Chapter 43: Firing the First Shot (Part II)

The battle was brief yet fierce. When Hanbingzhi Lang cut down his foe, the skirmishes at the outer edges were already reaching their conclusion.

He approached Qian Ye, gripping his left shoulder and limping from the pain. His voice was firm despite the torment: “Lord, the mission has been completed.”

Qian Ye gave a faint smirk, “Completed? No, not yet. There remains one more transport convoy.”

Hanbingzhi Lang forced out a bitter smile. “It belongs to the caravan merchants. Clashing with them only deepens the feud with the Werewolf King.”

“So then,” Qian Ye looked at him, “do you truly believe you can mend matters now with the Werewolf King?”

Hanbingzhi Lang, knowing the truth buried deep within his heart, grit his teeth and barked, “A few soldiers who still can fight! Join me!”

A moment later, he led over a dozen fierce warriors and boarded an operational troop transport, roaring off into the distance. At last, he seemed like a formidable leader full of valor. Before this, though he stood tall and sturdy, a cowardice hung around him. Even in the duel against the Lycan Viscount, he had not fought boldly, which led to this grievous wound.

Now with a battlefield behind him devoid of escape, he embraced total resolve and finally exuded an aura of true strength.

Still astride the roof of the vehicle, Qian Ye turned to the remaining soldiers. “Clean the field and secure the area,” he commanded.

Suddenly he turned his sight to one side. A heavy cloud lay in the heavens, and little else might be seen; yet Qian Ye spied there a ring of slow-turning ambient energy. Someone was hiding within, keeping watch upon them—no question of that. Furthermore, the disrupted ambient energy had a chaotic, dual nature, both dawn-light brilliance and darkness twined together. An elite human adept without doubt.

Few could it be in this place—yet he needed no guesses upon his watcher’s presence, nor his intentions. Instead, Qian Ye merely thrust a pointing finger toward the sky, before performing a gesture: slicing motion across the throat.

The challenge could not have been clearer: step forward and I shall strike you down.

Moments later, he disregarded the veiled adept within clouds and turned his focus fully back to overseeing the cleansing of remains and wreckage. It was a gruesome scene to behold, yet it summoned assistance from caravan men nearby.

Hidden amidst the sky’s far clouds, an elderly frame flickered within vapor’s embrace; he’d become nearly one with the atmosphere. Face grim and pallid with rage, trembling hairs quivered as they quelled beneath outrage never known before. Renowned far and wide, at rank-sedecim strength, in lands both bright and dark, none had cast so bold of scorn upon him in years.

He burned with murder’s fire toward Qian Ye, an urge to strike him down taking root deep within his chest. Reason, however, held him at bay—for he remained at a loss: How had this youth perceived where none saw?

Back upon earth, Qian Ye’s attention solely remained fixated—giving only the clearing efforts his gaze. And this complete oblivion cut deeper than any blade; for near moments it threatened to tip fury into oblivion itself.

But finally it passed as, incensed by silent indignity, the elder man whirled away, his garments flying. And as he moved, the smallest of emblems was revealed briefly—indeed, bearing the secret seal belonging only to Zhang Bouzhou: the trait’s mark was his alone.

The moment finally came when Hanbingzhi Lang rode triumphally into their view, flanked by dozens of supply trucks, with merchant chieftains riding aboard his truck’s roof.

In front of Qian Ye, he said, voice low but sure, “Lord, the mission is complete; I’ve retrieved every single vehicle.”

At last, the edge fell from Qian Ye’s visage and a touch of commendation graced his countenance. “Good job this round.”

Yet in Hanbingzhi Lang’s heart remained unassuaged regret, for turning tail was no option any longer. One puzzle question nagged at him.

“Pardon me, my Liege, why fire weapons orders so early, still far out the range distance?”

“What better time to shoot if not the moment our foe was within range too?”

“Well technically true—but wouldn’t waiting first confirm true hostilities?”

Interrupting, Qian Ye repeated, “I chose to fire first. Again, I reassert: It is our will to fire first.”

His subordinate staggered inwardly at the sheer bravado beneath those quiet spoken lines.

It had a majesty all of its own.

Before longer, hesitant movements emerged, and the merchant retainers approached nervously, offering salutation after obsequious salutation, attempting diplomacy with Qian Ye.

With slight impatience, he commanded, “Abandon the vehicles and proceed your way back through the Werewolf. Report and collect damage recompensation where needed.

Visages paled, as the weight of understanding struck all of them: protection of caravans bore high premium rates. Any caravan plundered entailed a strict obligation: to cover heavy monetary damages.

Though costly, many merchant houses opted nonetheless for the Werewolf King Company for guarding, for their success rate exceeded odds beyond all rivals.

The werewolves maintained at least this boundary—a restraint not to harm a convoy that they themselves safeguarded.

Yet for this haul here of dozens of trucks, a grievously significant financial burden, the act meant provoking a powerful beast—perhaps even bringing wrath upon oneself so dire not even their death might spare them for such affronts.

