Chapter Text
御龙顺水而行
"the imperial dragon follows the river rushing.”
The battlefield had its own unique music of chaos, made up of the heavy beats of messenger drums, the rhythmic thumps of feet and hooves, and the yells and screams of killing and dying men. As infantry soldiers under the Cao flag charged forward to meet their equals of Liu Bei’s supposed army of the Han dynasty, the early afternoon sun glinted off the red streaks on the tips of their spears. More blood splashed on the sand, vanishing as quickly as men died.
Seated on his horse and surrounded by his best Generals whom he had forbidden to enter the fray – it wouldn’t do if Liu Bei was crushed here, after all – Cao Mengde tilted his head up. The desert sun was bright enough to sear skin, and Liu Bei’s form appeared like a writhing shadow upon golden sand: plain-clothed, unarmed, and fleeing exactly like the peasants around him.
How much of this loss was due to Liu Bei’s desire to save the peasants from Mengde’s supposedly tyrannical rule? How many of those orders to his generals were motivated by that fact that he knew he would lose, and wanted a righteous excuse to do so?
Metal clattered. Liu Bei’s infantry broke formation, gold-painted shields folding away as ten to twenty men stepped aside at once. A familiar figure ran forward, steady feet thumping and hands clutched around a long glaive with a blade that, Mengde knew, was far crueller and sharper than the man wielding it.
Guan Yunchang’s beard had grown back, Mengde noted as he admired how Liu Bei’s sworn younger brother danced through Mengde’s troops, cutting men down like their armour was nothing more than finely-woven silk. His long hair swayed with the wind with every whirl of his heel, the glossy strands shimmering, incongruously night-dark amidst the blazing day.
What mattered a few lowly infantry soldiers, Mengde thought as blood of his men spilled beneath that glinting glaive, if the sacrifice of their lives brought him a sight like this?
A horse pulled up next to his. “Let me fight him,” a familiar, well-loved voice hissed in his ear.
“Have patience, Yuanrang,” Mengde murmured, barely moving his lips. “You will get your chance.”
“He will die under my sword one day,” Yuanrang hissed. “Mark my words, Mengde.”
Long years had made it unnecessary to turn his head to know Yuanrang’s frustration; had allowed him to smile, too, knowing that Yuanrang would obey Mengde’s orders, no matter his twisting want to beat Yunchang to the ground and claim superiority.
“Of that I have no doubts,” Mengde said.
The air of the battlefield shifted, whipping Yuanrang’s head aside to follow the source before he could reply.
A white horse streaked through the battlefield, carrying a rider curled around a bundle wrapped in cloth. Patches of that cloth shone as pale as his horse; it would be white if it was not so stained with blood and dirt.
So, Zhao Zilong had survived, and so had Liu Bei’s months-old son.
Turning his head, Mengde asked in a voice loud enough to be heard by Yunchang: “Who is that man?”
“Replying Your Excellency,” replied his nephew Wenlië, head ducked down to hide the smirk curling his lips. “That is Changshan’s Zhao Zilong.”
“A brave warrior indeed,” he said. Exchanging a glance with the leader of his famed Tiger and Leopard Cavalry, he continued, “Why do I not have such courageous warriors among my army?”
Wenlië withdrew, shoulders shuddering.
At the same time, Zhao Zilong had flung himself off of his horse, hands outstretched for the bundle that had been torn from his arms by the lucky twist of a soldier’s spear. He grabbed onto it and fell to the ground on his back, managing to keep the infant from smashing face-first into his armour. Wenlië made an appreciative sound at the sight, and Mengde had to concur: that had taken some skill.
Liu Bei’s strategist called for a retreat soon after, his hawk-feather fan whipping through the air. Zhang Fei shrieked, “Er-ge!” even as he tried to fight through the troops that had bull-rushed him to try to stop him from getting to Liu Bei’s drummers. Yunchang’s reply was lost in the din, but the set of his jaw and the stiffening of his legs as he stood his ground spoke well enough: he planned to cover for the retreat.
It would be nice, Mengde thought, to have him as a guest again. Surely Yunchang’s loyalty to his lord and sworn older brother would have wavered a little after not one but two abandonments?
Then a familiar glaive, now bloodstained, was right in front of his face. Mengde gave a long, slow blink.
