Volume Two: The Bandits of This Realm Chapter 112: This Thing Called Fate

Days withered away amid an oppressive chill, one after another.

At the bustling noon hour, Anma City received their so-called “heroes,” without any grand procession or riders swiftly spreading the news across fifty miles.

A ragtag group of broken soldiers made Du Zhaolin fall silent.

“Take a good look at these soldiers who return home unable even to lift their heads. Don’t they seem like... bearers of bad news for you and me?”

“It’s rare for a defeated army to march through the city streets like this, yet Lord Chu Ji has made it happen,” Zhao Zileng replied calmly, bending slightly but without a trace of servility.

Since Yu Wenruo’s death, Zhao Zileng had changed his robes and, despite the disdain of many noble families, pledged himself to Du Zhaolin.

The air had grown colder, perhaps from the onset of autumn the day before. Du Zhaolin pulled his sleeves tighter, trying to make his weakened frame appear sturdier.

“Who can win all the way through? Losing once or twice is forgivable, understandable under certain circumstances,” Zhao Zileng said leisurely, eyes squinting with a cunning gleam, like a white fox stirring unrest in hearts.

Du Zhaolin glanced at him and sneered, “Even if I spare Chu Ji, can he ease my worries? Count how many pairs of eyes are watching. One slip, and they will bare their fangs, tearing me to pieces!”

“That... is hardly the case. A rabble like this cannot overthrow you.”

“Zhao Zileng, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that from anyone else, but given your nature, shouldn’t you be stirring trouble now? Urging me to kill Chu Ji, just as you incited Yu Wenruo’s rebellion, all to profit and protect yourself!” Du Zhaolin feigned anger, intending to test him.

Zhao Zileng paled slightly, sighed deeply. His position was indeed unpopular.

“We’re all clever men; you wouldn’t believe empty words of loyalty anyway. We’re tied together now, and shared interests trump everything else.” He bit his lip, deciding it was better to be direct with Du Zhaolin.

Du Zhaolin snorted coldly, turning his head and no longer responding.

Anma City stirred again. The noon crowd gathered without mockery or curses, only cold stares fixed on the defeated soldiers carrying their coffins.

They did not curse in insult for their own dishonor. Years of war, life and death—unarmed civilians had long forgotten what pride meant.

What was so great about losing a battle? Even if the defeat was severe, what did it affect them?

Why waste emotions on others? Their own fields needed tending.

Yet this time it concerned every household—relatives, uncles, grandfathers, and eldest sons might lie among these defeated troops.

Some with vacant eyes, some near death, some hidden beneath shrouds.

Parents wept tears that fell in streams, collapsing to the ground in endless kneeling.

Children wailed loudly, babbling without seeing their fathers’ names.

Perhaps it was this coldness—they gazed silently at the living soldiers as if asking, “You walk in the sunlight while your comrades lie in coffins, enduring darkness.”

---

The city shifted from clamor to mourning, then to indifference, and finally to deathly silence—all within the span of a single noon.

“Have you ever heard a poem?” Du Zhaolin climbed higher to look down upon the populace, joyless.

Zhao Zileng’s eyes darkened, as if unwilling to listen to the cries of the world. He remained silent, lost in thought for a long while.

“Year after year the border burns,
Every family fears raising sons.
Year after year fathers part from children,
Every home sends off the black-clad.

Year after year there are mourning clothes,
Every house filled with wailing.
Year after year they long for the returning geese,
Every family prays for souls to come home.”

Du Zhaolin murmured to himself, shaking his head as he looked toward Ma Hui’s mansion, suddenly smiling wryly, “The victors still live. Let us pay them a visit and see their high spirits.”

“We should. One man silences an entire city—such youthful grace. He deserves to be hung up for all to see,” Zhao Zileng mused, stroking his chin. He resolved to play his part well—a double agent who betrayed his master, a fierce hound biting whoever crossed him.

No one paid him mind. Du Zhaolin descended the steps and walked straight on, neither detouring nor avoiding anyone. Among the hateful, cursing gazes, he walked openly and proudly.

He stopped only once—to bow deeply and salute the coffins and shrouds.

More respect than when Yu Wenruo died.

Pushing through the alleys and crowds at a brisk pace, Zhao Zileng struggled to keep up, calling out, “Slow down, slow down.”

“If you want to be someone’s dog, you better be able to run,” Du Zhaolin stopped, waiting for Zhao Zileng to catch up, teasing him.

Zhao Zileng, fuming, forgot his rank and pointed at the crowd, “I may be a dog, but I would never bite someone to death. But look at those who lost sons and fathers, who sent their young away to die—aren’t those mourning clothes all thanks to you?”

