Chapter Thirteen: The Master Archer

The bandits of the Great Yan Kingdom differed somewhat from what Zhao Hengyi had always imagined. Within the borders of Great Yan, bandits, or rather brigands, formed an unusually complex group. Among them were ruthless killers who thought nothing of taking a life, as well as poor souls forced into outlawry with their entire families simply because they could not pay their taxes, and even a fair number of old soldiers discharged from the army.

These men spread like wild grass, flourishing without restraint; around nearly every county town, several gangs of varying strength entrenched themselves in the hills. The authorities of Great Yan held a peculiarly ambiguous stance toward these bandits. Take Dangyang County, for example: there were no fewer than five bandit gangs operating in the surrounding hills. Everyone in the county was well aware that these outlaws preyed on passing merchants and even dared to extort grain and supplies from the villages. Yet, oddly enough, the magistrate and his constables managed to coexist with the bandits without trouble.

Every three or five years, the county magistrate would formally request the nearby garrison to launch an expedition against the bandits. But each campaign was more show than substance: a few scrawny captives would be dragged from the mountains to be executed, allowing the magistrate and the soldiers to claim some credit, yet the strength and audacity of the bandits remained undiminished.

Zhao Hengyi, with the perspective of two lifetimes, saw the truth of these affairs clearly. Truly, the rot in Great Yan ran from top to bottom, inside and out!

As a hunter, Old Wu was no stranger to bandits. He could even recount in detail the origins of the five gangs haunting Dangyang’s vicinity. The news that Liu Shuang had fallen in with the bandits came as a genuine surprise to him. In Old Wu’s memory, Liu Shuang was nothing more than a lazy, gluttonous gambler—a petty ruffian who bullied the weak and feared the strong, hardly the type to consort with murderous brigands. With Liu Shuang’s disposition, the mere sight of real bandits would surely have sent him running for the hills, wailing for his mother.

What’s more, Liu Shuang’s own father had died at the hands of bandits.

Some ten years prior, the bandits from Broken Cliff Mountain came to Elm Bay to demand grain and found themselves in conflict with the villagers. Ordinarily, common folk offered little resistance to armed bandits. But that year a locust plague had devastated the harvest, and after the county constables had finished their own pillaging, there was barely enough grain left in anyone’s storehouse to pay the taxes, let alone satisfy the bandits’ demands.

With no other way out, the villagers of Elm Bay, led by a retired soldier, fought back against the bandits from Broken Cliff Mountain. Elm Bay was a settlement of refugees, poor and without roots, many of whose men had been conscripted into the border army for failing to pay their taxes. Yet precisely because poverty was so widespread, the village had more than a few hardened veterans returned from the army.

That fight cost many lives, but from then on, the bandits never again came to Elm Bay demanding grain. The leader of the villagers in that desperate battle had been none other than Liu Shuang’s father. For this reason, Liu Shuang’s feud with the bandits was quite literally a blood debt—irreconcilable and bitter.

Because of this, the village elder and the other seniors had always turned a blind eye to Liu Shuang’s petty misdeeds; after all, had it not been for his father, the villagers would have had to face both the magistrate’s taxes and the bandits’ exactions every year.

Now Liu Shuang had joined forces with the very bandits who killed his father, turning against his own people. Old Wu could only marvel at how utterly rotten the young man had become!

“Master, if we want to deal with the bandits, our hunting team alone won’t be enough. We need to find Wang Dahu!”

Under Zhang Daniu’s urgent efforts, the hunting team was now equipped with eight crossbows. But Old Wu knew well that, even with such deadly weapons, the hunters—unaccustomed to bloodshed—might fare well against wild beasts, but would be no match for seasoned bandits.

Zhao Hengyi recalled Wang Dahu as a rather inconspicuous middle-aged man in the village. He was the older brother of Wang Erhu from the hunting team. Years ago, unable to pay his taxes, he had been conscripted into the border army, where he spent five years and lost his left arm before finally returning home.

Old Wu so highly esteemed Wang Dahu because he knew which battalion Wang had served in: the Xuan Battalion, famed among the border forces for its fearsome combat prowess. They had faced the steppe barbarians many times without faltering. Wang Dahu had lost his arm on the battlefield in a bloody struggle with those same barbarians.

Here was a man who had truly seen blood, who dared and was able to take on bandits!

Wang Dahu had a wife, a concubine, three children, and an aged father to support. His younger brother Wang Erhu, still unmarried, lived with him for the time being.

When Zhao Hengyi and Old Wu arrived at the Wang household, they found Wang Dahu testing out the crossbow his brother had brought home.

In Wang Dahu’s hands, the crossbow became even more formidable. Not only did he hit every target, he could even strike accurately while running and jumping.

Zhao Hengyi had thought that the inventive Wang Erhu was already remarkable, but seeing Wang Dahu in action, he realized there was always someone more accomplished.

“Forgive me for making a spectacle, Master. I used to wield a bow in the army, but after losing an arm, I became a cripple and returned home,” Wang Dahu said. His wife and concubine both worked at the weaving workshop, as did most of the hunters’ families, since there were not many looms available. “The crossbow you’ve made is truly fine—so well-designed that even a cripple like me can use it one-handed!”

So, he had once been an archer in the army—no wonder his aim was so unerring!

“Brother Dahu, you’re too polite. Please, just call me Hengyi from now on,” Zhao Hengyi replied, his eyes shining as he regarded Wang Dahu. “Have you seen other crossbows in the army?”

“Yes, but army-issue crossbows are heavy and awkward to use, and there are very few of them. They’re more powerful than the ones you’ve made, but far less practical,” Wang Dahu recalled. “For everyday use, yours are far superior.”

The crossbows Zhao Hengyi had crafted were the result of countless refinements from later generations, emphasizing both utility and efficiency—far superior to anything produced by the official workshops of Great Yan. There were rumors, however, of exquisitely crafted sleeve crossbows used by the nobility, but they were prohibitively expensive, could only fire a single shot in battle, and were a pain to reload.

Seeing Zhao Hengyi and Old Wu arrive together, Wang Dahu guessed this was a matter of some urgency. He sent his wife, concubine, and children inside, leaving only his brother Wang Erhu to listen in.

“Bandits?” Upon hearing Zhao Hengyi’s explanation, Wang Dahu’s gaze turned sharp, all trace of his usual mildness gone. “Master, if blood isn’t shed this time, I’m afraid the matter won’t be settled!”

Even Old Wu, a grizzled hunter, felt his hand tremble at the murderous resolve in Wang Dahu’s words.

Wang Erhu, silent at the side, looked on with glowing eyes, eager for action... a true killer at heart! Just what would this lad do if he truly came face-to-face with the bandits?