7. The Executioner of a Hundred Households

Supported by the young girl, the man dismounted, his legs trembling like chaff. He could barely manage to stand.

"Father, sit down and rest a while," the young girl said softly.

Yang Fan looked closely. The man was around forty, not tall, very thin, but wiry and tough. His face bore an air of ferocity, and his triangular eyes, filled with a sinister and violent glint, marked him as anything but a kind soul. Yang Fan wondered to himself how such a man could have fathered such a delicate and lovely young lady; it was truly a mystery.

The man pushed the girl aside, straightened his posture, and cupped his hands in a salute. "Many thanks, young brother, for saving my life. May I ask your name?"

Under the man's gaze, Yang Fan felt as if he were being watched by a viper. He thought to himself that this fellow looked exactly like a secret agent—perhaps even from the Eastern Depot. His own background was not something he wanted exposed. As he pondered how to answer, the young fatty suddenly spoke up: "His name is Yang Fan. He is a servant in my household."

A wave of warmth washed over Yang Fan. The young fatty was truly considerate; knowing that revealing his true identity might bring trouble, he had intercepted the question immediately. The lad had a good sense of responsibility.

Seeing the two strangers eyeing them, the young fatty continued, "I am Wei Fugui. My father is Wei Nancheng, the largest iron merchant in Zunhua. This is Yang Fan, a servant of our family. We are out for a stroll, and he is responsible for my safety. If you have any business, speak to me."

He puffed out his chest, looking full of himself—the very image of a local bully’s spoiled son.

The two strangers exchanged glances. There was indeed a Wei Nancheng in Zunhua, a local tycoon and notorious bully. He monopolized most of the iron mines and foundries and had deep ties with civil officials, garrison command posts, and frontier army camps. The lad’s arrogant demeanor suggested he was telling the truth.

The man asked, "Why do you have two sets of Tartar armor on your horses?"

The young fatty’s face lit up with excitement, and he began to boast: "We ran into three Tartars who tried to rob us. I am the 'Conqueror of the Three Passes' here in Zunhua! They didn't bother to ask around before trying to pull a stunt on me. They must have had the guts of a leopard to cross me. With a wave of my hand, I took their heads, seized their horses, and stripped them of their armor. Then I tossed them down a well. Heh, I kill them, but I don't bother burying them!"

"Pah! You? You haven't even grown your beard yet, and you're talking about killing and not burying? If I give you a kick, I'll make sure your backside blooms like a flower. I'll show you how to kill without burying!" the girl spat, making a gesture as if to whip the young fatty.

"Oh! Murder! Help, murder!" The young fatty, not wanting to suffer immediate losses, scrambled behind Yang Fan.

"What! You killed three Tartars?" the man exclaimed in shock. He knew that the intruders this time were elite White Banner soldiers from the Jurchen ranks—the cream of the crop, not some mere scavengers.

Yang Fan knew that in these chaotic times, strength was one's best shield. Facts spoke louder than words. Without a word, he walked to the packhorse, tugged at a sack, and three heads with braided "money-rat tails" rolled out onto the ground.

"Real Jurchens!" the young girl gasped, her face flushing red.

She and her father had been pursued by the Tartars like stray dogs, utterly humiliated. If Yang Fan had not intervened, they would have perished. Not only had he saved them, but he had also killed three of their pursuers beforehand. She knew all too well how difficult these Tartars were to deal with; the small squad of men she had brought with her had been reduced to just her and her father. That this unassuming man had actually killed three Tartars was simply unbelievable.

The man looked at a set of armor and suddenly asked, "Whose armor is this?"

Yang Fan kicked the head whose face had been smashed to pieces by a flail and gestured toward it. The man hurried over, examined it repeatedly, and a look of agitation appeared on his face. The young woman also stared at the head, looking tense.

"Father, it can't be, can it?" she asked, her expression one of utter disbelief. She turned to look at the man.

"It is him. I have crossed swords with him a dozen times. It is him," the man whispered.

"Bobai!"

The man nodded slowly. He sighed and said, "This Bobai was one of the Old Khan’s personal guards. He has been in charge of scouting parties against the Great Ming for years. Over the past decade, he has infiltrated our Ming frontier defenses dozens of times as if walking through an empty land. To think he died here today."

He sighed repeatedly, a sense of shared fate between enemies. Often, the people who understand you best in this world are your foes. Bobai had been a hero in his own right, cunning and resourceful; to see such a long-time rival fall at the hands of some unknown young man left him with mixed feelings. He held no personal grudge against Bobai—they each served their own masters—and in fact, he held a certain admiration for the man.

The man stood up and turned toward Yang Fan, his expression now changed.

"Would you be willing to follow me back to the capital and serve the Imperial Court?" the man asked, bowing solemnly.

Yang Fan was momentarily stunned. It seemed he had killed a high-ranking Manchu official, and this man wanted to recruit him. Having been hardened by the harsh realities of society, Yang Fan knew that when people show you respect, it is rarely because they respect you as a person; it is because you have the strength to be respected or possess value.

He figured killing this chieftain was a great achievement. If he could be brought under this man’s command, the credit would fall to him. If this man were truly a leader of the Eastern Depot’s spies, Yang Fan would be in danger. Seeing how deeply the Ming Dynasty had been infiltrated—with Jurchen soldiers roaming the Jizhen garrison, the most important pass in the empire, in broad daylight—it was impossible without internal assistance.

If they knew he had killed this "Bobai," it would be easy for them to take revenge. If this man used that to threaten him, what could he do? Join the Eastern Depot and become a secret agent? That job might be even more dangerous than being targeted by the Manchus.

As Yang Fan pondered, he heard the young fatty shouting angrily, "Hey, you really have some nerve, trying to poach someone right in front of me! Do you know who my father is? I’ll make sure you can't walk out of Jizhen, believe that?"

The young girl sneered, "I don't know who your father is, but I know who my father is. He is Tu Shanyong, a judge-hundred-commander of the Eastern Depot, second to only two men in the entire organization. Who are you to compare fathers with him?"

Yang Fan was speechless. Well, it seemed this was indeed an era of "dad-bragging."

Yang Fan had already made up his mind. While this seemed like a golden opportunity, he had arrived here too recently and wouldn't withstand a background check. Such secret agencies were not easily fooled, and this path was not for him. Moreover, the man looked like a villain—a snake-like waist and triangular eyes, clearly a ruthless character. As a lowly migrant worker, the status gap between him and a high-ranking official of the Eastern Depot was too vast. Dealing with such a person was just asking for trouble.

"I am accustomed to being a free spirit, unconstrained and fond of my freedom. I must decline your kind offer, sir."

Tu Shan was surprised that Yang Fan had refused so quickly. To weigh the pros and cons in such a short time, and to remain unmoved by the prospect of joining the Eastern Depot, showed a level of composure that was far from simple. He looked at Yang Fan with even greater respect, yet felt a pang of disappointment and anxiety.

His mission had been an utter failure, not only losing his daughter's entire escort team but also sustaining serious injuries himself. If he could bring back Bobai's head, it would not only negate the failure but be recorded as a hard-won victory against a major enemy. But how could he get this kid to hand over the head, the armor, and the token of identity?

The man had just saved his daughter's life. Even with the cold-blooded, thick-skinned training of the Eastern Depot, he could not bring himself to threaten Yang Fan. This lad was going to be a difficult one to handle.