Du Zhaolin glanced at the glaring sun—it was already afternoon. A chill crept over him as he tightened his sleeves and spoke words that made the world seem colder still.

“Life is cheap; no one else is to blame.”

“You are a great man, noble indeed!” Zhao Zileng gave a thumbs-up, unwilling to say more, straightening up and marching ahead.

They switched roles—Du Zhaolin now trailing after Zhao Zileng—until they reached Ma Hui’s mansion, where Du Zhaolin still could not catch up.

A man sat on the steps, basking in the sun, eyes half-closed, humming a tune, utterly at ease. He propped up his only hand, crossing his legs.

It was Ma Hui. Du Zhaolin, out of breath, bowed hurriedly and asked anxiously, “Commander, where is that traitor?”

“In the house. Move aside—you’re blocking my sun,” Ma Hui grumbled, sniffing disdainfully at his hand, sticking out his tongue in disgust. It seemed the hand was no good anymore.

Du Zhaolin shrugged helplessly and followed Zhao Zileng into the courtyard.

Inside was much cleaner; the moss had been cleared, leaving faint traces. The filth was swept away, and the yard felt serene. From a distance, someone’s shouts and curses could be heard.

“Ma Hui, you tricked me into cleaning your house? Even a Northern Warlord like you wouldn’t lack servants to command, right?” The speaker was Lin Changtian, wrestling with something vomit-like on the ground.

“I have two mansions,” Du Zhaolin explained as he stepped into the side courtyard. “He lives in the tallest one downtown. The shortest one is for himself.”

No one answered him. Zhao Zileng was busy inspecting the residence, while Lin Changtian continued his careful “treatment” of the unpleasant mess. The quiet courtyard seemed to echo Du Zhaolin’s unanswered question at every turn.

“Today the city is lively. You must have gotten the letter, right?” Lin Changtian disposed of the mess with some straw, then finally broke the silence for Du Zhaolin’s sake.

Du Zhaolin forced a calm smile and spoke slowly, “You are right. Now might be the time to discuss what was said the other day.”

“What is there to discuss? What reason could you give me!” Lin Changtian blinked, reciting Ma Hui’s words as if carved in stone: “You might as well delay a few days. When the message from Luoyou Mountain arrives, you may not even get the chance to talk.”

“What message from Luoyou Mountain?” Du Zhaolin squinted, though he already had his suspicions.

Lin Changtian gave him a half-smile, “Shall I spell it out? Lin Yuan’s hundred-thousand-strong army presses at the borders, fighting at Luoyou Mountain. Without Chu Ji, and with the elite still stuck at Weinan Pass, what do you think will happen? It’s unlikely they’ll hold.”

“This is grave. I must... consult the commander.”

Lin Changtian pursed his lips, “No need. The old bastard Ma said long ago that he’s handed over all power. He won’t meddle here anymore. That ‘someone else’ must be you...”

“Still, we need to set a date, gather several witnesses, finalize the documents, and sign them to make it official.” Du Zhaolin frowned, already considering who to involve.

“I heard you clawed your way up from the bottom. Why get tangled in petty formalities? As for documents, you’ve cleaned yourself but remain a bandit, and I’m a raider under the border army’s name. Signing means nothing. In the North, paper has never held power.”

Du Zhaolin paused, then smiled behind his back, “Young genius, you speak truth. In the North, only the size of your fist matters.”

“So you agree, then? But let me ask—how badly did the defeated troops from Anma City fare?” Lin Changtian scratched his head, not meaning to provoke but having made a bet with Ma Hui, curious if the man’s guess was wrong.

Such coincidences are rare. Even those who see fate cannot always predict it perfectly.

“A defeated army need not be humiliated...” Du Zhaolin controlled his anger, speaking slowly, taking Lin Changtian’s question as a provocation.

Before the hatred could fully surface, Zhao Zileng took the cue, smiling politely, “Not much to say. Lord Chu Ji was carried by his men, the first general in history to enter a city not on horseback. Besides that, half the mounted troops were lost, less than thirty percent of officers survived, over half the soldiers were buried. The vanguard was utterly crushed, only the new recruits and General Kuisheng still fought.”

“Officers outlived the soldiers, no wonder you lost. Fate’s will, no one else’s fault.”

Hearing Lin Changtian’s words, Zhao Zileng’s expression twisted oddly. The speaker meant no harm, but to the listener... it felt bitter beyond words. Especially after hearing such outrageous remarks as “Those who die have cheap lives; blame no one else.”

Thinking this over, Zhao Zileng glanced at Du Zhaolin, who remained calm—whether genuine or feigned was unclear.

...