Zhou Jin and Yang Zhi reined in their horses beneath the banners, ready to charge and cross weapons, when the cavalry commander Wen Da bellowed, “Hold!” He rode up to the reviewing stand and addressed Liang Zhongshu: “My lord, these two are testing their martial skill. Though we have yet to see who is superior, spear and blade are merciless things—meant for killing bandits, not comrades. If they fight here in camp, one might be maimed or killed, which would harm the army’s spirit. Let them remove the spearheads, wrap the shafts in felt, dip them in lime, and wear black tunics. Whoever is marked with more white spots loses.”

Liang Zhongshu nodded. “Well spoken.” He gave the order at once.

The two men withdrew behind the drill hall, stripped the spearheads, bound the tips in felt into blunt knobs, changed into black tunics, dipped their weapons in buckets of lime, and mounted again. Zhou Jin spurred forward, spear leveled, straight at Yang Zhi, who kicked his horse and met him. They clashed before the ranks—back and forth, turning and twisting, man against man in the saddle, horse against horse below. Forty or fifty exchanges passed. When they broke apart, Zhou Jin looked like a spilled block of bean curd: splotched white in thirty or forty places. Yang Zhi bore but a single spot on his left shoulder.

Liang Zhongshu was delighted. He summoned Zhou Jin and examined the marks. “The former commander made you a junior officer, yet with skill like this, how could you campaign north or south? How can you hold a paid post?” He ordered Yang Zhi to take the man’s position.

Li Cheng, the other cavalry commander, stepped forward. “Zhou Jin’s spearwork is crude, but he is skilled with bow and horse. To strip him of his office outright might chill the troops’ morale. Why not have them compete at archery?”

“Well said,” replied Liang Zhongshu, and passed down the command.

Both men set aside their spears and took up bows. Yang Zhi drew a fine bow from its case, strung it true, mounted, and rode before the hall. He bowed from the saddle. “My lord, when arrows fly, there is no room for mercy. I fear injury—may I beg your instruction?”

“Warriors sparring need not worry about wounds,” said Liang Zhongshu. “If you have the skill, shoot him dead if you can.”

Yang Zhi returned to the field. Li Cheng ordered that each archer be given a shield to strap on his arm for protection. Yang Zhi called out: “You shoot three arrows at me first—then I’ll return three.” Zhou Jin gnashed his teeth, wishing he could drive an arrow clean through him. But Yang Zhi was a soldier born and bred; he read the man’s intent and did not take him seriously.

The signal banner waved, and Yang Zhi spurred southward. Zhou Jin gave chase, looped his reins over the saddle pommel, nocked an arrow with his right hand, drew to the full, and loosed at Yang Zhi’s back. Yang Zhi heard the bowstring snap, twisted aside in a flash, and hid himself in the stirrup—the arrow flew past empty. Zhou Jin panicked, snatched a second shaft, and fired again. This time Yang Zhi did not duck; he caught up his own bow and swept the arrow aside with its tip, sending it spinning into the grass. Zhou Jin’s heart sank further. Yang Zhi’s horse had reached the far end of the field; he reined it about in a sudden turn, and the animal wheeled back toward the hall. Zhou Jin hauled on his reins too, and his mount swung around to give chase. On the green turf the eight hooves drummed like scattered coins, a whirlwind of motion. Zhou Jin nocked his third arrow, drew with all his strength, fixed his eyes on Yang Zhi’s back, and let fly. Yang Zhi heard the string, twisted in the saddle, and caught the shaft clean out of the air with one hand. He rode before the reviewing stand and tossed the arrow aside.

Liang Zhongshu was overjoyed. He ordered Yang Zhi to take his turn. The banner waved again; Zhou Jin cast away bow and arrows, gripped his shield, and galloped south. Yang Zhi pressed his legs and gave chase. He drew his bow but did not loose—a feint. Zhou Jin heard the string, spun about, raised his shield—and caught nothing. “The fool can only use a spear,” he thought. “If he feints again, I’ll call a halt and claim the win.” His horse had reached the south end of the field and turned back toward the hall. Yang Zhi’s mount followed suit. Yang Zhi drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and thought: “If I strike his spine, I’ll kill him. We have no quarrel. I’ll aim somewhere that won’t finish him.” His left hand steady as a mountain, his right gentle as if cradling a babe, he bent the bow into a full moon and loosed—the arrow flew like a shooting star. It struck Zhou Jin square in the left shoulder. Zhou Jin toppled from the saddle before he could even cry out; his riderless horse galloped off behind the hall. Soldiers rushed to carry Zhou Jin away.

