Chapter Twenty-Six: Strength Enough to Challenge a Bull

Zifan and Dong Zhuo stood on either side of the command tent, maintaining a polite distance. Although their faces had shed the ferocity they wore moments ago and now seemed cordial, neither lowered his guard; their hands gripped their sword hilts as a silent testament to their vigilance. No one could predict when they would meet again on the battlefield, and when that time came, it would be a fight to the death.

“I wonder, General, what is your esteemed name? To meet you today is a blessing beyond compare,” Dong Zhuo greeted Zifan, even though Zifan’s rank was lower than his own. Dong Zhuo now held high office as both the Governor of Xiliang and the former General of the Imperial Court—a first-rank official, towering above others. Zifan was a mere regional commander, and though he had recently been promoted beyond the usual rules, their statuses were worlds apart.

The title of Governor, also known as Prefect, was the highest administrative officer of a province or prefecture, wielding both civil and military authority; the Emperor appointed thirty-six prefectures across the empire, each overseen by a Prefect. Dong Zhuo’s title as Former General carried immense weight. The Han dynasty established the ranks of Grand General and General of the Cavalry, positions ranked just below Chancellor; Generals of the Chariot, the Guard, and the Former, Rear, Left, and Right Generals were all eminent court officials, often holding additional court titles and participating in governance. In chaotic times, the title of Grand General became largely ceremonial, lacking the real military command of the Former General, who could lead troops in a region.

In the Han dynasty, the Grand General was highest, commanding all Han armies. Next came the General of the Cavalry—Huo Qubing was the first, appointed by Emperor Wu for his prowess. Then came the General of the Chariot, used to suppress domestic rebels and peasant uprisings—the most famous being Zhou Yafu, son of Zhou Bo. Next was the General of the Guard, responsible for the palace’s security, the highest military office. Following these were the Former, Rear, Left, and Right Generals, and beneath them, Generals for the East, West, South, and North.

Zifan’s Tiger Guards, noble in name, were little more than an empty title. The term “Tiger Guard” suggested ferocity, but it only allowed him command over a small force, not tens of thousands. It was an honorary title, given to court ministers and regional officials; though he led troops, he was not a dedicated military commander.

Dong Zhuo’s polite greeting to Zifan was a gesture of great respect. He had clearly observed the disciplined formation of Zifan’s Black Cavalry—such a well-trained force exuded a subtle, deadly aura found only in units that had survived trials of life and death. Its discipline rivaled that of Dong Zhuo’s own Xiliang Iron Cavalry, and in some aspects even surpassed it. This alone made Zifan worthy of deep friendship.

“From Youzhou—Zifan.” Though they now stood on opposite sides, Zifan could not help but admire Dong Zhuo. To dare confront the eighteen allied warlords alone marked him as a true hero—one shaped by turbulent times. In his youth, Dong Zhuo was brave, skilled in riding and archery, eager to make friends, especially among the leaders of the Qiang tribes, and possessed an extraordinary vision and courage. Dong Zhuo was a master at leading troops; his Xiliang soldiers were elite, brought from his homeland in Liangzhou, seasoned by years defending the frontier against the Qiang. Dong Zhuo had his own methods for training soldiers.

Yet Zifan’s respect was only in his heart; his hand never left the Tiger Head Spear. On the battlefield, nothing mattered but one word—kill. Only the survivor was the true victor, king or bandit.

Outside Luoyang, Dong Zhuo’s army camped by the Luo River, facing Zifan’s camp across the distance. Perhaps it was deliberate; the two armies stood opposed, north and south.

Inside the main tent, Dong Zhuo sat behind the command table, his expression shifting between light and shadow, as though wrestling with a decision. He sighed quietly. Beside him stood Li Ru, dressed in white robes, quietly stroking his long beard. As Dong Zhuo’s chief advisor, Li Ru had accomplished much, ever at Dong Zhuo’s side, trusted deeply not only for his counsel but also as Dong Zhuo’s son-in-law—a loyalty beyond doubt, especially in troubled times.

