Chapter Thirty-Six: Forced Marriage

After waiting a while longer and seeing that the seven companies of a hundred men each had more or less fallen into line, Lu Hu instructed Shi Zhenxiang to give the order to assemble the troops.

Shi Zhenxiang and Shi Gengxiang shouted commands as they spurred their horses, circling the crowd. People surged and horses thundered; in just moments, the seven companies formed up in neat, square formations along the hillside.

Each of the seven Shi siblings stood at the head of their respective units, fidgeting with anticipation, eyes fixed on Lu Hu, eagerly awaiting his order to charge.

To rush down, fight with their lives, the more they killed, the higher their rank would be; with rank came fortune, and with fortune, the prospect of marrying many wives and fathering many children.

Lu Hu carefully observed the enemy camp—nothing seemed amiss within. Soldiers led horses, others butchered cattle and sheep, fires were kindled for cooking; all was peaceful and orderly.

Wisps of smoke curled from the camp, a sign that dinner was being prepared. The sun was about to set; there was no time to wait.

“First company takes the lead, second follows, the rest advance in turn. No one is to make a sound. Once inside the camp, seize the Zuo Xian King alive,” Lu Hu commanded. Before he had finished, the first company’s leader, Shi Taixiang, wheeled his horse and sped off.

Like a great serpent, the line of men pressed toward the camp.

Lu Hu followed at the rear, puzzled. If he could see into the camp from the hillside, surely those inside could see the hillside just as well. They had made quite a commotion up here—had no one reported to the Zuo Xian King? Why was there not the slightest reaction from within?

But the Zuo Xian King had no mind for such trivial matters.

He was presently in the main tent, slamming tables, kicking chairs, bellowing in fury, hurling curses and venting his wrath.

Tied to the central tent post was a middle-aged man garbed in what once had been fine robes—now reduced to tatters and streaked with blood. A guard was still flogging him mercilessly with a horsewhip.

Despite the welts on his face, there was no mistaking the man’s refined and scholarly appearance.

He was of the royal bloodline of Changli, the current King of Changli—Quan Dounan.

Nine centuries ago, the Kingdom of Changli had dominated the northeastern lands, drawing the suspicion of the previous dynasty, which repeatedly waged war against it—only to suffer defeat each time, losing men and generals alike.

Changli only grew stronger, and the small neighboring states all submitted to its power.

After the founding of the Great Sheng, Changli became a thorn in its side—a rival that could not be tolerated so close to the imperial bed.

Emperor Taizong of Sheng dispatched elite troops and fierce generals over more than thirty years but failed to subdue Changli entirely.

Still, most of Changli’s cities fell, and the kingdom barely held on, surviving with difficulty.

Upon Emperor Gaozong’s succession, a succession crisis broke out in Changli. The crown prince fled to Sheng, the second son took the throne.

Gaozong seized the chance, launching a three-pronged invasion. Over two decades, Changli was at last destroyed.

The self-proclaimed emperor, the second son, escaped with a handful of loyal ministers and tens of thousands of followers, vanishing without a trace, wandering the desolate northern wastes.

Their dream of restoration never died, but with each passing generation, it became little more than a slogan. With no foothold, their strength withered as they roamed, forced to rely on powerful states or mighty tribes.

In Quan Dounan’s day, though he still played at emperorship, it was only in the presence of his dwindling followers, numbering barely ten thousand.

Yet he did have a noble bearing. When they were once dependent on the Kingdom of Luoshi, the ruler favored him and gave him his most beautiful daughter, the Princess Little Guanyin, as wife.

They had two daughters, both stunning: Quan Zhenzhu and Quan Meiyu.

Two years ago, civil war erupted in Luoshi. Rival factions slaughtered each other in a bloodbath; friend and foe alike fell indiscriminately.

Fearing for his clan, Quan Dounan led his people south, seeking refuge with the powerful Xilot. They were settled near the border of Erlunt.

His daughters were famed: Quan Zhenzhu, versed in all the arts; Quan Meiyu, a master of song, dance, riding, and archery. Both were renowned for their beauty, their names known far and wide.

