The morning mist had not yet risen from the mountain paths. The road wound like a serpent across the ridges. A cold wind came sweeping down from the heights, carrying with it the scent of pine resin and ironstone. Far peaks heaped one behind another; mist coiled among them like crouching beasts.
Yang Gun rode steadily on, bathed in the pale glow of a dying moon. His gaze was keen as a whetted blade, though in his heart burned a scorching fire.
He could not keep his thoughts from one man—the famed Invincible Champion, Li Cunxiao.
"Li Cunxiao… ah, Li Cunxiao," he muttered with a crooked smile.
"You galloped seven days across the Yellow River, stormed Chang'an, burned the Five-Phoenix Tower, forced Huang Chao to his death and saved the empire. Yes, your renown shakes the world."
He paused, the smile deepening.
"But even so, you never met me. Had you crossed my path, the word 'invincible' would by right bear the name Yang."
The thought made his blood blaze.
"Once I reach Taiyuan, if you hand over that Golden Plaque of Invincibility with courtesy, I shall drink wine with you. But if you refuse, I shall spill your blood in three strokes. Then the world shall know whose name stands above all."
He threw back his head and laughed. His horse stamped and snorted beneath him; his whip cracked like thunder; hoofbeats echoed as dust leapt in clouds. Sunlight broke through the clouds and struck his youthful face—sharp, arrogant, gleaming like a drawn sword.
For days he galloped without rest. The sun seared his lips, the wind chafed his cheeks, yet his ambition cut fiercer than steel. At length he crossed into Shanxi, half a day's ride from Taiyuan.
At noon the mountains loomed like drawn curtains. Ahead rose a vast ridge shrouded in mist; the road narrowed like a ribbon, winding toward unknown depths.
Suddenly, the mountain silence shattered.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!
Gongs thundered, echoing through the valleys. Birds burst upward like arrows shot skyward.
Then the thicket quivered, and from the underbrush surged two or three hundred bandits—blades flashing, shields raised—forming a ring about him.
At their head stood a brutish fellow with a skull-tipped saber who barked:
"Traveler! Pay road toll, or we strip your skin and take your life!"
Yang Gun did not so much blink. His lips curved in a faint smile.
"A flourishing business, highway robbery. But unfortunate for you—you picked the poorest man in ten counties. I carry perhaps a hundred taels, barely enough to eat. Not worth killing me over."
The leader snapped: "If you have a hundred taels, hand them over!"
Yang Gun sighed.
"That silver is not all mine. I must ask my 'brother' whether he agrees."
"Brother? What brother?" the brigands muttered.
Yang Gun's hand dipped to his saddle hook—click—and out came the Fire-Tip Lance. Its cold gleam flashed like lightning.
"This brother of mine," he said softly,
"has a foul temper. Rouse him, and he will drink blood without mercy."
The brigands roared: "Kill him!"
They surged as one. Steel flashed, voices thundered.
Yang Gun's eyes hardened. His body flowed forward. The lance swept out like a silver serpent, shrieking through the wind.
Three men fell before they knew death had taken them.
Blood sprayed upon the pine needles; the mountain gasped.
Panic seized the bandits.
"Run! Run!"
Yang Gun pursued like a storm, lance cutting arcs of silver. Men dropped like wheat before the farmer's scythe. The hillside became slick with blood and torn banners.
Soon the survivors fled in terror. Their leader stumbled away, babbling:
"You wait! I'll fetch the mountain lords to kill you!"
Yang Gun laughed like thunder.
"Go! And tell them this—if they do not descend and kneel with wine and meat to beg forgiveness, I shall storm your mountain and slaughter even your dogs!"
Wind hissed through pine branches as the last of the cowards vanished.
Yang Gun sat with lance across his knees, eyes glowing like quenched iron.
"The Six-Harmony Lance has never tasted real steel," he thought.
"Let these fools serve as its whetstone."
Just then—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—three cannon-bursts shook the mountain. From the ridge poured five hundred mounted men in armor, banners whipping in the wind. Their formation blocked the pass like an iron wall.
Four gold-lettered banners read: Gold, Silver, Copper, Iron.
Under each banner sat a warrior like a living fortress.
Yang Gun's eyes gleamed.
"Excellent. A proper test."
The Gold Mace Chief spurred forward.
"Boy! Name yourself before you die!"
Yang Gun answered lightly:
"My surname is Zu, my name is Zong."
"Zu Zong?" The chief blinked, then roared, "Whelp! Die!"
His mace cleaved down like a falling mountain. Yang Gun raised his lance.
CLANG!
Sparks burst; the blow was stopped cold. The chief's arm numbed.
Yang Gun lunged, his lance a silver streak. The chief reeled, armor shattering, blood spraying.
His three brothers charged. The air rang with steel and curses. But Yang Gun's lance whirled like a tempest, and one by one they fell from their saddles, armor mangled, breath gone.
The four chiefs crawled in the dust, armor cracked, blood staining the earth.
Yang Gun sat like a youth-shaped war-god, lance gleaming.
At last, the Gold Chief crawled, bowed, and said hoarsely:
"Warrior… your skill exceeds ours by realms! You could have taken our lives, yet spared us. We are shamed, and grateful. Might we know your honored name?"
Yang Gun replied coolly:
"You first."
"We four are brothers. Once we fought under Huang Chao. When he fell, we wandered here and became rulers of Green Nest Ridge. I am Lu Shiying; these are Lu Shijie, Lu Shikai, and Lu Shiheng—called the Four Mace Brothers."
Yang Gun nodded lightly.
"Your names are fine. Your skill… tolerable."
They gave wry smiles and bowed.
"And yours, young master?"
"I come from Xining. My surname is Yang; given name Gun; styled Jun'ai."
The brothers trembled.
"Yang… the disciple of heroes!"
Yang Gun shrugged.
"I am merely a man of arms, passing through."
"Your purpose?"
"I go to meet Li Cunxiao."
The four sucked breath.
"You know Li Cunxiao?"
"I neither know him nor he me."
"Then why…?"
Yang Gun smiled—not boastfully, but with steady flame.
"To take from him the Golden Plaque of Invincibility."
The forest fell silent. Even the wind held its breath.
The brothers stared like men seeing lightning strike.
They bowed deeply.
"Brother, your courage surpasses mortals! Permit us to offer wine and justice among men."
Yang Gun's eyes narrowed—then softened.
And so, upon the hillside, they knelt before Earth and Heaven, burned grass as incense, and forged a brotherhood unto death.
The next day, upon Green Nest Ridge, three thousand men roared in unison as Yang Gun was proclaimed Grand Chief. A new banner rose—black ground, gold letters: Green Nest Ridge.
The mountain shook with cheers.
That night, wine flowed; fires glowed like stars.
The following dawn, Yang Gun gathered his brothers and spoke firmly:
"I need one deed to shake the world. Li Cunxiao must know Green Nest Ridge. I shall send him a letter—and demand the Golden Plaque."
The brothers trembled.
Yang Gun opened the letter he had written—eight lines, like carved steel:
King of Green Nest Ridge,
hungry of horse and empty of store.
You flaunt your 'invincible' plaque—
but dare you face the lance?
Deliver the plaque within three days,
or deliver your life instead.
Fail me, and my lance
shall pierce your heart.
He sealed the letter and handed it to Lu Shiying.
"Go. Within three days, Taiyuan shall tremble."
Wind swept the flags. Yang Gun stood in the dawn mist, armor glowing pale like silver frost.
He breathed deep.
"The world shall know my name."