Though neither spoke, they knew what the other was thinking—such was their tacit understanding. “I have just arrived in Luoyang, unfamiliar with the land. Establishing authority is crucial. Wenyou, what do you think is the best way to intimidate the court officials?”

“Master, you are wise. In extraordinary times, force is the best method—rule with an iron fist. You could emulate Yi Yin, Huo Guang, and become a loyal minister remembered for ages. But the young emperor today is weak, unfit for responsibility. It is the Prince of Chenliu who shows the qualities of a wise ruler. What do you think…”

“Wenyou, do not mention such things before outsiders; it is a capital offense. Yet as you say, the young emperor is indeed inadequate, while the Prince of Chenliu, though young, is courageous and clever—he stands out in my memory. I have considered dethroning the emperor and installing the Prince of Chenliu, but fear court criticism and public dissent.”

“The matter of succession concerns the stability of the realm; the time is not ripe. We must plan carefully. The most urgent task is to eliminate threats within Luoyang.” Dong Zhuo glanced thoughtfully at the Youzhou camp across the river.

Li Ru’s talent lay in understanding others’ thoughts and acting accordingly. “Master, do not worry. We need only send troops to blunt their edge, and use the words of court officials to drive them from Luoyang—let others do the killing for us. Why not?”

“Hahaha… well said! You know my mind, Li Wenyou. Summon General Hua Xiong!” Immediately, a personal guard rushed out.

Moments later, the tent flap lifted, and in strode a burly man clad in black silver armor, a wolf robe draped over his shoulders.

“Hua Xiong, at your service. Master, what are your orders?” Hua Xiong raised his head, revealing a northern face—fierce, powerful, eyes like torches, brimming with explosive energy.

“Hua Xiong, you are a major general in my Xiliang army. I order you to go and crush the spirit of the Youzhou camp across the river.” At the mention of Youzhou, Hua Xiong’s eyes widened in anger, pupils contracting, a sharp light flashing in their depths.

“Your servant obeys!”

Far off, outside the Youzhou camp, thunderous hoofbeats echoed, and a voice rang out, “Young fools, do not be arrogant! I, Hua Xiong, have come to teach you a lesson!”

Hua Xiong!

Zifan’s eyes sharpened as he stepped out of the camp.

Hooves thundered as Hua Xiong, leading Xiliang cavalry, approached swiftly and halted before them.

“You young scholar, I come on orders from my master to challenge your Youzhou army! Do you dare face me? Today I will show you my might! Even if you fight, you will lose—better to crawl beneath my stirrup now and spare yourself disgrace!”

A murderous glint flashed in Zifan’s eyes as he stared coldly at Hua Xiong. Today, his superior Liu Yan had come to the Youzhou camp to reward the troops; how could he let this arrogant man go unpunished? If he fought, he must win—and utterly defeat him. Someday, if clouds of fire rise, I will be the one to scorch the sky.

Meanwhile, the Xiliang soldiers behind Hua Xiong shouted in unison, “Commander Hua! Commander Hua!” Clearly, Hua Xiong’s reputation was considerable among them.

Liu Yan, beside Zifan, turned pale with worry. He had always believed Zifan had potential, but now, seeing how impulsive Zifan was, he feared for him. So young, so easily provoked by Hua Xiong’s taunts into rash combat—there was spirit, but little thought for consequences.

“Hahahahaha!” Hearing Zifan accept the challenge, Hua Xiong leapt from his horse and swung his broadsword. “Good, you dare fight—some courage indeed. Today, I will show you what I can do!”

As Hua Xiong gripped his sword, Zifan calmly gestured, “Not so fast. We are both soldiers, and the army forbids armed duels. Why not wrestle bare-handed? That way, we neither break military law nor fail to prove who is stronger.”

Hua Xiong paused, then burst out laughing, finally tossing his broadsword aside. “Boy, if we fought with weapons, you would have a slim chance. Now you dare wrestle bare-handed with me—how… how… hahahaha!”