Hearing of them, the Zuo Xian King sent envoys again and again with rich gifts, demanding both daughters for himself.

Over fifty years old, he wished to take these two tender blossoms—one just sixteen, the other seventeen, both unsullied and radiant. Such beauties should be empresses, not concubines to a decrepit old prince.

Each time the proposal came, Quan Dounan found an excuse to refuse.

Refusal was an insult. The Zuo Xian King, feigning a hunting expedition, gathered his elite troops to take them by force.

He kept up polite appearances, after all, this was to be his future father-in-law—best not to tear off the mask too soon.

Upon his arrival, Quan Dounan had no choice but to present himself at the great tent.

The Zuo Xian King fawned and flattered, but Quan Dounan skillfully dodged all mention of marriage, deeply repulsed by the old man’s lecherous gaze. If his precious daughters were forced to wed this loathsome toad, could they survive?

At last, the Zuo Xian King’s patience snapped. If words failed, then force would do—beat the man until he relented.

Marriage, after all, need not be taken by force; it was far better to have his willing submission.

Beaten to such a state, Quan Dounan still gritted his teeth and defied him.

The Zuo Xian King’s fury rose. “My future father-in-law is tougher than I thought—bring the spiked whip and lash him until he’s satisfied!”

The whip was woven from thorny branches, barbs tearing flesh with every blow.

At last, Quan Dounan could endure no more. He howled and pleaded for mercy, calling for his father and mother, but never once mentioned marrying off his daughters.

The Zuo Xian King could take no more. The sun was about to set in the west, and still this old fool dared to play coy. Enough!

He stepped forward and delivered two heavy slaps. “Men, prepare my horse, assemble the guard—we’re fetching the brides, and tonight I’ll have my wedding feast!”

He smashed his fist into Quan Dounan’s eye. “I’ll consummate the marriage before your very eyes, and tomorrow your whole clan will be given as slaves for dowry!”

Quan Dounan spat a mouthful of blood into the Zuo Xian King’s face.

“You old fool, courting death!” The Zuo Xian King wiped his face, now streaked like a demon’s, and, forgetting to clean himself, began pummeling Quan Dounan like a sandbag.

“Report, Sire… they’re in—killing, killing their way in…” The guard at the tent entrance tumbled in, pulling aside the curtain, but collapsed before finishing.

“What nonsense? Who’s in? Have the guards assembled, you pig?” The Zuo Xian King kicked him.

Only then did he realize—the shouts outside, the neighing horses, the clash of arms, the screams. Disaster—they were under attack.

Yet the Zuo Xian King, seasoned by countless battles, was not truly afraid. He trusted the fighting strength of his two thousand elite. Even if faced with three thousand of the famed Sheng border troops, they’d stand their ground.

And these were only Erlunt men—small fry, not even worthy of his notice.

“Bring my armor, fetch my weapons!” he roared.

As soon as he spoke, seven or eight guards rushed in.

Good, he thought—my men are quick and obedient.

He extended his arms, waiting for them to armor him. Even in war, a prince must keep his dignity.

But instead, the guards clapped heavy wooden stocks on his wrists, bent his arms, locked the stocks behind his neck, and snapped shut the lock.

“What’s the meaning of this? How dare you put this wretched device on me?”

He had always ordered such restraints placed on criminals or slaves, never imagining the heavy wooden yoke would one day be on his own neck.

“You fools have lost your minds! Take it off at once and I might spare you, though each of you will get a hundred lashes!”

As he thundered, they shackled his feet in a massive wooden stock—over two hundred pounds, used for the worst felons.

Burdened by the crushing weight, unable to move, the pampered Zuo Xian King was beside himself, cursing wildly.

Yet, as their master, the guards hung their heads, avoiding his gaze, not daring a word.

The tent flap lifted. Lu Hu entered, carrying Xiao Bai in his arms, followed by two fierce tigers, one white, one striped.

Yakexi and Shi Zhenxiang dropped the curtain and stepped inside, standing just behind Lu Hu.

The oppressive atmosphere silenced the Zuo Xian King; he dared not utter another curse.