Chapter Nineteen: Speculation

Just lie down. It makes no difference whether you wake or not. Once he had recovered his strength, Di Ying, who had spent years working the fields in the village, hoisted the patient onto his shoulder and placed him in the wagon. He then turned back, drew a knife from the belt of one of the dead guards, and carefully erased all traces of blood left behind by the patient. Since he had decided to spare these few lives, he had to tidy up the scene; otherwise, if they remained unconscious, they might attract predators with the scent of blood—a fate he did not wish upon them.

By the light of the flames, he searched nearby for medicinal herbs disliked by wild beasts, tossing some into the brazier and scattering others in a circle around the four. From their small travel bundles, he found two changes of clothes, two flatbreads, two fire starters, a knife, and a water flask. Satisfied that they would not face any further danger, Di Ying returned to the wagon, took the reins, and drove away.

He failed to notice that tears were streaming from the eyes of those he had spared, dripping silently into the earth.

Di Ying guided the wagon westward, toward the mountain’s exit. Yet the night was so dark that he could barely see, leaving the horse to find its own way. In such circumstances, he trusted more in the animal’s instincts and alertness. He continued thus for about half an hour before calling the horse to a halt.

He jumped down, fished out a fire starter, blew it alight, and surveyed his surroundings. Then he unhitched the horse, pulled up several handfuls of herbs to ward off insects and serpents, and rubbed them thoroughly into the horse’s legs and belly. Finally, he patted the horse’s head, signaling it to rest on its own.

Climbing back onto the wagon, Di Ying checked the patient’s condition. From his coat, he drew several stalks of medicinal herbs, crushed half and fed them to the patient, and chewed the rest himself. The guard who had attacked him had struck hard, and after all this exertion, Di Ying’s head, arms, and torso throbbed with pain; some wounds still oozed beads of blood. He had no choice but to treat himself once more.

This time, he tore up his official robe; after all, as he traveled toward the capital, he could hardly parade around in it any longer. Having tended his wounds and changed into spare clothes, Di Ying leaned against the side of the wagon and closed his eyes.

He did not sleep, but pondered over the patient’s identity. The man’s wounds were all caused by blades. The guards, assassins, and soldiers each carried different knives.

The guards’ knives were ordinary, with a single blood groove. The assassins’ blades were shorter and narrower, with long grooves on both sides—made for silent, deadly thrusts. Soldiers’ swords were longer, wider, and heavier, suitable for fighting both mounted and on foot.

The fresh wounds on the patient matched those left by the guards’ knives, while some old scars were made by soldiers’ blades. There were plenty of both new and old injuries.

Thick calluses marked the base of his thumb, proof of martial training. His legs were straight and long, with light calluses evenly distributed along the inner sides of his feet, indicating that he often stood at attention.

Judging from these scars, he must have come from the army.

Di Ying stroked his chin, lost in thought. Could this man be a deserter, hunted by a commanding officer’s guards? Yet the man’s sharp brows and broad, upright face proclaimed a sense of duty and righteousness. The marks of military service were unmistakable, showing he had endured much hardship and rigorous training.

Why, then, would he desert? If he wasn’t a deserter, how did he end up separated from the army, alone and pursued into these mountains?

Could he be on a solo mission, chased by the guards of some villain?

If so, were his pursuers still nearby? What would Di Ying do if they caught up?

With this in mind, Di Ying took the fire starter from the candle holder fixed to the wagon wall and snuffed it out, intending to carry the patient away at once. But his own wounds, and those of the patient, could not withstand further jostling.

He gave up the idea, put away the fire starter, and closed his eyes to rest.

Half-awake, half-asleep, he heard all manner of sounds from the forest, each one startling his heart into erratic beats. Whenever a louder noise approached, Di Ying gripped his knife handle tighter.

He kept reassuring himself: though he had no skill in combat nor knowledge of facing an enemy, he would fight if he had to. He would not sit and wait for death.

Fortunately, before long, the first pale light of dawn appeared on the horizon.

The horse, which had not strayed far and lingered by the wagon, sprang up spiritedly and wandered off to graze on fresh wild grass. Its leisurely hoofbeats soothed Di Ying’s nerves at last.

Without delay, he jabbed a needle into the patient, whose color had somewhat recovered, to wake him.

Peng Liang, roused by the prick, opened his beautiful, star-like eyes, which instantly blazed with intense killing intent. The moment he awoke, his hand tried to reach for his waist—but he could not move.

He glared at the young man before him, whose square face and phoenix eyes radiated vigilance. “Who are you? Why have you abducted me into this wagon? What did you feed me?”

Peng Liang assumed that his immobility was caused by this man, though he did not seem like one of his pursuers. Indeed, the stranger’s gaze was more serious than his own, but lacked hostility.

Peng Liang’s eyes darted around, realizing he was in a wagon, hence his questions.

“You were saved by me. If I hadn’t treated your wounds, you’d be dead already. So, it’s you who must answer questions, not me. Tell me your story. Don’t lie—if you do, you’ll rot in this wagon. I have to cross these mountains and don’t want to drag along a burden,” Di Ying said.

He had already judged from the man’s eyes that he was no villain. According to his deductions, the patient must be on a solo mission, and his alertness was exceptionally high.

Peng Liang was momentarily taken aback by the words of this slightly plump, oddly dark young man.

Indeed, at this moment, he was utterly at the mercy of the other—there was no room for bargaining.

But to explain his identity and origins? Peng Liang hesitated.

It was not that he distrusted his savior, but out of concern that his own enemy was the Minister of Personnel, and he did not want to entangle this stranger any further.

Seeing his conflicted expression, Di Ying leaned back against the wagon, folded his arms, and tapped his fingers together.

With a cheerful smile, he said, “I am Di Ying, a legal officer of Bingzhou Prefecture. I was kidnapped and trapped deep in the mountains. I haven’t time to argue with you—if you don’t speak, I’ll leave now, lest thieves come and kill you alongside me as another unjust soul.”