The soldiers behind Hua Xiong joined in laughter, clearing a wide space for the contest.

Hua Xiong stood like a tower, flexing his fists until his knuckles crackled. “Boy, I will stand here unmoving. You may attack three times first.”

Zifan exchanged no harsh words, merely bowed slightly and, in an instant, launched forward like a charging horse. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance, able to see the subtle changes on Hua Xiong’s face—first surprise, then fear, quickly replaced by composure and a swift, explosive movement of his arm. Yet when their fists met, Hua Xiong knew disaster had struck. Before terror and regret could flood his mind, his palm felt as though struck by a wild bull. Sensation vanished from his right hand, then his entire arm crackled as if twisted, pain shooting through his body.

The immense force lifted Hua Xiong off the ground, sending his huge frame flying more than twenty feet.

Hua Xiong’s chest jolted, a metallic taste rising in his throat; he clenched his mouth shut to keep the blood from spilling.

He must draw his sword! Utter humiliation—he vowed to cut Zifan into pieces. He roared inwardly.

Before Hua Xiong could rise, a strange sound rang out—“Ah-da!”—and a black shadow flashed by. Before he could react…

“Bang!”

Hua Xiong fell flat on his face again, his arm snapping with a loud crack, completely broken. His chest shuddered, consciousness slipping, and blood burst from his mouth.

Zifan showed no mercy, delivering a left hook, a right hook—like the legendary Dragon Subduing Fist. Hua Xiong howled in pain, his mouth twisted, teeth flying, face mangled beyond recognition.

Today, Zifan intended to make the beating unforgettable, a nightmare for Hua Xiong that would haunt him forever. Lifting Hua Xiong as if he weighed nothing, Zifan slapped him twice.

Slap! Slap!

These slaps were for disrespecting elders!

Slap! Slap! Slap!

These were for ignoring his parents and being arrogant—he deserved them.

“Ugh—boy… you… should… die—ugh—” Before Hua Xiong could finish, Zifan slapped him again, his face a bloody mess. Soldiers nearby covered their faces, muttering in awe…

Satisfaction!

The Xiliang soldiers, hands over their faces, stared in shock—Commander Hua Xiong had been defeated, and utterly so.

Liu Yan’s mouth hung open, eyes wide with disbelief. He never imagined the nine-foot-tall Hua Xiong could be so thoroughly trounced by the seven-foot Zifan—a gratifying spectacle!

Zifan let go, kicked Hua Xiong several feet away, then turned to the Xiliang soldiers, “There’s no fine supper waiting for you in the Youzhou camp. Are you seeking revenge for your commander? Well, I have a little hobby—when I see blood, I get strangely excited. I wonder…”

“Run! General Zifan of Youzhou is a man-eating demon! Brothers, hurry, don’t let him catch you!” Before Zifan could finish, the Xiliang soldiers, abandoning their commander, bolted for the camp across the river, shouting as they fled.

“What?” Zifan stood baffled, utterly confused. How did I become a man-eating demon? When did I ever eat anyone?

The story grew and spread; Xiliang soldiers told everyone, “Have you seen the King of Hell? A true King of Hell, with black wings. I’ve seen him—General Zifan of Youzhou is the King of Hell beneath the earth, devouring souls and people, spitting out neither skin nor bones—terrifying!”

The tale became legend; even in the Youzhou army, it was accepted that Zifan was the King of Hell, master of life and death, a demon who ate people without leaving bones. The stories said the King of Hell had two ghostly aides—Ox-Head and Horse-Face. Our generals Ding Feng and Dian Wei are just like them: one with a sinister smile, one with a fierce face, sending chills down the spine…

When the qilin smiles, the King of Hell steps aside. When Zifan smiles, the qilin clears the way.

Youzhou soldiers joked, “Brother, don’t fear death—you’re late for the road. The King of Hell has finished his shift and come to our army as a general.”

Believe in Zifan and you shall have eternal life…