Liang Zhongshu, delighted, called for the military clerk to draw up the papers and gave Yang Zhi Zhou Jin’s post. Yang Zhi dismounted, beaming, and came before the hall to thank his benefactor.

But from below the steps a man strode forth and shouted: “Don’t take that office yet! You and I will have a contest!”

Yang Zhi looked at him. The man stood over seven feet tall, round-faced, with large ears, thick lips, a square mouth, and a full bristling beard—imposing, handsome, fierce. He saluted Liang Zhongshu. “Zhou Jin was sick and not himself—that’s why he lost to Yang Zhi. I am but a humble officer, yet I beg leave to test my skill against him. If I yield so much as half an advantage, let him take my post instead of Zhou Jin’s. I would die without complaint.”

Liang Zhongshu saw who it was: Suo Chao, the senior ranked officer of the Daming garrison. Because of his fiery temper—salt thrown into fire could not flare faster—and his eagerness to be first in every fight for honor and country, men called him the Urgent Vanguard.

Li Cheng descended from the stand and came before the hall. “My lord, Yang Zhi was a palace commissioner; he must have fine skill. Zhou Jin was never his match. This is just the chance to see him against Suo Chao—then we’ll know who is better.”

Liang Zhongshu thought to himself: “I wanted to elevate Yang Zhi, but the other officers resent it. If he beats Suo Chao too, they will have no complaint.” He summoned Yang Zhi. “Will you compete with Suo Chao?”

“Your command is my duty,” said Yang Zhi.

“Then go behind the hall and arm yourself properly. Have the quartermaster issue you weapons, and take my own warhorse to ride. Be careful—do not treat this lightly.”

Yang Zhi thanked him and went to prepare.

Li Cheng, meanwhile, drew Suo Chao aside. “You are not like the others. Zhou Jin is your disciple, and he already lost. If you fail, you’ll make every officer in Daming look weak. I have a battle-tested horse and a full suit of armor—take them. Mind yourself. Do not lose your edge.”

Suo Chao thanked him and went to arm.

Liang Zhongshu rose and walked to the front of the hall. Attendants shifted his silver armchair onto the terrace railing, where he sat beneath a great umbrella with a silver gourd finial and triple eaves of tea-brown silk. The signal tower waved a red banner; drums and gongs thundered in unison. Cannons boomed from both sides of the field. At the sound, Suo Chao galloped into his formation and halted behind the gate banners; Yang Zhi rode likewise into his own ranks. A yellow banner waved, another drum roll crashed, and both armies shouted as one—then fell utterly silent. A gong rang, and a white flag was raised. Not an officer dared move or speak.

The blue banner stirred. The third war-drum rolled. On the left, the gate banners parted, harness bells jangling: Suo Chao rode out to the front of the field and reined in, weapon in hand. He wore a steel lion-helm with a great red tassel at the nape, a coat of iron scales, a gilt belt buckled with a beast’s face, twin bronze mirrors guarding breast and back; over it all hung a crimson robe embroidered with clustered flowers, green ribbons dangling from the collar. He wore boots of turned leather, bore a bow on his left hip and a quiver on his right, and carried a great gold-washed axe across his saddle. Beneath him was Li Cheng’s white warhorse—a beast that could charge a line or leap a stream, that loved the sound of drums and bore its rider like a gentleman; a horse worthy of the heroes of old.

On the left stood the Urgent Vanguard, axe held high. On the right, the gate banners parted again, and Yang Zhi rode out to face him, reining in with his spear couched. He wore a frost-patterned steel helm topped with a plume of green silk; a coat of hooked armor like plum blossoms on willow leaves, bound with a red cord, beast-faced plates guarding chest and back; a white robe printed with flowers, purple tassels streaming; yellow boots. He carried a leather-gripped bow and a quiver of chisel-headed arrows, and in his hand a spear of solid black steel. Beneath him was Liang Zhongshu’s fiery red steed—mane like flame, tail like morning clouds, coat splashed with crimson as if drenched in rouge, ears pricked like twin red leaves. In the dawn it galloped across the frontier, hooves striking sparks; at dusk it rolled along the causeway like a ball of fire. Men said no divine horse of the south could match it—it was Red Hare reborn.

