Volume Two: Bandits Here Chapter 100: Debating the Old and the New in Saddle Horse City

For all eternity, the only things praised to the heavens were the unchanging tides of fate and comfort.

What foolish thoughts stir in a brute’s heart?

Riding horses and cracking whips, conquering from south to north? Blindly believing the grandmen’s lies, sacrificing for the Jade Dragon’s rule?

To achieve glory and establish one’s legacy—that is the fate of true men born without troubles.

But men like them, mere small players, can only tether their broken lives to scrape out a living. Whose scorn they draw matters little; whose orders they follow matters little.

The people of the Northern Domain are fond of gambling, always trying to wrest their fortunes from the heavens. They trust fate the least, yet are the most resigned to the cruel whims of destiny.

Whether a great bandit who seizes a realm or a petty thief holding a forgotten hill, what they crave from beginning to end is but a measure of peace.

The great bandit wishes for a stable realm, hearts turning toward him so he may shed his villainous cloak and sit firmly on the throne of power.

The petty thief dares not dream big; from the moment they are small fry, all they think on is clinging to life, carrying their piece of comfort into the grave.

Ah, all under heaven have shared a common, symbiotic dream.

If the great bandit offers a few scraps, is that not enough to fill the bellies of the small thieves?

When evildoers expose their true faces in rage, they seize and behead the speaker, shouting over the corpses, “How can I find peace if this is done?”

Oh, those well-fed with virtue recall almsgiving and charity; those glutted with vice harbor only rancid plots to let others starve and freeze.

Often, such evil lies buried deep, even masquerading as kindness in acts of charity.

It clutches tightly to human selfishness—a comfort dearer than life itself.

...

The spring breeze delights the proud steed’s hooves, a single day to behold all the blossoms of Chang’an.

Du Zhaolin was such a man—sipping tea, humming tunes, deciding life and death in leisure and self-satisfaction.

Yu Wenruo had suppressed him for ten years. The bitterness of that time could never be fully captured by rhetoric, only by stark numbers.

But now all had vanished into smoke and dust. He must straighten his chest, strive to bury past humiliations, and present himself anew, reevaluating the world he had lived in.

His posture unsteady, his crown askew.

But who dared teach him manners? Who dared stroke their beard to flaunt rank?

Du Zhaolin sneered, heedless of spies lurking in his courtyard.

“It’s all thanks to the Marshal’s favor—how could I ever repay that debt?”

Muttering to himself, he resolved to visit Ma Hui’s mansion once more to “learn.”

...

Tracing the winding paths of East Street, he arrived at the familiar estate, knocking softly on the door.

Servants welcomed him inside, bowing low with utmost deference along the way.

Ma Hui remained in the courtyard, drinking alone.

“The Marshal has such refined taste, finding a quiet place for a solitary drink—how splendid, how splendid.”

...

Du Zhaolin dismissed his attendants, bowed deeply, and spoke.

“Old friends are few; the closest to me has brought about his own demise. With no company, I am forced to drink with myself.”

Ma Hui grumbled like a drunken loafer.

“What nonsense! I’ll keep you company for a few sips,” Du Zhaolin said, sitting beside him and reaching for another cup.

“You better put that down,” Ma Hui replied calmly, as if merely offering advice.

Du Zhaolin stiffened, obediently set down the cup, eyeing Ma Hui suspiciously.

“Straighten your crown, stand up!”

Startled, Du Zhaolin rose quickly, looking meek.

“Have you come on official business or personal matters? If personal, why wear your uniform? If official, why forget respect and rank?”

Ma Hui barked sharply, swaying drunkenly—uncertain if his words were madness or intention to discipline this favored courtier.

“Of course... official business,” Du Zhaolin answered, a trace of grievance on his face.

“Today is not my turn on duty; no talk of business. Personal matters... we may discuss,” Ma Hui downed another pot of wine, seeming more at ease.

Grievance deepening, Du Zhaolin gathered his sleeves and said nothing.

“What grievance? Hold back those tears for me!” Ma Hui paused, then added, “What, must I beg you to start when we reminisce?”

“Dare not. But when has the Marshal ever had such a thing as a day off?”

Turning away, Du Zhaolin wiped his face with his sleeve.

He was clearly wronged, yet too burdened to speak.

“I gave myself a break, didn’t I? Since when did the affairs of Anma City become your concern?”

Ma Hui kept scolding, but his tone had softened.

Du Zhaolin dared not retort, bowing his head to endure.

“Remember how we met?”

“How could I forget? When I was just a boy, ran into trouble. My mother fled with me from the Yu clan but died along the way. Exhausted and unable to continue, I happened upon you—thinking you a noble savior, but it turned out you were a bandit lord.”