“Ah, Yuanrang,” Mengde said, raising his voice so his trusted general could hear him over his surely-pounding heartbeat, “it’s not Yunchang’s time to die yet.”
Giving nothing but a grunt in reply, Yuanrang swung himself off of the horse. Yunchang was surrounded by over ten soldiers, their spears held at his throat, but he broke the wooden staffs like they were hollow bamboo instead of solid oak. He grabbed one and held it with both hands, bracing himself right as one of Yuanrang’s swords came crashing down upon his head.
From behind, Mengde could not see Yuanrang’s ferocious grin. But he knew its presence from the set of his shoulders and the twist of his wrist as he pulled the other sword from his back and jabbed it towards Yunchang’s unprotected abdomen. Yunchang dodged it with light steps backwards, picking another spear from the ground and charging at Yuanrang.
A horse drew up next to him. Mengde kept his eyes on the fight in front of him even as another of his favoured generals dismounted and saluted him on bent knee.
“Your Excellency,” Zhang Wenyuan said, raising his voice to be heard above the din of clashing steel, “Liao was successful.”
This man had been given the task of raiding the town that Liu Bei had taken refuge in right before this very battle. Mengde had known that Liu Bei would immediately abandon his wives and child the moment that his own life looked to be in danger – he had done so before, after all – and Wenyuan had the orders to—
“Liu Bei’s two wives are dead, and his son had been taken by Zhao Zilong.”
“I saw,” Mengde nodded. “Well done, Wenyuan.”
“This lowly soldier has only done what he must, and thanks His Excellency for the praise,” Wenyuan replied, the barest trace of humour threaded into the formal words. Mengde lifted a hand to dismiss him, and then changed his mind mid-trajectory.
He motioned to the blade still in front of him. “Yuanrang would prefer a fair battle, don’t you think?” he asked.
“General Xiahou would be displeased at a victory gained by his enemy being at a disadvantage,” Wenyuan agreed. Still on the ground, he hefted Yunchang’s glaive up from where the tip had been embedded into the sand. Then, with both hands, he threw.
It flew over the heads of the infantry soldiers, causing some of them to duck and yell so as to not be beheaded by the bloodstained blade. With one swift motion and without making a sound, Yunchang dropped both stolen spears, snatched his weapon from the air with both hands, and brought it to bear against the weight of Yuanrang’s twin swords.
“I wonder if your lord would hand me my blades if I was ever captured by him,” Yuanrang snarled into Yunchang’s face, voice resonant even amidst the chaos of the still-fighting infantry soldiers. “No, I need not ask, because I know he would not.”
Face like stone, Yunchang yanked the blade of his glaive out of the lock of Yuanrang’s swords. He did not reply.
“He is a man who came to the imperial capital asking for refuge from Mengde,” Yuanrang continued, his dive to attack unfaltering even as he spoke. “And while he enjoyed Mengde’s hospitality, he plotted to assassinate him.”
Yunchang struck back, sweeping his glaive downwards to take out Yuanrang’s legs. Yuanrang jumped over it even as he stabbed one sword forward at Yunchang’s throat, the tip ghosting over skin as Yunchang reared his head back.
“Then again,” Yuanrang continued, “an ungrateful bastard like you, who takes the lives of those sworn to the man who has saved his, and a dishonourable bastard like Liu Bei… No wonder the two of you are sworn brothers.”
Ducking beneath Yuanrang’s lunge, Yunchang gripped his glaive with both hands. His shoulders shifted back and he flung it forward.
Wenyuan jumped up, catching the glaive one-handed before its shadow could even touch that of Mengde’s horse.
“You—” Yuanrang growled.
But Yunchang wasn’t listening anymore. A runaway horse had approached, and he grabbed it by its bridle now, swinging himself up in a show of skill that nearly had Mengde whistling in admiration. Then he pulled on the reins, forcefully turning the horse’s head until it was running towards Mengde himself.
As he came to a stop, Mengde raised a hand. Then, as Yunchang’s gaze settled on him, Mengde turned his wrist, and Wenyuan placed the glaive on his palm with his head lowered.
It was as heavy as he had expected. But he had not been neglecting of his own training, no matter how overprotective his generals were towards him, and he bore the weight easily.
“Here,” he said, offering the glaive to Yunchang. “You will not be yourself without it.”
With both hands, Yunchang took the glaive. His chin dipped downwards in a nod that could almost be interpreted as respectful before he spun the horse around and rode in the direction where his sworn older brother had disappeared.