The Blue-Faced Beast gripped his spear and halted before the ranks. Both armies secretly applauded: they had not yet seen skill, but they had already seen presence.

A herald bearing a gilded command flag galloped up from the south and shouted: “By the lord’s decree, fight with all your hearts! Any fault will be punished; victory will be richly rewarded.”

The two men spurred into the center of the field. Their horses met, and their weapons clashed. Suo Chao, furious, swung his great axe. Yang Zhi, full of might, thrust his spear. Back and forth they went before the reviewing stand, each staking all he had—four arms wheeling, eight hooves churning. The battle flags dimmed the sun; killing intent veiled the sky. One axe drove at the crown of the head, one spear never left the heart. They were like heavenly generals battling for the realm: a reincarnated Zhang Fei against a reborn Yuan Da. Fifty-odd exchanges passed with no advantage.

On the terrace, Liang Zhongshu was dumbstruck. The assembled officers cheered without pause. The common soldiers gaped at one another: “We’ve served for years and marched to war, but never have we seen two such men fight!”

Li Cheng and Wen Da shouted from the stand without stopping: “Fine bout! Fine bout!” But Wen Da feared one might wound the other, so he hurriedly called the herald with the command flag to part them. A gong crashed from the tower. Yang Zhi and Suo Chao, at the height of their struggle, were loath to break off—but the herald rode in shouting: “Cease! The lord commands it!” Only then did they lower their weapons, rein about, and return to their banners.

Li Cheng and Wen Da came down from the stand to the terrace. “My lord,” they reported, “these two are equal in skill. Both deserve high appointment.”

Liang Zhongshu was pleased. He sent for both men. They dismounted before the hall; orderlies took their weapons, and they climbed the steps to kneel. Liang Zhongshu awarded each a pair of silver ingots and two sets of fine robes, then ordered the military clerk to promote both to the rank of captain—effective that very day. Suo Chao and Yang Zhi bowed in thanks, descended with their rewards, and shed their armor and weapons for proper clothing. Then they came back up to thank the assembled officers and took their places among the captains.

The soldiers marched out beating drums of victory and carrying banners aloft. Liang Zhongshu and his officers feasted in the drill hall until the red sun sank low. When the banquet ended, he mounted his horse and rode home escorted by all his officers, the two new captains riding on either side of him with red flowers pinned to their hats. As they entered the Eastern Gate, the streets were lined with old and young alike, cheering.

Liang Zhongshu asked from the saddle: “Why are you folk so pleased?”

The elders knelt. “We were born here in Daming,” they said, “and never have we seen two such heroes compete. Having watched that bout today, how could we not rejoice?”

Liang Zhongshu was delighted to hear it. Back at his residence, the officers dispersed. Suo Chao went off with his brothers-in-arms to celebrate over wine; Yang Zhi, newly arrived and knowing no one, lodged in the Liang household, waiting on his master morning and evening.

Time passed. After that day at the Eastern Gate, Liang Zhongshu grew deeply fond of Yang Zhi and kept him close. He drew a full salary, and gradually men came to make his acquaintance. Even Suo Chao, seeing how skilled he was, felt admiration.

Spring faded into summer. The Dragon Boat Festival arrived. Liang Zhongshu held a family banquet in the rear hall with Lady Cai. Green mugwort stood in pots; pomegranate branches filled vases. Crystalline blinds hung like shrimp whiskers, embroidered screens spread peacock tails. Maidens offered cups of amber wine; servants bore platters heaped with rice dumplings wrapped in reed leaves.

After a few cups and two courses, Lady Cai spoke: “Husband, since you left home to become a commander holding the nation’s trust—where did this rank and fortune come from?”

“I have studied the classics since childhood,” said Liang Zhongshu. “I am not made of wood or stone. How could I forget your father’s grace? His aid in advancing me—I can never repay it.”

