MFMH C88

Chapter 88 — He Has Returned

Autumn winds moaned, banners snapped, war drums rolled. The silver-armored general swung his spear with cold precision, reaping the lives of the enemy; new recruits who had already been through two battles lay scattered around him. Some of those raw soldiers had their eyes bloodshot with rage and charged at the foe without fear; others were so terrified they could not lift a blade and were driven before the enemy.

Previously, in the skirmishes with the barbarians, their tasks had been guarding supplies and protecting flanks — they had not faced the enemy head-on. Now, by order of the Grand General, the Duke’s heir led them to intercept a raiding party of barbarian cavalry, and for the first time they found themselves in direct combat.

In the recent days the two armies had exchanged blows, wins and losses on both sides, but everyone knew this was only the beginning. The barbarians were cunning; they often sent a few thousand horsemen to make a show of force, fired a handful of arrows and then fled — infuriating and maddening.

This mix of feints and real attacks was dangerous: if they grew complacent from false alarms, one day the barbarians might mass a real army and break through while the defenders were exhausted.

“Ah!” Amid the chaos a recruit suddenly shrieked. A searing pain in his back sent him staggering; he collapsed to his knees and crawled on the ground.

A spear shot across from afar and drove through the body of the pursuing barbarian horseman behind him. The force was vicious enough to unseat the rider. The riderless mount continued forward at a full gallop and was about to trample the injured recruit.

The recruit’s eyes widened in terror; despair poured from his gaze. The sudden turn of events left him no time to react — he awaited death like some surrendered thing.

A figure dropped into the fray like lightning. The silvery armor flashed in the hard sun. The man on the warhorse tightened the reins; the steed reared, forehooves high—

“If you don’t want to die, pick up your blade and cut off an enemy’s head. If there’s a next time, I’ll only be able to send your effects home to your family.” Gu Changfeng spoke calmly, then rode over and tore his spear free from the barbarian’s corpse. Blood spurted; the rider was dead through and through.

The recruit watched the officer take his spear like an invincible blade and plunge it into the enemy cavalry again. Tears came to his eyes; he sobbed aloud.

He had been terrified — too frightened to lift a sword — but the general was right: if he did not want to die, he ought to kill the enemy. If the enemy fell, he would not have to.

Ignoring the wound in his back, the recruit gripped his sword with shaking hands and hauled himself upright.

Many recruits were like him. Some feigned death out of fear, only to be struck by stray arrows or trampled by cavalry; others, when discovered, were slaughtered. At first Gu Changfeng had flared with anger at their cowardice, but repetition had made him numb. With only himself he could not watch over everyone; he might rescue a man once, twice — but come the third time, he too would be weary, his strength would ebb.

Only now did he truly grasp what Tai Qigang had warned him about. Still, seeing his men in danger, he could not help but raise his spear and drive it clean through another foe.

Fear of death is natural; no one is without it. He could not force them to be fearless, but he could attempt to shift their minds, to kindle their fighting spirit little by little.

Riding across the battlefield, spear in hand as if cutting through ghosts, Gu Changfeng strode into a scene of carnage. Barbarian horsemen were unseated; brave recruits rushed in to finish them.

Two thousand raw levies against eight hundred barbarian riders — victory, but with heavy losses.

War sorted the strong from the weak in merciless fashion. Having learned to steel himself, Gu Changfeng gave a blank-eyed order to collect the dead and withdraw.

He returned to camp in the deepening dusk, the sun low and long shadows stretching the new soldiers’ silhouettes. Their faces carried the remainder of adrenaline and the aftertaste of fear.

Other units training nearby fell to watching the returning camp. They had been recruits once; they knew what cruel forging a soldier required. A man making lewd jokes one day might be dead the next. The senior officers nodded greetings to Gu Changfeng; he returned them with a silent bow. The frontier troops had grown used to seeing the heir of the Duke — that dark mole between his brows — lead his men to drill, and they had grown accustomed to his taciturnity.

Aside from the extra shade of his birthmark, he was no different from any hardy soldier. The fuss caused by his being a shuang’er had quieted once people met him. His large, muscular frame and masculine vigor did not reconcile with the image of a delicate shuang’er. At first some treated him with unusual kindness, but Gu Changfeng did not need it — his physique, skill, endurance and resolve outclassed most. After so much rolling and sweating in camp, folk forgot he was a shuang’er; in their minds he became simply the general’s son, a man who had not shamed his father.

Changing the way people saw his gender did not erase the label of “the Grand General’s son.” Some could not help comparing him to his father and murmuring “a tiger gives birth to no dog,” yet they stopped short of saying anything more, offering only a sigh.