Yuanrang held out a hand, stopping both infantry soldiers and the other generals from giving chase. “Your indulgences are going to get you killed one day, Mengde,” he said, barely keeping his voice low. “And I will be here, shaking my head and reminding you of my warnings just once more.”
“Indulge my follies, Yuanrang,” Mengde replied, one corner of his lips twitching upwards despite himself. “Surely with such fierce warriors by my side, I am allowed such a thing?” He waved a hand to the side, motioning towards Yuanrang’s horse.
Wenyuan snorted even as he climbed onto his own, back straightening the moment he settled into the saddle. His eyes slid over to Mengde for a moment before he shook his head, smiling.
“He’s too damned polite to tell you that you can’t insult yourself without insulting the rest of us, Mengde,” Yuanrang said, voice dryly amused as he gripped the reins of his own steed. “We are not men who will gladly follow a foolish lord.”
“No,” Mengde murmured, glancing from Yuanrang to Wenyuan to Wenlie, then to the others still silently waiting behind him, all of them trusting him with not only their own lives, but also the future of their shattered world and dynasty. “I suppose not.”
The Lord Preceptor once again demonstrated his wisdom and foresight when he had the Han army set up camp an hour’s walk away from the town that Liu Bei had taken refuge in. It was far enough from the battlegrounds of both Jiangling – where Liu Bei had taken refuge and so had drawn the Lord Preceptor’s attack upon the civilians in the town – and Changban Slope, and yet not such a great distance that the soldiers, already tired from fighting, would have to suffer greatly before having a chance to rest.
If Wenyuan had learned anything under his previous lord Lü Bu, it was the delicate balance that had to be kept between expecting unquestioning obedience from soldiers and understanding that they had their own needs that had to be fulfilled if they were to follow orders. After all, hungry soldiers would steal and loot, no matter how high the whip was held above their heads or how sharp and red-hot its steel tips.
Wenyuan made to check on his platoon that had arrived before him – he had gone alone to Changban to meet the Lord Preceptor while sending his men ahead to the camp to have their wounds treated – when General Xiahou caught his attention with a twitch of his fingers. The general jerked his head.
Lowering his own in acknowledgment, Wenyuan made to follow both General Xiahou and the Lord Preceptor to the command tent. He had barely taken a step within before the General whirled upon him, fixing him with a hard stare that was, somehow, intensified by the eyepatch that covered the gaping hole that was once his left eye.
“Zhao Zilong survived long enough to bring Liu Bei’s son to him,” he stated without any preamble. “I know you’re more than strong enough to go directly against him, Wenyuan, so why didn’t you?” He took one step forward. “Do you have qualms against killing an infant, now?”
“Come now, Yuanrang, don’t be so harsh on him,” the Lord Preceptor said before Wenyuan could even think of speaking. “I ordered him to let Zhao Zilong and the boy go.”
“Mengde,” General Xiahou practically snarled. “You should know that’s a terrible idea.”
Even after years in the Lord Preceptor’s service, Wenyuan still could not get over how casually General Xiahou addressed their lord. He could understand if he did so only in private – and would chastise himself for having opinions on things he should not have even heard – but General Xiahou had always spoken to the Lord Preceptor in this way, no matter the situation.
“Zhao Zilong is needed as a symbol of strength,” another voice said, coming from the heavy curtains that shielded part of the Lord Preceptor’s personal quarters within the command tent from sight. “His valour in rescuing that child is as much part of the plan as it was for Liu Bei to have abandoned his family within the town.”
The voice that spoke was deep like a man’s, but layers upon layers of silk swept across the canvas-covered floor of the tent as the curtains were pulled aside. Unbound black hair swayed with each step, the dark strands spilling over shoulders to tease at the waist. From beneath the pale-coloured cloth peeked even paler wrists, the skin soft and unmarred like one of the Emperor’s young daughters.
One of those hands landed on General Xiahou’s elbow, and eyes almost the colour of true black except for sparse brown flecks lit up with humour. “Liu Bei’s troops are few, and though his generals are known for their might, it has been some time since they have put on a grand show.” As General Xiahou scowled, the sides of those eyes creased.
“It’s an incentive.” Each word was carefully pronounced. “For Sun Quan to agree to an alliance with Liu Bei.”
