Volume Two: The Battle of Hulao Pass Chapter Forty-Seven: Yuchi Gong Seizes a Horse Alone; Li Mingyu Beats the Drum and Sings Boldly

As soon as the words were spoken, the black steed shot forward, bringing Yuchi Gong right before Wang Wan. With a thunderous shout, Yuchi Gong raised his lance and thrust it forward.

Wang Wan had only considered this burly rider as a mere messenger, never giving him a second thought. After all, who would dare to charge alone, on horseback, against hundreds of men? By the time he realized this armored giant in black was barreling toward him with menacing intent, it was already too late. Yuchi Gong’s lance came straight for his chest. In desperation, Wang Wan swung up his saber to parry, hoping to deflect the powerful thrust.

Lance clashed against the long saber with a resounding clang. Wang Wan managed to block the lance with his blade. Yuchi Gong roared, “Again!” and struck once more.

The moment their weapons met, Wang Wan was overwhelmed by a force like a tidal wave—unstoppable and immense. He thought to himself, This giant is monstrously strong—I mustn’t meet him head-on.

Yuchi Gong’s blow sent tremors through the saber shaft, numbing Wang Wan’s arms and nearly shaking the weapon from his grasp. Though he managed to block the strike, he could not throw it off, and so could only brace himself, responding with measured skill and cunning.

Yet, in the chaos of battle, momentum is everything; fall behind a single step, and you fall behind every step. Yuchi Gong pressed his advantage, unrelenting, his lance sweeping with increasing urgency like thunder and gale, stabbing and slashing, forcing Wang Wan into a perilous defense.

Yuchi Gong was worthy of Li Shimin’s highest praise: “I wield the bow and arrows, and you follow with your lance—even millions cannot best us!” His skill was among the very best in the land, his power fierce, his lance heavy, himself like a wild tiger, his horse like a dragon. Every move of the lance threatened Wang Wan’s vital points.

Ordinary cavalry lances were made from split bamboo or joined wood, bound with hemp or coarse cloth, flexible enough to bend like a bow and spring back, thus helping to absorb impact. But Yuchi Gong’s lance was no ordinary weapon. His ancestors had been famed generals, though his own father died young and the family had since declined. Forced by hardship in his youth, Yuchi Gong became a blacksmith, which forged his unmatched strength. His lance was forged from solid steel, weighing over sixty pounds—heavy beyond compare. When he wielded it, the very air trembled; it seemed like he could tear mountains asunder and churn the rivers.

Yuchi Gong’s way with the lance was direct and forceful, broad and open, yet differing from Li Xuanba’s. Though guileless and honest, he possessed a subtle wisdom and extraordinary talent for the martial arts, devoting himself to perfecting his skill, surpassing even his teachers.

In all martial arts, speed is invincible, strength is irresistible. Though such words were not yet spoken in this era, the truth remained. Yuchi Gong discarded elaborate techniques, returning to simplicity and essence. Though his repertoire was few in number, paired with his prodigious strength and the sheer weight of his steel lance, his attacks were quicker than lightning, his momentum unstoppable.

Wang Wan barely managed a few exchanges, cold sweat pouring down his body, his heart chilled with dread. The giant’s attacks were both cunning and fierce, the lance relentless. No matter how Wang Wan tried to vary his defense, the giant cared nothing for it, always thrusting forward with deadly intent—a style that risked everything. Block, and it was a contest of raw strength, in which Wang Wan was at a disadvantage. Don’t block, and it would mean mutual destruction.

After only three or five moves, Wang Wan was already close to spitting blood with frustration. He was, after all, one of Xia’s renowned generals, bearing the title of General of the Dragon Cavalry, proud of his martial prowess. Since following Dou Jiande in revolt, he had fought countless battles and survived oceans of blood. Yet now, before this black giant, after only a handful of exchanges he found himself completely on the defensive, unable to strike back, and facing imminent defeat.

Another deafening clang—Yuchi Gong brought his lance down in a chopping motion. Wang Wan, unable to dodge, had no choice but to meet the blow with his saber once more.

This time, the thick, hardwood saber shaft could no longer withstand the force and snapped in two. Wang Wan’s palms split, his arms numb and powerless, and the broken blade clattered to the ground.

“Aiya!” Wang Wan cried out in alarm, wheeling his horse to retreat, and shouted angrily to his men, “Are you all dead? At him—all of you!”

From the moment Yuchi Gong charged in to the breaking of Wang Wan’s blade, only three or five exchanges had passed. The elite Xia cavalry had barely reacted before their general was already showing signs of defeat.

At Wang Wan’s order, they finally responded, roaring, “Tang general, don’t get cocky!” Weapons raised, they spurred their horses to attack.

Having defeated Wang Wan in a few moves, Yuchi Gong was poised to chase him down and take his horse and his life. But seeing Wang Wan trying to escape and his soldiers rushing over in force, Yuchi Gong grew angry. This fellow is no true hero, he thought, relying only on numbers. If hundreds of Xia soldiers surrounded him, there would be no chance to finish Wang Wan.

Suddenly, a bold idea came to him. He remembered how Mingyu would recount tales of the Three Kingdoms every day, stirring his blood, especially admiring Lord Zhang Fei—how he would seize enemy generals amidst a million troops as easily as reaching into a bag, or his legendary roar that shattered the Changban Bridge.

