Chapter Six: The Harp

Danangqi lay flat on his back, not feeling a stabbing pain, but rather numbness and a loss of control over his body. His mind buzzed, his vision was blurred. Summoning the only muscle he could still move, he clenched his jaw and bit down hard. A gush of blood seeped from his tongue, the sudden pain snapping him somewhat back to his senses. He opened his eyes, barely able to adjust before a shadow blocked the light, and the calm face of that young Tang man appeared before him.

Just as before with the knight, Liu Ji was once again confronting an opponent clad in armor from head to toe, standing close to one meter ninety, at least a head and a half taller than himself. Though the iron helmet was gone, the man's head was still wrapped in thick plates; Liu Ji had no choice but to lift the faceplate, as he’d done earlier, then stab towards the neck.

There was a muffled sound as the short blade struck something solid. No matter how much force he used, he could not drive it further. It was a half-broken rattan shield, the coarse vines tightly binding the blade so it could neither pierce nor withdraw.

A scream erupted from the man on the ground. Liu Ji felt his hand, clutching the blade, wrenched by an immense force; he could barely hold on. He hadn’t anticipated the sheer strength of this warrior—it was far beyond his expectations. Had he not landed that earlier strike, he dared not imagine the consequences. No wonder his opponent had dared chase him into the forest with just one companion.

Now, their eyes met. The man’s ferocious face was less than half a meter away. His eyes glared like brass bells, his blood-smeared teeth clenched, grinding audibly. With the rattan shield, he clamped down on Liu Ji’s blade, inching it away bit by bit.

This body was too young; neither strength nor technique yet met the standards of his later life. The longer the struggle dragged on, the more his opponent would recover. He could not afford to be deadlocked. In desperation, Liu Ji quickly devised a plan.

He first pulled back sharply, and as his adversary exerted force, he suddenly let go. The rattan shield, with the short blade still stuck, was wrenched free by Danangqi’s own strength and flew into the distant grass.

Freed, Liu Ji immediately grabbed his opponent’s head, pinned his knee on the man’s chest, leaned forward, locking the neck with his elbow while using the other hand to hold the head—a textbook stranglehold.

Now, with a twist of his arms in opposite directions, he could silently end the man's life. Yet, try as he might, his hands would not budge. Looking down, he saw his arms gripped in iron-like hands, slowly being pried from the neck.

Danangqi’s head freed itself, and despite Liu Ji’s knee pressing on his chest, the man forced himself upright, gasping for breath, baring his teeth.

“Kill me? With just you?” The words emerged in clumsy Chinese, each syllable spat out with a foul, bloody stench that made Liu Ji nauseous.

It seemed the enemy had regained much of his strength—and gauged the disparity between them. Liu Ji made a snap decision: he released his grip on the man’s chest, leaped to his feet, and darted behind Danangqi.

Danangqi, thinking Liu Ji would choke him from behind, continued to tear at the arm across his chest. But Liu Ji, now freed, swung the wooden bow slung from his shoulder, slipped the bowstring around Danangqi’s neck, gripped the bow’s midsection with one hand, and pulled back with all his might.

This was a hardwood longbow, about sixty centimeters, horn tips reinforcing both ends. The taut, resilient string pressed tightly against Danangqi’s neck and faceplate, pulling his head back.

With the faceplate in place, Danangqi’s vision was poor. He only saw a black line drop from above, stopping at his neck. But instinct told him what his opponent was doing. Swiftly, he released the arm across his chest and reached back with both hands to yank at the bowstring, arching his body backward.

A natural response—he was stronger than his adversary. As long as he created a gap, he could free his head. Yet, instead of falling back, he was blocked by something hard.

It was Liu Ji’s right knee bracing his back, while his left leg pushed for leverage. Both hands gripped the bow’s ends, twisting them clockwise. The bowstring tightened rapidly, crossing into a knot at the back of Danangqi’s head. As Liu Ji kept tightening, the knot grew longer and ever more constricting.

Danangqi’s very reaction was exactly what Liu Ji hoped for. This method of killing was elegantly known in the West as “Aphrodite’s Harp.” In this era, it had a more domineering name—Qin King’s Stranglehold. During the coup at the Xuanwu Gate, Li Shimin had used this very move to kill his own brother, to avoid bloodshed.

The bowstring’s tenacity allowed Danangqi to force it open less and less with each effort. Soon, his fingers were caught in the tightening noose, the iron plates sewn into leather pressing hard against his throat. His breath became ragged; he could only gasp hoarsely, legs scraping furiously against the ground, his eyes bulging in terror.

He had never imagined he would one day become the prey, at the mercy of someone else—let alone a young man from the Tang. To die this way, so humiliating—he could not accept it.

Desperate for leverage, Danangqi managed to wedge his palms under the string. The sharp edge sliced his flesh, blood dripping down, but he felt no pain. The suffocating sensation was all-consuming, like a fish plucked from water, his only desire to loosen the noose enough to gasp for air.

Liu Ji was hardly at ease. The tighter the bowstring, the greater the resistance. He summoned all his strength, though his turning grew slower and slower. Fortunately, his foe’s struggles weakened, only the hands on his neck still twitching, even as the bowstring sank deep into the flesh, exposing raw, red muscle.

Gritting out a strangled groan, Liu Ji shut his eyes, preparing to deliver the final twist and end this relentless adversary—when suddenly, a faint, rustling sound of footsteps reached his ears, close and swift.

Startled, Liu Ji recoiled, tucking in his knee and twisting aside. A blade flashed before his eyes with a whistle; a cold sting lanced his shoulder, and blood welled from the cut, running down his arm.

So close! A fraction slower and that blade would have landed on his neck.

Less than a meter away, Gongdosongbu crouched, his right hand wrapped in strips of torn cloth, left hand gripping a long knife. The arrow once lodged in his thigh was now only a stub, and his face—pale from blood loss—looked as deathly as a corpse, enough to chill the bone.

“Let him go, or I’ll kill you,” Gongdosongbu snarled in a guttural, beast-like rasp, jaw clenched, the tip of his blade trembling, blood dripping steadily to the ground.

He spoke in the language of Tubo, well aware that the young Tang man understood his words.