Gu Changfeng felt no discomfort. He was his father’s son, and proud of it. Such guarded, challenging looks only fueled his drive rather than weighing him down.

Beyond the title of Duke’s heir, he was just a taciturn fighter who wanted to be better — to match the youth he loved. Nothing, no person, would stand in the way of that.

He tightened his reins; his gaze was more resolute than ever.

If the youth knew what he thought, he would pity him for the toil, but he would also respect his choice. In times of exhaustion he would rest his head against the youth’s shoulder, and the youth would worry and cook nourishing food for him…

Thinking that, the hard line of Gu Changfeng’s mouth curved a little, then pressed flat again.

Half a year had passed without a meeting. He missed him but dared not write, for fear of receiving a reply that asked whether he had been hurt. He would not lie — and he could not bear to cause the youth worry — so he simply did not write. Strangely, the youth had also written no letters.

Had the youth been angry? If so… then at their reunion he would apologize, kiss him, and — that night — take initiative.

Sighing, he rode toward the camp gate. When he looked up, he found a tall, graceful young man standing just outside the gate. The youth’s features were handsome, his manner gentle, his clothes dusted from travel. At the sound of hooves he turned; when his eyes met Gu Changfeng’s they burst like fireworks in the ink-black night, dazzling and brilliant as the sky filled with color.

Gu Changfeng thought he had hallucinated.

The shape of that brow, those eyes, the curve of that mouth — everything matched the youth in his heart.

Then he understood it was no illusion.

Clad in rich red official robes, the young man strode forward with a familiar smile and reached out, “You’ve returned?” His tone was as natural as a husband greeting a spouse come back from a short errand.

The recruits whispered, “Who is he? He speaks like a husband greeting his wife!”

Gu Changfeng’s chest trembled; sweet threads of warmth spread through him and sang of joy.

I did not refrain from writing because I was angry — I wanted to see you with my own eyes and confirm you are well.

Amid the curious stares, Gu Changfeng placed his hand in the youth’s, vaulted down from his horse.

The recruits were dumbstruck.

“I have returned,” Gu Changfeng said, his voice hoarse, emotion overwhelming words.

Shen Yanbei smiled lightly, squeezed his hand and let go. “The Emperor ordered me to escort military supplies and send greetings to the troops. The Grand General has the cooks prepare a hearty meal. After you change you must come to the banquet.”

He turned to the recruits standing behind Gu Changfeng. “You’ve all worked hard; tonight there will be meat for everyone.”

A cheer rose. Frontier rations were plain and regular; meat came rarely as reward for victory. The men could not contain their delight.

“Good.” Gu Changfeng suppressed his quickened heartbeat, voice steady.

He still had to file his report; the men needed rest. Shen Yanbei watched the armored, noble figure with greedy eyes. “I will await the heir’s arrival.”

Gu Changfeng swallowed, looked at him for a long moment, and turned into the gate.

Shen watched him go, tightened his fist and chuckled softly.

Riding northwest, the closer he came to the border the more desolate the land grew. The landscape lacked the finery of the Central Plains, but the frontier’s high skies and the hawks wheeling above lent a wild, rugged beauty.

Approaching the garrison Shen saw the camps rise like a small town; training shouts echoed across the open plain and filled his chest with martial ardor.

At the camp gates he reported his name and rank. In moments the Grand General Tai Qigang and his officers came to meet him. After courtesies and under the pretense of inspecting new recruits, Shen could not help asking about his husband. He was told the heir had led two thousand recruits to intercept barbarian cavalry and should be due back soon.

Anxious, Shen left the tents unsettled and went to the gate to watch his husband’s return.

The sun, low and blood-red, saw a mounted party racing toward them. The general at the front held the reins in one hand and a spear in the other; his figure was as straight as a pine, demeanor calm as a mountain. Under fierce brows his black eyes were deep pools of power; his bearing ignited something in Shen.

His husband looked spectacular in armor.

Shen’s restless heart at last stilled.

That night the officers put on a respectable dinner to welcome the imperial envoy. Men guzzled and gorged while Shen sipped sparingly, his gaze often slipping to a certain man. The coarse fighters would not force him to drink — he was a civil official and the year’s top scholar — so after some polite toasts the rougher sorts broke into boisterous gossip.

General Tai praised Shen for the tidy handling of the Liuyang relief and for quelling the locust plague in Shangrao; Shen accepted the praise with modest laughter. He excused himself early, claiming a weak head, and went back to his tent to rest.

Gu Changfeng, who had been quietly drinking, also took his leave.

In the dark it was hard to say who ripped whose robes first; a tearing of cloth, a bubble of laughter, then heavy panting. Two shapes blurred together, breaths touching, lips and tongues entwined; they tumbled into the bed, tangled and fervent.