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Inside the tent, a solitary oil lamp burned as dimly as a bean.
A dark shadow sat within the large tent, motionless as a statue, utterly silent.
After an unknown length of time, a low hum arose, like the wind blowing across wild fields, rustling through the grass...
"The flowers of the tiao vine,
So brilliantly yellow.
The sorrow in my heart,
It wounds me so deeply.
"The flowers of the tiao vine,
Their leaves so lush and green.
Had I known life would be thus... ai..."
Yang Feng let out a long sigh, not continuing his quiet recitation.
How many years had it been already?
Even Yang Feng himself had lost count.
His surname was Yang, that was true. But his real given name was not "Feng"; it was "Qiu," with the courtesy name "Zihuo." His ancestral home was Hongnong...
But nowadays, few knew his real name, and no one had addressed him by his courtesy name for years. He was only known as Yang Feng, Commander Yang.
Yang Feng's father was Yang Chun; his grandfather was Yang Li. By generational ranking, Yang Feng was of the same generation as Yang Biao. But being of the same generation did not mean equality. He was as lowly as the yellow mud underfoot, while Yang Biao was one of the Three Excellencies of the court...
Scholar-official families were not as glorious as outsiders imagined. With many people came inevitable disputes. Ordinary minor conflicts were no issue, but when significant clashes arose over scholarly pursuits and ambitions, they were not easily resolved.
Yang Li was the son of Yang Zhen. Yang Zhen's first wife, née Wang, bore sons: Yang Mu, Yang Li, and Yang Rang. His second wife, née Bing, bore sons: Yang Bing and Yang Feng (the namesake).
While Yang Mu was still alive, he could somewhat uphold the Yang family's prestige. But unfortunately, Yang Mu fell seriously ill and died in middle age. Who would then shoulder the main beam of the Yang household?
At that time, Yang Li and Yang Bing were of similar age, Yang Li slightly older. Both were potential candidates, and so the struggle naturally centered around these two.
Yang Feng no longer knew the exact details of what transpired back then. He only knew his grandfather Yang Li—perhaps defeated in the power struggle, perhaps self-exiled, perhaps expelled from the clan—left the Hongnong Yang clan and came to live in seclusion in the Lüliang Mountains.
That seclusion lasted decades.
Yang Feng suddenly sneered. Had his grandfather, when he left Hongnong all those years ago, ever imagined the path of return would be so rugged, so tortuous?
When the Yang family sought him out some years ago, Yang Feng had been conflicted. Deep down, he longed to return to the Hongnong Yang clan, yet he was unwilling to participate in such plans and schemes. Conversely, if he did not accomplish something for the Yang family, why would they ever accept him?
Thus, later, there was one less Yang Qiu and one more Yang Feng—"Feng" as in "to receive orders."
Over these years, he had killed without number, steeped in endless bloodshed. Over these years, he had eaten raw meat and drunk blood, even drawn blades against others for a mouthful of food. Over these years, he had struggled between life and death, surviving countless betrayals and slaughters...
What resemblance did he bear now to a scholar?
He was more like a wild beast.
He only wanted to return to Hongnong.
He only wanted to go home.
But why was this road home so very long?
The night was long, the lone lamp dim as a bean.
The lamplight was like Yang Feng's last shreds of hope, flickering in the profound darkness. But the oil in the lamp base would eventually run dry. After a few final, faint crackles from the wick, the flame finally wavered and died, transforming into a wisp of green smoke that curled upwards and vanished without a trace...
Yang Feng sat dazedly, his gaze seeming to pierce through the tent, fixed on the south. He had no idea how long he sat there when suddenly, a personal guard entered from outside, lifting the tent flap. Light from outside streamed in, and he realized he had sat through the entire night; dawn of a new day had arrived.
Yang Feng ordered cold water brought. Ignoring the piercing chill of the morning water, he washed his face, then strode out of the tent with head held high, as if casting all the darkness, hesitation, fear, and helplessness within his heart into the pitch-black tent behind him...
"Pass the order: Today, we will take Pingyang!"
Yesterday had indeed been a lapse. Who would have thought that with Xiongnu cavalry guarding their flank, anyone would dare assault the main camp? Even more unimaginable was that the Xiongnu had not deployed scouts, not even a single warning, resulting in the enemy being discovered only at close quarters. Caught off guard, they found it impossible to manage both front and rear, forcing a hasty end to the attack on Pingyang.
But today was different. Yang Feng had arranged overnight to reinforce the entire rear camp. He drove all the commoners originally in the rear camp to the south, stationed combat troops within the camp, erected numerous chevaux de frise, and dug many horse traps, waiting for that hundred-some cavalry to charge the rear camp again...
He also adjusted the forces attacking Pingyang. In the morning, a mix of two commoners to every one combat soldier would assault the city, exhausting the defenders' strength. Then, if by noon those cavalry had not arrived, or if they came and fell into the rear camp's ambush, he would replace all troops with combat soldiers, launching simultaneous attacks on both fronts, certain to take Pingyang in one fell swoop!
After capturing Pingyang, he would leave the commoners and such to Linfen, take on supplies, exchange for armor and weapons, and lead his men towards Hongnong. As for the other two White Wave commanders and the matter of Xiangling City, Yang Feng no longer cared at all.
He only wanted to go home.
He only wanted to be able to kowtow once in the Hongnong Yang clan ancestral hall, to offer a stick of incense—even if he had to hide his face, to deceive others...
Perhaps even after returning to Hongnong, he would still be tasked with such and such arrangements and schemes, but at least he would have returned home, wouldn't he?
The bloody and brutal siege began anew. Human life at this moment was worth less than a blade of grass growing on the loess plain, as cheap as motes of dust in the air, noticed but given no heed.
White Wave combat soldiers mixed among the commoners, frantically assaulting Pingyang.
The troops under Jia Qu simply could not distinguish, among the crowd wielding knives, sticks, and spears, who were the original commoners and who were the mixed-in combat soldiers. They had no choice but to kill them all, resisting along the entire line.
The sun slowly climbed to its zenith. Suddenly, a clamor of wild shouts erupted from the walls of Pingyang!
Yang Feng was overjoyed, thinking his soldiers had stormed the battlements of Pingyang. He hurriedly looked up, only to find his troops had not taken the city walls. Instead, it was Jia Qu's soldiers on the walls who were jumping and leaping, cheering ecstatically, wild with joy...
While his own men were one and all turning their heads to look northward, their expressions filled with alarm and panic...
The north? What was happening to the north?
Yang Feng's heart tightened. He whipped his head around to look north. Only then did he see that, at some point, a vast cloud of dust had risen into the sky in the distant north!
Within the churning dust to the north, dark shapes could vaguely be seen. Soon, rank upon rank, column upon column of soldiers emerged from the dust cloud. Each was clad in armor, their gleaming spearpoints glinting in the sunlight. The dust kicked up by the cavalry on both wings rose to blot the sky. In the center, battle standards flew high in the wind. Among them was that glaring, ugly, bizarre three-colored banner!
On the walls of Pingyang, rapturous cheers had broken out...
But below Pingyang's walls, whether it was Yang Feng among the White Wave, or Yu Fuluo, Huchuquan, and the black-robed elder in the Xiongnu camp, all couldn't help but wonder—
How did this damned Fei Qian suddenly have so many troops?
Where did these soldiers come from?
Could they have fallen from the sky?