At his words an enraged merchant steward found voice. Scowling he snapped, “Whatever you might think, understand you have angered powers unwise to touch. Return the freight unharmed, and I could plead in your defense still.”

Before he might further threaten, Qian Ye snapped a finger, a coalescing orb of Ambient energy zapped from his fingertip.

From the steward’s center forehead erupted a crimson bloom, his sight dulled and he slumped, lifeless, as his body collapsed beside him.

“I neither must care for your identity,” Qian Ye replied cold. “Will others still choose quarrel?” he turned his piercing, freezing question at the remainder still standing.

With corpses still so fresh and so near—no soul ventured forward. Faces drained of all hue shook negative denials as he spoke.

“It is I who has declared war upon the werewolf—yet whoever allies with the Werewolf will suffer consequences,” said Qian Ye coldly. Then waved for those who lived to go forward into peace—and kept every conveyance and driver.

Assigning over twenty armed mercenaries for returning the convoys back toward Nanqing Citadel he sent them, led by Hanbingzhi Lang. But Qian Ye led merchants onward to Guanlan City.

Tranquil highways stretched before them from then—undisturbed.

Yet the werewolf might retaliate unpredictably. Thus all others tensed tightly. In accordance to the wishes of merchant chieftains who were insistent, they halted not the journey—continuing day and night—covering nearly an entire day’s distance before finally spotting Guanlan City gates. When the caravan arrived and were sheltered within, merchants exhaled long-awaited breath.

Yet the primary relief came—not from having reached destination—but from finally cutting association ties away from Qian Ye: should the werewolf strike, they wanted no blame laid at their doorstep. Indeed, major powers still needed and required these wealthy caravans upon which so much relied. Even such brutality as the Werewolf exercised never went so far as to slay their own source of power—never fished from an emptied lake.

Qian Ye, aware full well of such motivations, chose not to confront merchants over this. Instead he assigned quarters through Hanbinzhilang for shelter.

Then he went wandering alone through the city streets.

Guanlancy stood a fortress metropolis for Humans atop the eastern coastlands. Rising high upon elevated terrain it may not compare quite with the Ancient Totemic Battlements in grandiosity of architecture, but stood proudly against the tides—nearly a hundred meters high upon cliff’s peak—to look upon the Eastern Ocean, granting breathtaking views befitting its majesty.

In its highest elevations stood palatial manor-houses, many stories towering behind stonewalls of imposing structure: built strong yet without extravagance befitting this region’s wilderness customs and rugged spirit.

Each noble dwelling belonged to mighty bloodlines—ages of heritage evident. Several stood for more than a century with age-blanched carvings etched deep with history’s touch.

Indeed, one could almost call these quarters reminiscent vaguely of the Imperial Families—though they paled in stature versus the likes of noble houses like the Zhao or the Song. The Zhao estate alone could dwarf this entire Guanlan citadel’s size; the Song, even greater.

At that moment, inside the very largest and noble of manors, a stern-faced elder sat within study chambers. The letter crinkled within his hands as his frown deepened further.

Two younger forms attended him; one stood like a statue in silence. The second—restless—one turned this way and that in unceasing motion, impatient to hear.

At longer last, with heart heavy, the elder exhaled. “So this trespasser walks freely still within our bounds. How shall we act?”

The younger brother—the impetuous one—snickered, “Father dearest, the final words remain yours! You decide—it need scarcely our hands.”

The expression darkened. “Xueding! You soon assume greater responsibilities—and still carry yourself with such levity? How can you inherit our noble House?”

“Oh! The House needs no me,” chirped the boy. “Brother exists already. What room left for two tigers?”

Angered eyes flared, voice booming against wood. “Tigers may differ, but still share kin. No feud! Should another word like this escape your lips—I’ll banish you from the House of Xue yourself!”

Yet undisturbed by threats, Xueding scoffed, “And I care? Was banishment not practiced thrice before? And now, under the werewolf, I am beyond blood anymore.”

Only at these words did the elder brother break his quiet: “Enough, Xiao Ding!”

The older sibling’s word held weight enough; instantly shedding all mirthfulness, the young man became grave anew: “Here rests my opinion: act if we know naught of it. Our guest cannot remain indefinitely, a night or two at most.”

Unhappy remained the father: “And you think you can escape the consequences this effortlessly? Treat Wolf King like a toddler!”

Cruel sneer replaced any hint humor had made. “Was He not the one to play us all—when, having failed capture during the assault of Nanqing himself? Rumors say his fortress sealed upon the return—he’s been gravely wounded? Thus leaving us to do tasks impossible even to himself.”

Silence stretched thin with that thought.

“His aim—to make ourselves vulnerable to him and, by fault-finding, to justify dismantling our powers. Why should our House pay price for his failure?”

“You dare suggest you ignore the threat?”

“A final resolution exists,” replied Xueding.

His father huffed, “Speak your notion. Dare we heed it?”

With solemn certainty the youth answered: “Reject him utterly! We break alliance entirely.”

“To revolt?” His father inhaled sharply. “Against the Wolf King?”