Chapter Thirty-One: Spies

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The magistrate of Song County had stationed spies near the constable's office, and naturally, Constable Feng had also planted his own men within the county yamen. The two had been locked in rivalry at Anqiang for years, each employing every means to guard against and keep watch over the other.

Constable Feng was well aware that this operation would inevitably be shadowed by Song’s people and had already anticipated that word would be sent to Panlong Ridge. Therefore, on one hand, he led a small group of county soldiers out of the southern gate with great fanfare to mislead the magistrate, while on the other hand, he ordered his soldiers, disguised in plain clothes, to wait until nightfall before leaving the city and regrouping.

Song’s spies kept a close watch near the county soldiers’ camp the entire day, yet as the sun began to sink, not the slightest movement was observed. “By now, that wretch Feng should have long since reached Panlong Ridge, so why is there not a stir in the camp?” one spy muttered to himself, then turned to the other, “I’ll keep watch here. You go and report to Master Song.”

The other spy acknowledged the command and hurried towards the yamen.

Song and his adviser Zhao had waited all day for news of an assault on Panlong Ridge, but none came. When the message arrived from the spy monitoring the soldiers' camp, their confusion only deepened.

“If Feng isn’t attacking Panlong Ridge, then where in the world is he going?” Song lost all interest in his tea, absently twirling his thin moustache as he pondered, and Zhao frowned in silent thought.

After leaving town, Constable Feng’s company did indeed head towards Panlong Ridge at first, but midway they suddenly dispersed and slipped into the mountains. The yamen runner sent by Song to follow lost their trail entirely and had no choice but to return with his report.

Song, infuriated, cursed the runner roundly, but there was little he could do. In these ancient times, there was no GPS to track them, nor drones to search by air; once a group hid in the forests, they might as well have vanished into thin air.

No unusual reports came from the county soldiers’ camp either, which left Song with a lingering sense of unease.

“Send word to Panlong Ridge—tell them to be on the highest alert; even when sleeping, they must keep one eye open!” Zhao, unable to fathom the situation, could only order his men to warn Panlong Ridge to prepare for anything.

At dusk, the disguised county soldiers left the camp in groups under their captain’s lead. Each pushed a wheelbarrow covered with canvas, appearing for all the world like common folk delivering supplies to the camp.

At this, Song’s spies took note and, after some consideration, hurried to report the development.

“What sort of news is this? The camp receives supply deliveries every few days—sounds perfectly normal to me,” Song said dismissively to the reporting spy.

“From what I know, supplies were just delivered the day before yesterday. There’s something off about this,” Zhao, however, had caught a whiff of something amiss. He instructed the spy, “Follow those men and find out where they’re headed!”

The spy bowed and left, and a shadow of worry crossed Zhao’s face as well.

Once Constable Feng and his men had shaken Song’s spies, they regrouped and pressed on towards East Ridge Village. By night, their torches wound along the mountain paths like a solemn procession—a fiery dragon gliding silently between the ridges.

Meanwhile, the villagers of East Ridge were sunk deep in worry.

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News that Qi Jun had dug a well on the riverbank quickly spread, drawing villagers from neighboring settlements to collect water. Fearing the water would run dry, the people of East Ridge tried to prevent outsiders from taking any, and clashes soon broke out.

News of the well also reached Panlong Ridge, and on the very afternoon Qi Jun and Liu Kui went to town seeking help, the bandit chief sent a lieutenant and a few henchmen into the village. Driving away the villagers who’d come for water, they declared the well the property of their leader, set up a shack for guards, and announced that anyone wanting water must pay for it.

Though seething inside, the villagers dared not defy them. They gathered at the elder’s house to discuss, but after much talk, none dared confront the bandits, let alone try to seize back the well.

After hours of futile debate, the people could only disperse with heavy hearts.

“If only Master Qi were here, perhaps he’d have a solution,” the elder said, his brows deeply furrowed as he gazed into the night. “I wonder how he and Fei’er are doing now. Any news from the county?”