“Fengxiao,” the Lord Preceptor said, sounding amused. “Surely there is no need for you to dress as such when we are the only ones here?”
The Military Libationer, chief advisor and strategist of the Han dynasty’s Lord Preceptor, reached up and tugged off the veil that covered him from the bridge of the nose to the top of his chest. His smile widened even further as he swept out his arms with a flourish, and tucked his hands against one hip.
“Your Excellency,” he greeted, and bent his knees like a woman.
A year ago, on the way back to Xu after the Battle of the White Wolf Mountain where the Lord Preceptor had pacified Wuhan and finally rid himself of the threats posed by Yuan Shao and his sons, Fengxiao had fallen ill. Rumours had abounded among the soldiers then that Fengxiao was near death, because he had the intelligence and perception of a thousand-year-old fox of legend, and the fever had forced him into mumbling incoherencies.
The Lord Preceptor, the story went, had been called back urgently from the battlefield. And Fengxiao, after speaking to his sworn and honoured Lord, had finally let go of life and headed peacefully into death.
Part of that was true: Fengxiao had fallen ill. But the deathbed visit of rumours was in fact a strategy meeting. With Wenyuan and General Xiahou as witnesses, Fengxiao had sat up from his bed and, with the stench of the medicine that had saved his life still on his breath, urged the Lord Preceptor to pretend that he had died. Fengxiao had argued that his own reputation would make the Lord Preceptor’s enemies wary against battling him; if they knew he was dead, they might be tempted to let down their guard.
So, the Lord Preceptor had stood in front of a pyre lit around a straw dummy, and murmured Fengxiao’s name while letting a few tears fall. It had been an absolute farce of a fake funeral, tempting the gods to truly drag Fengxiao into the realm of the dead.
But Fengxiao had lived, and the paleness of his skin now showed only the flush of health that reddened his cheeks.
“You seemed to have taken the role of a concubine quite well,” the Lord Preceptor murmured, one brow arched as he reached out with a hand. “Should I make it a permanent position?”
“This lowly servant will be honoured by any position that His Shining Excellency wishes to give,” Fengxiao said. He lifted his eyes and batted his lashes at the Lord Preceptor.
Beside Wenyuan, General Xiahou slapped a hand over his face and sighed. The Lord Preceptor chuckled, his hand falling back to his side after barely brushing over Fengxiao’s jaw. “What is it, Yuanrang?” he asked.
“I get that we have to ensure that Liu Bei ally with Sun Quan to ensure that we can capture the Southlands,” the General said, clearly deciding that returning to strategy was a far better option than contemplating the Lord Preceptor’s strange relationship with Fengxiao. “But allowing Zhao Zilong to do such a thing is giving him a chance to become a legend.” He paused.
“And we’ve all seen what reputation can do.”
It was only long years of training that allowed Wenyuan to stifle the instinctive flinch. The peasants fleeing from the Lord Preceptors today had surely done so because they were taken in by Liu Bei’s reputation for mercy and righteousness as well as the Lord Preceptor’s for tyranny. It didn’t matter that Liu Bei was a traitor several times over, or that the Lord Preceptor had won his wars and gathered a huge army by ensuring that all of his soldiers were fed: stories had always held greater power than truth, especially if the latter was too complex to be spun into easily-swallowed tales.
“We have,” Fengxiao nodded. “But there is a solution to that, General.”
“Of course there is, for my Fengxiao is clever,” the Lord Preceptor pronounced, folding his arms around his chest. “What it is?”
“If in life they were writ large as legends…” Fengxiao paused, one pale hand slipping into the opposite sleeve. He withdrew a fan and snapped it open, but the silk – painted to depict the Yangtze winding through the mountains of the Southland – did nothing to hide his smile. “We must ensure that they die as small, insignificant men.”
“How are we to accomplish this?” the Lord Preceptor raised an eyebrow. Beside him, General Xiahou had fallen silent, the tension in his shoulders showing that he was paying Fengxiao his fullest attention.
“Legends are made through righteous deeds in grand battles,” Fengxiao said. He cocked his head, the edges of his fan brushing the underside of one eye. “Or from the fall of righteous man into unvirtuous behaviour.”