Yuchi Gong, honest and plainspoken, was often teased by Cheng Yaojin for resembling Zhang Fei—dark as charcoal, with round, fierce eyes and a bristling beard. Perhaps, Cheng joked, Old Black was Zhang Fei reborn.

Now the Xia soldiers were upon him. Inspired by Zhang Fei’s exploits, Yuchi Gong’s spirit blazed. He leveled his lance, eyes wide and fierce, and roared with the force of a bell, “Let’s see which of you dares approach!”

On the battlefield, morale is everything. The Xia soldiers recoiled, seeing this giant in black, armored and grim, with eyes glaring like a temple guardian come to life. They had just witnessed him defeat Wang Wan, a famed general, with only a few moves. Truly, he seemed a tiger descending a mountain, a dragon emerging from the sea. Their courage faltered, and when his roar echoed like thunder, several warhorses reared in terror, refusing to advance.

On the city wall, Li Shimin saw all clearly. Impressed by Yuchi Gong’s display, he shouted his approval and ordered, “Beat the drums to inspire our troops!”

The bare-chested drummers, on receiving the command, swung mallets as thick as arms and pounded the massive war drums—“Boom, boom, boom, boom!”—the sound intense and overwhelming, like waves crashing on the shore. Their muscles bulged, sweat poured down, yet their rhythm was flawless, the beats thunderous and stirring.

Since ancient times, the war drum has symbolized conquest and authority. In antiquity, armies advanced or retreated to the sound of drums or gongs. The earliest records go back to the Yellow Emperor himself.

The Classic of Mountains and Seas records that in the Eastern Sea there dwelled the Kui ox, whose hide the Yellow Emperor used to make drums. With drumsticks of thunder beast bone, their sound carried five hundred li, shaking the world.

When the Yellow Emperor fought Chiyou, the Dark Lady forged eighty Kui ox drums for him, each beat reverberating five hundred li, the entire army inspired by their clamor for three thousand eight hundred li.

Chiyou, with a head of brass and teeth of stone, could fly and escape danger at will. But when these drums of Kui ox hide beat nine times, even he could not escape, and was slain.

The drums resounded, mighty and awe-inspiring. Li Mingyu, standing nearby, felt his heart surge with excitement. Witnessing Yuchi Gong’s unstoppable valor below, he too was swept up in the battlefield’s fervor, an urge to burst into song rising within him.

In his previous life, he had been a soldier, indifferent to love songs but passionate about stirring, martial anthems. Unfortunately, he was no trained musician and knew only a few. But the theme from Wong Fei-hung, “A True Man Must Be Strong,” was one he knew by heart, having heard it countless times.

In his excitement, he began to sing: “With pride I face a thousand waves, my blood burns hotter than the crimson sun. My courage is forged in iron, my bones in steel. My heart soars a hundred thousand feet, my gaze reaches ten thousand miles. I vow to strive and be strong, a true hero… To be a true man, I must be strong every day. My blood is hotter than the crimson sun…”

Indeed, as the famous conductor Ozawa Seiji once said, music is the universal language. It knows no borders, no era. The impact of “A True Man Must Be Strong” on these ancient warriors was profound. At first, only a few joined in softly, but soon all the soldiers atop Hulao Pass were singing along in unison.

Li Mingyu strode to the drummers, seized a pair of giant mallets, and signaled the others to follow his lead. The drummers, recognizing him as the Marshal’s favored nephew and seeing the Marshal did not object, stepped aside.

Mingyu’s mind was in a state of heightened excitement; in his eyes, there was only Yuchi Gong’s invincible form below. As he sang, his mind flickered with images of blood-stirring heroics—some from his former life, some from television, some from the present battlefield with its clash of steel.

Though just a boy, Mingyu was born with prodigious strength, the equal of most grown men. He swung the great mallets, beating out the rhythm of “The General’s Command”: “Boom—boom boom boom! Boom—boom boom boom! Boom—boom! Boom boom—boom boom—boom!” Drumming as he sang, his clear, youthful voice soared above the chorus.

The drummers followed his tempo. The rousing melody, paired with the lyrics of “A True Man Must Be Strong,” and echoed by hundreds, then thousands atop the pass, carried for dozens of li, shaking the heavens and earth.

Yuchi Gong’s roar had already cowed the Xia soldiers. Now, hearing the clear, bright voice of a child leading a heroic song from atop the walls, with drums thundering all around, his blood surged as if he had been injected with pure excitement, his whole body brimming with strength. Seizing the moment, he spurred his black steed, which shot forward like the wind, straight toward Wang Wan.

Wang Wan, already terrified, had barely fled a few paces when Yuchi Gong’s furious shout made him start. Instinctively, he tugged at the reins. Only then did he recover himself and urge his horse on, desperate to escape.

His blue-dappled horse, though swift, slowed slightly at the pull of the reins. Though Wang Wan quickly spurred it forward again, the brief hesitation cost him precious speed.

Yuchi Gong was already upon him, just a body-length behind. With a voice like thunder, he shouted, “Boy! Stay right there!” With a twist of his mighty arm, he hurled his lance as though it were a javelin. With a whistling roar, the black-steel lance flew like a dragon, slicing the air straight for the head of Wang Wan’s horse.