“Alas, none… I only heard he’s no longer in jail, but where he’s gone, I know not…” Liu Kui replied, guilt in his voice. “Didn’t Constable Feng say he was acquainted with Master Qi? I doubt he’d give him trouble…”

“He did say that…” The elder’s frown eased a little. “But who can say how much to trust the words of officials? Go into town tomorrow and try to find out more.”

“Elder, bad news! The bandits have come!” Suddenly, Liu Biao’s urgent voice sounded as he hammered at the gate.

Both the elder and Liu Kui jumped up, Liu Kui hurrying to let Liu Biao in.

“What did you say? Bandits? What are they doing here at this hour?” Liu Kui steadied Liu Biao and, after a moment’s thought, asked, “Are you sure?”

“I was setting traps in the hills and saw a line of torchlights heading this way—from the direction of Panlong Ridge. Who else could it be but the bandits? The scoundrels, it wasn’t enough for them to seize the well—what do they want now?” Liu Biao took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.

“This is bad—bandits never mean well. Biaozi, take the elder and leave at once. I’ll alert everyone to evacuate!” Liu Kui wasted no time, clapped Liu Biao’s shoulder, grabbed the village gong, and sprinted out.

The sudden clang of the gong roused villagers from their beds and from the threshold of sleep. They threw on their clothes and rushed out to see what was happening. Hearing Liu Kui’s shout that bandits were coming, panic took hold; they hurried back inside, frantically gathering whatever they could carry.

Soon the whole village was in uproar. The sound of running feet mingled with children’s wails, filling every heart with terror and unease.

By this time, Constable Feng’s company had come down from the hills and approached the village outskirts. In the distance, the riverbank and the old tree at the village entrance were visible in the night, but they had no inkling that they had triggered East Ridge’s emergency.

Qi Jun, still unskilled at riding, had shared a horse with the squad captain all the way, the jostling mountain roads leaving his legs numb.

The column suddenly halted. A scout rode up to Constable Feng, saluted, and reported, “Sir, there’s a grass hut up ahead on the riverbank, lit from within.”

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In the Liang realm, lamp oil was rare and costly; common folk would never burn it for illumination, nor did they have any diversions at night. Once darkness fell, villagers retired early to bed. So, a grass hut aglow by the river at this hour immediately piqued the scout’s suspicion, and he reported it to Constable Feng.

Qi Jun raised his brows in surprise—he knew there was no such hut on the riverbank. Then he reasoned that perhaps the elder had built it to guard the well, though he wondered which villager would be so extravagant as to burn a lamp.

Constable Feng, unfamiliar with East Ridge Village, cast a questioning look at Qi Jun.

“I recall there was no hut here. Let’s go ask and find out,” Qi Jun suggested thoughtfully.

Constable Feng nodded and motioned the company onward.

Inside the hut were the bandit lieutenant and his henchmen, posted to guard the well. At this moment, they were engrossed in gambling, shouting “Big or small? Place your bets!” oblivious to anyone approaching.

“Damn it, what rotten luck!” one of the bandits cursed as he lost, undoing his belt while lifting the grass curtain to step outside.

He looked up and was startled speechless to see county soldiers approaching, blades at their sides. The soldiers, still some distance away, mistook him for a villager and did not raise their guard.

“Soldiers! Grab your weapons!” The bandit recovered quickly, bellowing the alarm. The ruckus inside the hut ceased instantly, followed by the sound of blades being drawn.

By now, the leading soldiers had approached and, seeing the men before the hut, realized their mistake. They drew their swords, pointing them at the bandits, who in turn rushed out, wielding their own weapons in panic.

A tense standoff ensued.

The county soldiers, accustomed to bullying poor villagers, had little real experience fighting bandits. This campaign, they assumed, was just for show—no need to risk their lives in earnest. The bandits, for their part, had not been warned of any assault on Panlong Ridge, nor would they normally pick a fight with the authorities. Over time, both sides had tacitly maintained a fragile peace, never crossing the line. Thus, though swords were drawn and tempers flared, neither side moved to strike.

“What are you waiting for? Kill them!”

A command rang out from behind the county soldiers, shattering the brief stalemate like a sharp blade. In that instant, the campaign against the bandits began in deadly earnest.