Chapter Five: The Hunter

The forest was eerily silent; even the usual chirping of birds was absent. In that quiet, the sudden noise was jarringly sharp, startling Liu Ji. It had to be the front tripwire that had been triggered—exactly the opportunity he’d been awaiting.

The hulking black figure that had been following him vanished in an instant. Liu Ji swiftly changed direction, circling around the edge of the trap zone. Owing to the slope, he now found himself on higher ground, able to survey the entire area below.

The outcome exceeded his expectations. The tripwire had momentarily freed him from the threat of the armored warrior, while the robed man, skilled in tracking, had been separated to another direction. Without hesitation, Liu Ji shed his sheepskin coat, making his body lighter, and crept toward his target.

Gondosongbu reacted quickly. He nocked an arrow to his bow, crouched low like a hunter, and moved rapidly through the forest, using the trees for cover. As long as Zuben could entangle the Tang man, he could provide precise ranged support.

Just when he was halfway there, a tremendous crash erupted, as if a wild beast had been felled. Heart pounding, he slowed his steps.

Had Zuben been ambushed?

Gondosongbu hesitated. If anything happened to Zuben, according to military law, all of them would face execution. Yet he could hardly believe that a warrior as fierce as Danangqi would be eliminated without even making a sound. Should he return to regroup with Zuben, or continue forward in hopes of intercepting the Tang man?

With his life at stake, he chose the former.

The moment he turned, Gondosongbu heard a sound rapidly approaching—soft, like a small animal. He paused in confusion, intending to glance back. It was then that disaster struck.

Warm sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a kaleidoscope of colors. A dark shadow darted from behind a trunk and lunged at him. The blade of a short knife, catching the sunlight, traced a rainbow arc straight at his head.

Blinded by the glare, Gondosongbu could only instinctively raise his wooden bow for defense. The rainbow slid down the sturdy bow in a semicircular line, and on that arc, a small protrusion appeared. By the time he realized what had happened, his ever-present bow had already been wrenched from his grasp.

He watched helplessly as it fell to the ground. Agonizing pain shot through his mind—his once-whole fingers had been sliced off at the root, leaving only four bloody holes. Gondosongbu dropped the arrow and clutched his wound with his good left hand, emitting a sharp, piercing scream. It was both a reflex and a warning cry.

Without slowing, Liu Ji collided with his opponent's shoulder to halt his momentum. He didn’t bother to finish him off with the knife. Instead, he stooped to snatch up the bow and arrow, flicked the severed fingers off the bow handle with his blade, then gripped the arrow shaft and drove the point deep into Gondosongbu’s thigh.

“Don’t pull it out. If you do, you’ll die,” he kindly advised before departing, speaking in halting Tibetan.

As the anguished cry rang out, Danangqi had just scrambled up from the ground. He’d been running too fast; a sudden trip had sent him sprawling. Fortunately, years of battlefield experience served him well—he rolled to a defensive posture, heavy armor clanking, with blade and shield raised.

But the expected ambush did not come. Glancing at his feet, he saw his leather boots tangled in two strips of bark. If that wasn’t some freak of nature, then it could only mean—

The Tang man had never intended to flee; he’d feigned weakness to lure him in. The realization sent a chill down his spine.

Danangqi quickly sat up and hacked the bark from his legs. Once his feet were free, he heard the scream.

Without hesitation, he ran toward the source, eyes scanning the ground. Soon he found Gondosongbu, slumped against a tree, clutching his mutilated hand and looking utterly wretched.

He stopped, eyes wary of the surroundings. When his gaze fell on the severed fingers scattered on the ground, his expression flickered. A man without fingers, no matter how deep the arrow in his thigh, was nothing more than a cripple—unworthy of further concern.

Yet the Tang man could have killed him—why hadn’t he?

With this question gnawing at him, he demanded, “Where did the Tang man go?”

“He went that way,” Gondosongbu replied weakly, face pale with blood loss, pointing in the direction.

Danangqi froze for a moment. Then anger flared in his heart—his opponent had left this man alive just to show him the way. How dare that greenhorn Tang brat? Fury welled up within him, threatening to spill over.

Without a word, he turned and strode off, offering no parting words. Gondosongbu opened his mouth, meaning to warn him that the Tang man spoke Tibetan, but in the end said nothing.

In truth, Danangqi’s thoughts were not so simple. The direction indicated was not deeper into the forest, but the opposite. This made him suspicious. Outside the woods, only one man stood watch—was the Tang man planning to eliminate all his helpers before dealing with him?

More likely, he was after the horses.

So Danangqi had no choice but to give chase. Yet, though anxious, his steps grew steadier, his left-hand shield covering most of his body, right-hand blade clearing the way ahead.

As expected, he soon stumbled upon another anomaly—a vine hidden in the grass, not growing naturally upward but stretched across his path like the earlier bark tripwire. The same trick again? Danangqi snorted and flicked his blade; with a snap, the taut vine recoiled like a serpent.

He was about to move forward when a long, black object swept toward him with a howling wind, impossibly fast. He barely managed to raise his shield before a massive force sent him flying, crashing heavily to the ground.

His vision blurred. The blade flew from his grasp, his helmet was gone, and his chest felt as though struck by lightning. The sturdy rattan shield was deformed by the impact. He could not feel his limbs. For a moment, Danangqi even fancied he’d been hit by a boulder from a siege engine, but he knew in his heart—it was another trap set by the Tang man.

How was he still alive?

Liu Ji was as surprised as the fallen Danangqi. A nearly three-meter-tall fir tree, bent into a bow and lashed to a stone with a thick vine, had unleashed a force of at least a thousand pounds directly into his foe—yet not a drop of blood had been coughed up.

He was glad he hadn’t tried to deal with the armored warrior first.

But it wasn’t over yet. While his opponent was still recovering, Liu Ji knew he must strike. He set aside all underestimation, rose from his concealment, and dashed forward.

For a hunter, the most dangerous moment is when the beast is wounded but not yet dead.