Wenyuan’s breath hitched. “You mean…”
“Rumours have already been spread that His Shining Excellency,” Fengxiao nodded to the Lord Preceptor, “has brought over eight hundred thousand men. By now, word would have spread to the Southlands.” A single flap of his fan. “Though Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang are not stupid men, there will be enough of those within Liu Bei’s army and Sun Quan’s court who will take the number of eight hundred thousand to be the truth, and they must be appeased.” He trailed off significantly.
“Eight hundred thousand are difficult to feed,” General Xiahou smiled thinly. “So, they would expect that you want a huge battle. A climatic one that finishes quickly, and which will determine the future.”
“Well said, Yuanrang,” the Lord Preceptor nodded. “And that is something that Sun Quan would want as well.” A smirk tugged on the corner of his lips. “He is nothing more than an untested kitten striving to become the tiger his father and brother were.”
“His Shining Excellency is clear-sighted,” Fengxiao murmured. When the Lord Preceptor laughed in response, he dipped his head as if receiving praise.
Then he turned away, heading over to the great desk that had taken nearly half a platoon to carry from Xu. Slipping a scroll from the pile, he spread it out upon the wooden surface.
It was a map of the region. They had reached this area barely a week ago, and Fengxiao had mostly been confined behind curtains and walls like the concubine he was pretending to be, but Wenyuan felt absolutely no surprise that he had been able to get his hands on something like this.
“We are here,” Fengxiao pointed, “twenty miles from Changban. Two days of marching at a quick speed,” a little over a hundred miles, Wenyuan translated mentally, “and we will reach Jiangling, right on the edge of the Dongtian lake.” His finger circled the water that took up nearly the entire bottom third of the map.
“Liu Bei will head southwards to meet Sun Quan and Zhou Yu,” he continued. “Wulin faces Jiangling directly across Dongtian, so they will expect us to use that as the main battleground.” His lips twitched into a sharp smile, showing teeth. “Especially with this,” he traced the strip of land that bisected the lake into two, “right here.”
Wenyuan frowned. “They think that we will try to force them into a land battle.”
“The only naval troops I have,” the Lord Preceptor said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the map, “are those belonging to Cai Mao and Zhang Yun.”
He did not need to finish the sentence: those two commanders were once under Liu Qi, who had been allied with Liu Bei; in other words, their loyalties were still to be tested.
“In truth, we’re at a disadvantage,” General Xiahou said, cutting through obfuscation like he always did. “Our soldiers have never fought upon water, and they are unused to both the terrain and the water of the Southlands.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “We not only have to watch out for Sun-Liu’s attacks, but disease as well.”
“All the more reason for us to finish this quickly,” Fengxiao nodded. “Or so Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang would think.”
“Given that they will expect us to attack the very moment we settle in Jiangling,” Wenyuan said slowly, reaching out a hand to trace the town on the map. “Will we?”
Fengxiao snapped his fan open, and he smiled, showing teeth. “There is no greater fool,” he pronounced, “than a clever man who believes that he has predicted his enemy’s next move.”
Heaving another sigh, General Xiahou shook his head. “Are you going to stop smirking and actually tell us your grand plan at any point?”
“Your Shining Excellency?” Fengxiao turned to the Lord Preceptor.
“Go ahead,” the man nodded, crossing his arms. “The credit for this is yours entirely, Fengxiao.”
And Fengxiao told them. Wenyuan’s mouth went very dry as he imagined the battle that would come; the blood that would be spilled upon soil and the pain that would be wrought. The images unfolded in his mind as he watched the Lord Preceptor lips twist sharply enough to show a hint of teeth. It was, Wenyuan thought, a cruel smile.
A truth known by all soldiers: nine out of ten lords were cruel, and the last simply had not yet turned his ruthlessness against his men. There was no doubt that the Lord Preceptor was one of the nine, for he spent the lives under his command easily. But the same hand he used to send them to their deaths, he used to dole out fair rations of food, and they were rewarded according to their deeds, not according to the connections they were born with or had made within the army.
He was a man entirely unlike who Liu Bei was reputed to be; he neither showed his soldiers overt concern nor pandered to their wishes. But, Wenyuan thought as he watched his lord trace his fingers over the path that the soldiers would take, he was not Liu Bei’s opposite, either; he was Lü Bu’s.
The Lord Preceptor had sent his men to die, and would do so over and over again as the wars and battles raged on in this age of chaos. But men died as a matter of course, and soldiers perishing on the battlefield was merely a fact of war; all of them picked up a sword or a spear hoping that they would survive long enough to go home, but knowing, too, that it was unlikely. All they asked for was to not die for nothing.
