been overkill for such a modest village.

With Daoxuan, the martial master, among them, so long as no other cavalry were drawn by the commotion, they had hope. Zhang Chi urged, “Help us—leave none alive.”

Yet soon after, Zhang Chi regretted sending Daoxuan, for the moment the monk left, a cavalryman charged straight at him. Zhang Chi had no time even to cry for help; his first instinct was to run.

A footrace between man and horse over one meter—who would win? Most would answer the horse, but in truth, a man accelerates faster at such short distance. Over a hundred meters, however, unless one is superhuman, the horse will always prevail.

Knowing he was no match, Zhang Chi dodged around a nearby thatched hut, circling ceaselessly. The hut, square and less than ten paces a side, meant that just as the horse began to pick up speed, Zhang Chi had already changed direction. The horseman had to wheel his mount, starting and stopping, never able to build momentum.

Frustrated by Zhang Chi’s slippery evasions, the rider slung his spear across the saddle, drew his saber, and hurled it at Zhang Chi’s back.

The moment Zhang Chi heard the saber’s rasping draw, he knew danger was close. He ducked low, covering his head and rolling on the ground. The saber whistled past, shaving his scalp and leaving him drenched in cold sweat.

Daoxuan, though busy fighting, kept an eye on his senior, Daoyuan, and had not strayed far. Turning to see Zhang Chi pursued, he snatched up a longbow from the ground, loosed an arrow with a sharp twang, and struck the rider in the shoulder.

Wounded, the cavalryman howled, not bothering to pull the arrow out, and bellowed for his men. At his cries, the other Hu warriors abandoned their opponents and charged Daoxuan.

Though Zhang Chi could not understand their foreign tongue, he guessed this must be the squad leader.

Daoxuan wielded the bow, though he had never learned mounted archery. Still, shooting at close range was not difficult. Three arrows flew in swift succession, two riders fell. Having spent a dozen arrows to fell just two, Daoxuan tossed aside the bow, seized a curved saber from a fallen enemy, and leapt forward like a panther. In a flash, heads fell, horses were hamstrung, and in the blink of an eye, the squad was wiped out.

Any survivors were quickly finished off by the furious bandits.

Seeing Daoxuan’s prowess, the Hu captain tried to flee. Without thinking, Zhang Chi grabbed the discarded saber, rolled across the ground into the horse’s path, and slashed at its foreleg. The horse buckled in agony, throwing its rider. When Zhang Chi rose, the Hu officer was already pinned by the bandits, struggling and shouting in his guttural tongue, but utterly helpless.

Wei Diaoer, his mother slain in the burning stronghold, surged forward in a fury, knife raised to kill the officer on the spot.

“Amitabha.” Daoyuan, a monk of many years, could not bear to see the unarmed man slaughtered. He blocked Wei Diaoer, saying, “A monk’s compassion extends to all. If we can spare a life, let us do so and not add to the killing.”

Wei Diaoer paused, unable to argue. The bandits owed much to these three monks—without them, they might have slain the cavalry, but only at greater cost to themselves. Now, with the old monk pleading for mercy, he did not know what to do and looked to Santong.

Santong pondered, then finally said, “Let him go. We’ll listen to the master.”

“No, we can’t!” Zhang Chi cried. If the officer returned, he would bring countless more riders—ten or so they could handle, but dozens, hundreds, or thousands would mean certain doom.

“In war, it’s kill or be killed. If we let him live, he’ll bring more death upon us. Mercy to one is cruelty to many. True compassion is sparing the lives of the many, not just the one.” Hardened, Zhang Chi took the knife from Wei Diaoer and declared, “No enemy leaves the field alive.”

He hadn’t expected that his first time killing would bring not disgust, but a faint, thrilling satisfaction.

...

Surveying the ruined stronghold and the corpses of innocents slain, Santong let out a heart-rending roar of grief. The cry, full of anguish and rage, moved all who heard it. The bandits, too, had lost loved ones beneath iron hooves, and they joined in, their voices hoarse, venting their sorrow.

