Chapter Twenty-Nine: Wuning Iron Cavalry

Although Wang Yangwei was unversed in the art of military formations, his martial prowess was genuine. At this critical juncture, he held his long spear horizontally, blocking two saber strikes, but lacking the leverage to counter, the weapon was knocked from his grasp.

Wang slumped over his saddle, only to see the two riders pass him by in a flash without pausing. Just as he thought he could breathe a sigh of relief, he looked up to find himself staring into the dark, hollow muzzle of a matchlock musket. The two riders following behind had arrived.

Most of the Marquis of Wuning’s retainers were veterans. While they might have lacked raw martial strength, their technique and coordination were unparalleled in the world. As He Ziqi charged, his flanks would split to allow for archery, then close tightly upon contact to shatter enemy lines. Such elite cavalry would serve as vanguard shock troops in any great battle, let alone a private feud in the martial world.

"Boom!" The musket fired. To evade it, Wang threw all caution to the wind and tumbled from his horse. He rolled frantically across the ground, narrowly dodging a dozen trampling hooves, and by some miracle, survived.

This was a misconception on He Ziqi’s part. In a real battle, falling from one's horse meant death. While one might dodge a dozen hooves, it would be impossible to escape a charge of hundreds. Fortunately, He Zhongan had not explicitly ordered any killings, so He Ziqi ignored him. The dozen riders charged straight through the so-called "martial arts masters," cutting a bloody path from one side to the other.

Wherever the spears and sabers passed, blood sprayed. It was not that these martial artists were all for show, but private brawls were fundamentally different from army warfare. He Ziqi and his men carried only a saber, a spear, and a bow, working with such seamless cooperation that the eleven riders moved as one. The martial artists, however, were like scattered sand; despite their high-level skills, they were completely disorganized.

After charging a hundred paces, He Ziqi turned his horse and raised his spear high. The red tassel on the tip was soaked a deep, vibrant crimson, having clearly gorged on blood. This gesture was not to boast, but to signal his men to rally behind him. Once the others had regrouped, He Ziqi lowered his spear once more, ready for another charge. In ancient cavalry warfare, this cycle of charging and returning was called a "bout." He Ziqi was older and lacked the stamina of his youth, but a few dozen bouts were still well within his reach.

Wang Yangwei, however, was in trouble. After his narrow escape, he looked around and felt his scalp go numb. A "Peerless Spear" had been run through; a "Master of the Guan Blade" had been decapitated; a "Palm of Eight Directions" had had his hand severed. An array of axes, hooks, and forks lay discarded on the ground, useless. The more exotic the weapon, the faster the wielder had died.

Wang Weiyang, a seasoned veteran of the martial world, saw it clearly: the He family’s men were masters of military tactics. They moved as a unit, each targeting a specific foe, and if one attack failed, the next man in line would finish the job. His own men had never faced such a situation. They stood in a loose, chaotic mess, unable to block the charge and constantly obstructing each other’s movements.

In that single clash, Wang knew they were no match for the Marquis of Wuning’s estate. "I cannot let this continue. If I do, the martial arts scene in the capital will be wiped out, and the escort agencies will be finished."

Wang made up his mind. He remounted his horse and intercepted He Ziqi. Just as He Ziqi began to admire the man’s courage, Wang dismounted, threw himself to the ground, and knelt in the dust. "Master He," he pleaded, "we submit! We submit! Please, show mercy and grant us a way to live."

He Ziqi pulled on his reins. "Whoa!" His warhorse, excited by the fray, was hard to restrain; its front hooves soared into the air, landing inches from Wang’s face. The He family horses were carefully bred with the inherent bloodlust and ferocity of true war mounts. He Ziqi stroked the horse’s neck to soothe its boiling blood and said, "Granting you a way out is possible. But my house has already made its stance clear. What is to be done about those who left the Fengyu Firm?"

Wang replied immediately, "I understand, sir." He signaled his men, who understood his intent at once. They turned on the few clerks from the Fengyu Firm, and in moments, the matter was resolved. He Zhongan had only ordered them to break their legs, but Wang dared not let these witnesses live—otherwise, word of his surrender to the He family would surely spread.

He Ziqi smiled coldly. "You are a sensible man." He rode slowly past the "heroes" of the martial world, who remained prostrate, not daring to look up.

Once He Ziqi was far away, Wang let out a long breath. He picked up a wooden club, gritted his teeth, and slammed it down hard onto his own leg. A crisp sound of bone snapping echoed through the air.

"Chief Escort, what are you doing?"

Wang gave a desolate smile. "If I don't do this, how can I answer to the Fengyu Firm?"

***

Wrapped in bandages, Wang Yangwei was carried into the Fengyu Firm. He offered an apology to Hu Tu and presented ten thousand taels of silver, begging for mercy. For an escort agency, this was hard-earned money, and the sum had drained the cash reserves of every agency involved. Seeing this, Hu Tu had no choice but to accept the silver and dismiss them.

"What about the master?" the staff of the Fengyu Firm asked, looking at Hu Tu.

There was no way around it. The Fengyu Firm was completely paralyzed. Anyone associated with them who left the city had their legs broken—be it a trade caravan or a lone individual. What was worse, it was winter; suffering a broken leg in the wilderness without immediate medical attention was a death sentence. Several men had already frozen to death in the wild.

The clerks could no longer bear it, and some began to tender their resignations. They knew that resigning now carried the risk of retaliation or future blacklisting—the commerce of this era relied on strong personal dependencies rather than simple employment contracts—but they had no choice. They earned only a few taels of silver a year; why would they risk their lives for the Fengyu Firm? Anyone could do the math.

Hu Tu felt a deep, crushing sense of defeat. He had no more options left. There was only one final recourse.

"Go and seek an audience with the Master."

In his eyes, the Master was omnipotent and would surely solve the problem. Yet, to beg the Master for help was to admit his own incompetence. If this happened too often, the Master might simply dispose of him.