Du Zhaolin shook his head, only smiling when recalling that past.

“Can’t you be more civilized? Speak more politely, boy! That was a brave freedom fighter resisting aristocratic oppression!”

The city’s tyrant made no pretense, tossing the wine bottle aside and patting Du Zhaolin’s head.

“At that time, the world was still asleep; the principles were all the same. Now there are swords and spears, before it was just guns and cannons.”

“I know that. The Yu clan tried to raise a force on the mountains, but when the guns fired, you took your blade to find trouble with Yu Wenruo. That old fox knew the times—served as a dog all his life, only baring teeth to his master in old age.”

“I know you harbor resentment. The Yu clan, top to bottom, even hated your mother who died on the road. But I must say one thing—Yu Wenruo, you’d best curse him less.”

Du Zhaolin curled his lips in displeasure, taking it as the Marshal’s reluctance to hear his abuse.

“You’ve lived in fear all these years, walking on thin ice for a decade. By rights and feelings, it’s time for you to step into the light. But hatred is a bitter medicine—enough to forsake comfort and endure years of suffering. Just don’t forget who you once were.”

The man before him showed no trace of cruelty; he resembled a father imparting old, familiar wisdom to his son.

...

Du Zhaolin was dazed—was this truly the fiercest of the three great heroes of the Northern Domain?

“Enough of personal tales. My leave is up. Let’s talk business. First, pry open your lips and let me hear your thoughts.”

Ma Hui kicked Du Zhaolin, motioning him to sit and reply.

“You truly act on impulse,” Du Zhaolin smiled bitterly. He knew Ma Hui’s rogue temper well.

The talk of ancient lineages was nonsense, yet Lin Yuan and Cheng Yu remained silent on the matter—absurdity rivaling even the strange ties between Qiu An and that lord.

“Hmm, the internal matters are mostly settled. The rebels who deserved death are dead. The noble houses all curse the Yu traitor’s grave and beg your mercy like dogs without a master.”

Du Zhaolin smiled, causing Ma Hui to grow suspicious.

“What are you hiding now? Some mischief?”

“Among all dogs, one will rise as king. Yu Wenruo was leader of the noble houses. In peace, the dogs bring their bones to the leader. But when disaster strikes? The dogs survive, but the dog king dies. Don’t you find that laughable?”

Ma Hui shook his head, not amused—he sat on the very throne of the dog king.

“I understand your meaning. But dogs are still needed; no matter how they snap, they’ll never become wolves. Now that domestic affairs are stable, what move do you plan, Du Zhaolin?”

Du Zhaolin pointed south, clear in meaning.

“War has rusted, soldiers are downcast, horses rest on southern hills. If we don’t pick a bone soon, we’ll be forced to eat only vegetables. Lin Yuan can’t take the west, Cheng Yu can’t swallow the east. After much thought, better to start with the lands south of Weinan Pass.”

“Why not just make trouble for Sishan?” Ma Hui glared, annoyed.

Du Zhaolin shrugged, signaling his Marshal to mind his manners.

“Sishan’s not a rabble; they’re proper border troops. Skilled leaders abound—the mountain lord at Spirit Communication level, the old man of Heaven’s Decree, the defensive expert Kui Sheng, the frontline general Chen Ziliang, and Xu Yong. Both offense and defense are strong. No easy bone to chew.”

Ma Hui spoke seriously, but to Du Zhaolin, it sounded like a joke.

Border troops? Ridiculous—they don’t even have Baili Tingsui anymore...

The old man of Heaven’s Decree can’t act, and they have Spirit Communication masters themselves. The defensive Kui Sheng? The frontline general?

Could they summon Chu Ji to fight?

“Your reasoning makes no sense at all,” Du Zhaolin shook his head, stretching as he pondered strategies against Lin Yuan. He had never taken Sishan seriously.

Ma Hui, in good spirits, brushed aside days of gloom, laughing with Du Zhaolin.

“Chu Ji’s fate is uncertain; he might fall at Sishan too. I’m old, want to enjoy some peaceful days. If you want to fight, lead your troops and go all out. Just don’t waste your men’s lives.”

Du Zhaolin narrowed his eyes, casting a suspicious glance at Ma Hui. An absurd thought crossed his mind: had his Marshal been possessed by an evil spirit?

But he took the order and left, his purpose fulfilled.

His steps quickened, contrasting with the silence of his arrival.

The courtyard was left to Ma Hui alone, drinking by himself—whether with style or solitude, none could say.

...

(The place names in the previous chapter were corrected: the Yi River is now the Northern Dang River.)