To Zhang Chi, the sound was soul-shaking and magnificent, echoing to the heavens and stirring the mountains. As a newcomer to this world, he could never have produced such a cry. Only those who had truly faced blood and steel, witnessed brothers and kin perish, could give voice to such heroic lament.

“Let me teach you a hero’s song,” Zhang Chi said quietly, moved by the moment after everyone had vented their grief.

In truth, he simply wished to lift their spirits, for their sorrow pained him as well. He wanted this song to inspire them.

“Face the waves with pride, blood as hot as the crimson sun,
A heart of iron, bones of steel,
With boundless spirit and far-reaching vision,
I strive to be a true hero.
To be a true man, growing stronger every day,
A passionate man shines brighter than the sun.
Step forward with courage, stand tall as pillars,
Be a true hero,
Give all your warmth,
Shine a thousandfold,
To be a true man, with passionate heart and soul,
Brighter than the sun.”

Zhang Chi’s voice was deep and magnetic, matching the rhythm of clashing blades and sticks. Having just endured a brutal fight and witnessed these loyal bandits’ fury and grief, he sang with a power and emotion utterly unlike his performances in karaoke bars back in his old life.

Perhaps not even Zhang Chi realized that this song would one day change the lives of these bandits. Only much later, amidst the clamor of ten thousand warriors, would he hear his soldiers singing it and understand the importance of what he had done today.

The song’s words were simple, and though the bandits were unlettered, they understood every line. They were men of deep loyalty and feeling; had there been another way to support their families, none would have chosen the life of an outlaw. Now, hearing Zhang Chi’s song, their blood surged with renewed vigor. After a few repetitions, regardless of rhythm, they beat time and shouted along.

“To be a true man, growing stronger every day,
A passionate man shines brighter than the sun.
Step forward with courage, stand tall as pillars,
Be a true hero,
Give all your warmth,
Shine a thousandfold,
To be a true man, with passionate heart and soul,
Brighter than the sun.”

When the final note faded, their voices were nearly hoarse, but their grief had been fully vented. Suddenly, Wei Diaoer leapt up and shouted, “Brothers, the Hu killed our families! Let’s join the army and swear vengeance!”

“Join the army! Avenge them!”

The bandits, eyes red, roared in unison, their voices shaking the sky.

“Alas, the armies are all controlled by the great clans now,” Wei Diaoer said. “They care nothing for fighting the Hu, only for their own power struggles. Where can we enlist?”

“In the Battle of Feishui, more than eight hundred thousand Di were defeated by eighty thousand of the Northern Army,” Santong replied, revealing his education. “The Northern Army is mostly made up of refugees from the north—men whose families were slain by the Hu, who hate them with a passion. If we’re to enlist, why not join the Northern Army?”

Zhang Chi, newly arrived in this war-torn world, had never heard of the Northern Army, but the Battle of Feishui was famed—a classic case in history where the few defeated the many. The Former Qin, with its vast forces, believed it could sweep all before it, but was crushed at the Yangtze, leading to its downfall.

So it was the Northern Army that routed a force ten times its size, Zhang Chi thought. No wonder it was renowned as an army of iron.

“Then let’s join the Northern Army,” Wei Diaoer said, turning to Santong. “Big brother, what do you think? With your leadership, we brothers can finally make something of ourselves.”

Santong sighed, shaking his head, then looked to Zhang Chi. “I, Lu Santong, am no great talent. I only thought so because I’d never seen true masters. In my life, I value honor above all. Since I am outclassed, I would rather serve the three masters, follow them always, and learn what I can. When I have finally found my own path, I will return to my brothers.”

Santong, despite his rough exterior, had clearly read a few books and spoke with reason.

Zhang Chi, surprised at the resolve of the man who had seemed so simple at first meeting, clapped him on the shoulder and, recalling a line from a famous film, said, “Don’t worry—follow me, and you’ll never go hungry.”