The Eastern Depot and the Embroidered Uniform Guard

"Brother Yang, we must run!" The little chubby boy’s face had turned deathly pale.

Yang Fan looked at the two pursuing cavalrymen on the mountain path. Given the distance, escaping on foot was impossible, and since the enemy had bows and arrows, turning to run would only guarantee their demise.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the boy’s shoulder and commanded, "Hide in that thicket and don't come out."

The boy nodded in terror, scrambled, and tumbled into the bushes to hide.

Yang Fan assessed the terrain. At the end of the mountain path stood an elm tree about a foot thick, and on the other side lay a large rock over a meter high. Yang Fan placed two long blades on the ground behind the rock and set his flail within arm's reach.

He then sprinted toward the pack horses, driving all three behind the large rock. He untied the long hemp rope used for securing cargo, ran swiftly to the tree on the opposite side of the path, and tied it securely at about knee height. He then crouched behind the large rock, gripping the other end of the rope tightly, with the slack lying on the ground.

No sooner had he hidden than the first horse charged through. It was the pair of Ming military officers riding together. Yang Fan let them pass.

His fingers turned white from the tension as he gripped the rope, counting under his breath: "One, two, three."

As the following two riders surged forward, he jerked the rope upward with all his might, throwing his weight backward to anchor it. The two riders behind had never expected a tripwire here.

The first horse’s legs were caught, and the rider was thrown directly to the ground with a loud thud. The horse had been moving at high speed, and with the rider weighing over 150 pounds and encased in heavy armor, he was unable to get back up, rolling on the ground and shrieking in agony.

Yang Fan’s hands were stripped of skin and bleeding profusely. Fortunately, he had let go the moment the horse tripped; otherwise, his arms would surely have been broken.

The second rider quickly pulled on the reins to halt his horse. The warhorse reared up with a piercing neigh.

Yang Fan seized the flail and swung it with all his might toward the back of the enemy's head. A direct hit would have surely shattered his skull. However, he hadn't anticipated the horse rearing; the flail struck the cavalryman’s lower back instead. Because the rider was tilted, the blow glanced off; had it landed squarely, it would have shattered his spine.

With a heavy thud, the rider’s armor plates were smashed, and a spray of blood erupted.

"Ah!" the rider screamed and tumbled from his horse.

This soldier was clearly a seasoned veteran. Upon landing, he rolled instantly, narrowly evading the hammer-blow Yang Fan followed up with. He scrambled to his feet, spat out a mouthful of blood, drew his saber, and slashed at Yang Fan.

His lower back was severely injured; had he not been wearing triple-layered armor (a brigandine, chainmail, and a cotton-padded coat), his spine would have been shattered. Now, his face was deathly pale, and he was drenched in a cold sweat from the pain, yet he staggered toward Yang Fan, swinging his saber wildly.

The Eight Banners soldiers were indeed exceptionally fierce. Yang Fan dared not engage in close combat. Utilizing the enemy's restricted movement, he leaped and dodged, flail in hand, looking for an opening to strike. But the Tatar was alert; despite his staggering gait, he parried every blow.

Yang Fan broke into a cold sweat. Had he not managed that initial ambush, he would have been a dead man.

The Tatar cursed incessantly while attacking, and Yang Fan realized he was shouting at the other soldier who had fallen earlier. Yang Fan’s heart sank—if he couldn't finish off this one, he would surely be doomed once the other rose to his feet.

He decided to run, gambling that the injured Tatar couldn't catch him. Seeing Yang Fan flee, the little chubby boy nearly fainted from fear.

The Tatar who had fallen first, his leg clearly broken, saw Yang Fan running and forced himself up. Ignoring his saber, he lunged forward, wrapped his arms around Yang Fan’s calves, and dragged him to the ground.

As the other Tatar approached, Yang Fan grew desperate. He struck the man on his back with the flail, but the range was too close to generate any real force. He watched as the second Tatar limped toward him, grinning hideously with his saber raised.

Yang Fan struck frantically, but the man on his legs simply spat blood and bit his lip, refusing to let go. The second Tatar arrived and raised his blade high, ready to strike down the prone Yang Fan.

Yang Fan looked up to see a massive shadow blotting out the sky; the long blade flashed like a streak of lightning, reflecting the blinding sun as it descended.

*Is this it? Am I going to die here?*

In that moment, his mind went blank.

Suddenly, a *thwip* pierced the air. A feathered arrow whistled through the, striking the Tatar’s neck and stopping his movement instantly.

Time seemed to slow for Yang Fan as he watched the fletching of the arrow vibrate violently in the Tatar's neck. Then, reality snapped back to normal. The Tatar was sent flying backward by the force of the shot, crashing onto his back with a thunderous thud.

The Tatar clutching Yang Fan’s legs froze. Yang Fan seized the chance and delivered a powerful punch to his chin, knocking him unconscious.

Yang Fan scrambled to his feet, disheveled, and turned to see a cavalryman watching him. It was the same pair dressed as Ming officers he had let pass earlier. One was draped across the horse's back, life or death unknown. The other looked at him with an expression of pure shock, loosening the reins as the chestnut horse trotted slowly toward him.

It was a very young face.

A snow-white, oval face with a pointed chin and phoenix eyes, the corners slightly upturned. The rider was eyeing Yang Fan with a mixture of vigilance, surprise, and curiosity.

*It’s a woman in disguise,* Yang Fan realized sharply. A fox-like face, and—no Adam’s apple.

"Who are you?" the girl asked.

Her delicate, high-pitched voice gave her away completely. Yang Fan felt a flash of irritation. He had saved their lives, and instead of thanks, she was interrogating him? Who did this little miss think she was?

"And who are you?" Yang Fan retorted, his face stony. He had no patience for such people.

The girl was taken aback, clearly surprised that a commoner would be so defiant toward a government soldier. She glared at him in anger, pulled out a medallion, and shouted, "Operative of the Eastern Depot! Imperial Guard on official business! Kneel and report!"

Yang Fan rolled his eyes. *The Eastern Depot? An Imperial Guard?* Did she think he was ignorant? No one could be both, and she couldn't even lie properly. They had been chased like dogs moments ago, and now she was putting on airs.

"Moron," Yang Fan said, giving her the middle finger.

The girl blinked, confused. She didn't understand the gesture, but she gathered it was likely some vulgar insult.

Yang Fan turned his back on her and went to drag the little chubby boy from the bushes.

"Waaah, Brother Yang, I thought you were going to leave me behind! You scared me to death!" the boy sobbed uncontrollably.

"It’s alright, it’s alright. Use your head—if I hadn't lured them away, they would have found you, and you would be dead."

"Waaah, I was so scared."

"It's over now. It's over." Yang Fan patted the boy’s back to soothe him.

The girl’s face flushed red, then white. This scoundrel had dared to ignore her so completely; she wanted to lash him with her whip.

Just then, the person draped over the saddle stirred. A weak voice whispered, "Help me down."