“If you remember my father’s kindness,” she said, “how can you forget his birthday?”

“How could I?” he replied. “His Excellency’s birthday is the fifteenth of the sixth month. I have already had men purchase ten thousand strings’ worth of gold and jewels to send to the capital for his celebration. A month ago I gave out the funds. Nine-tenths is ready now; in a few days it will be packed and dispatched. But one thing gives me pause. Last year I sent many curios and treasures, and before they had gone halfway, bandits stole them all. The wealth was wasted, and to this day we have not caught the thieves. Whom should I send this time?”

“You have many officers under your command,” said Lady Cai. “Just choose a trusted man.”

“There are still forty or fifty days,” he said. “I will press the gifts to completion and then choose. Do not trouble yourself, madam—I know what to do.”

The banquet lasted from noon until the second watch before breaking up.

Now in Yuncheng County of Jizhou, a new magistrate had taken office: Shi Wenbin by name. He was an upright man, clean-handed, compassionate, and just. In land disputes he weighed right and wrong; in brawls he measured blame fairly. At leisure he played the zither and received guests; in haste he wrote verdicts with flying brush. A county magistrate by title, a father to the people in truth.

One day Magistrate Shi sat in open court, clerks arrayed on both sides. He summoned the sheriff’s officers and the two constables of the patrol. The county had two: one over foot soldiers, one over mounted men. The mounted constable commanded twenty cavalry archers and twenty infantrymen; the foot constable led twenty spearmen and twenty regulars.

The mounted constable was named Zhu Tong. He stood over eight feet four inches tall, with a tiger’s beard a foot and a half long, a face as red as ripe dates, and eyes bright as stars—the very image of Guan Yu. All the county called him the Beautiful Beard. A wealthy man by birth, he had spent his fortune freely to befriend heroes of the rivers and lakes, and had mastered fine martial arts.

The foot constable was Lei Heng: seven feet five inches tall, with a swarthy purple face and a fan-shaped beard. Because his strength was prodigious—he could leap across a ravine two or three spans wide—the county called him Winged Tiger. He had begun as a blacksmith, then run a grain mill, slaughtered cattle, and kept gambling tables. Though generous in his way, he was narrow of heart; still, he too had learned excellent martial skill.

These two constables were charged with seizing thieves and bandits. When the magistrate summoned them before the bench, they saluted and awaited orders.

“Since taking office,” said Shi Wenbin, “I have heard that outlaws have gathered at Liangshan Marsh in this prefecture, robbing travelers and defying the army. I fear banditry is spreading through the villages as well. So I call on you two: do not begrudge your trouble. Take your men—one out the west gate, one out the east—and patrol separately. If you find thieves, capture them at once and bring them in. Do not disturb the common folk. You know that on East Creek Village mountain there stands a great red-leafed tree, unique in all the region. Bring back a few leaves to present at court as proof you patrolled there. If you come back without them, I’ll know you lied—and I will punish you.”

The two constables accepted their orders and went out.

Zhu Tong took his men west. Lei Heng led twenty soldiers out the east gate that evening, combing the countryside. They walked a full circuit and came at last to East Creek Village mountain, where they plucked leaves from the red-leafed tree and descended toward the village. Before they had gone three li, they reached the temple of the Spirit Officer. The doors stood open.

“There’s no caretaker here,” said Lei Heng. “Why would the doors be open? Could there be a rogue inside? Let’s look in.”

The soldiers raised their torches and crowded through the doorway. There on the offering table lay a great burly man, stark naked, with ragged clothes bundled under his neck as a pillow, snoring deeply.

Lei Heng stared. “Strange! Strange! The magistrate is truly farsighted—there really is a thief in East Creek Village!” He bellowed. The man stirred to rise, but the twenty soldiers swarmed forward and bound him with rope, then hauled him out of the temple gate.

They marched their captive toward the village headman’s estate—and that was no chance turn. For on that road they would meet heroes who would gather at East Creek Village, and set in motion the hunt for ten thousand strings’ worth of gold and jewels in Yuncheng County. The stars of heaven were drawing together; the spirits of earth were about to meet.

But whether Lei Heng took his prisoner before the village headman—that is a tale for the next chapter.