When the Lord Preceptor’s men headed to their deaths, they knew that they died for a purpose; for something unselfish enough that they could believe in it.
Wenyuan knew the difference. His previous lord was Lü Bu, who had demanded unquestioning obedience from his soldiers even as he whipped them without reason, and who had shamelessly declared that he was sending soldiers to fight so that he could keep a beautiful woman he had stolen. Lü Bu was a fool that thought that his own martial prowess was enough to earn loyalty, and when he realised his mistake, he had already been betrayed.
“Yuanrang, take the command of the Tiger and Leopard Cavalry,” the Lord Preceptor said, the sudden sharpness of his tone jarring Wenyuan out of his thoughts. “You have seniority over Wenlië, but you must heed his advice as your second-in-command.”
Raising his arms, General Xiahou tucked the fingers of one hand behind the other. “This lowly soldier has heard his commands and will obey it,” he bowed.
“Wenyuan,” the Lord Preceptor turned to him, and Wenyuan straightened immediately. “I leave the Martial Guards to you.”
Breath tripping in his throat, Wenyuan swallowed. The Martial Guards were the surviving troops from when the Lord Preceptor had first raised an army against the tyrant Dong Zhuo nearly two decades ago; they were hardened, incredibly experienced, and near-fanatically loyal to the Lord Preceptor. To be given command of them, especially when the right should have been given to General Xiahou as the highest-ranking General…
Dipping his head down, Wenyuan saluted. “His Excellency’s commands have been heard and understood,” he said, pronouncing each word carefully. “This lowly soldier thanks His Excellency for the honour, and will do his utmost to fulfil them.”
“Good,” the Lord Preceptor nodded. “The soldiers will have two weeks of rest before we head towards Jiangling.” His eyes landed on first General Xiahou, and then Wenyuan. “Make sure everything that has to be prepared has been by then.”
“Understood!” the two generals saluted again.
Turning to the Lord Preceptor, Fengxiao practically purred, “You have given me a great opportunity, Your Excellency.” He lowered his head into a deep bow. “I have always desired to pit my wits against that of Zhuge Liang’s, or Zhou Yu’s.” He made a laugh as dark as his loose hair. “To have both of them at once is my fortune indeed.”
“A scholar,” General Xiahou said, sounding mildly amused, “would simply send an invitation for a game of weiqi.”
“If Zhuge Kongming desired to be a scholar, he should have stayed in his mountain,” Fengxiao snorted. “And if Zhou Yu wished to stay with his books, he would not have sworn brotherhood with Sun Ce, and married the younger sister of Sun Ce’s wife.”
Looking at the light in those dark eyes, Wenyuan wondered: why had he mentioned the younger of the Qiao sisters?
“Now,” Fengxiao said, snapping his fan closed. His vicious smile had returned, stretching his lips wide enough to bare his teeth. “I think it’s time for His Excellency’s concubine to make several appearances, isn’t it?” His gaze slid to the Lord Preceptor.
“Indeed,” their lord said. He held out a hand. “Cai Mao and Zhang Yun should be arriving soon; we should give a proper welcome to those who have frequently warred and interacted with Zhou Yu.”
Fengxiao bent his knees, once again a perfect imitation of the concubine he was pretending to be, and drew his veil over his nose.
“Inform the Generals to gather here in an hour,” the Lord Preceptor said, eyes fixed on Wenyuan. “Inform one of the men to tell the guards that Cai Mao and Zhang Yun should be announced with as much pomp and ceremony as we can manage at this time.”
Saluting again, Wenyuan spun on his heel and made his way out of the command tent. As he stepped over the threshold, he stopped, waiting for General Xiahou to receive his set of instructions so they could look to the men together and discuss plans for training.
“Close the flaps behind you,” the Lord Preceptor told him. Even without looking, Wenyuan knew he had waved his hand.
Ah.
Without turning, Wenyuan reached up and did so. When he was outside, standing under the red-streaked sky, Xu Zhongkang – the Lord Preceptor’s personal bodyguard – caught his eye, and raised an eyebrow. Wenyuan nodded to him in both confirmation and greeting, and headed straight for the medics’ tent.
No, the Lord Preceptor wasn’t like Lü Bu at all.