In the fifth year of Jian'an, the twilight of Lingmeng Mountain was soaked in the blood of battle. Pang Tong leaned on his bloodstained iron sword at the end of the mountain path. The mountain wind swept the thick stench of blood past his hair. Behind him, the remnants of Qu Yi's troops fled in panic — half an hour earlier, the formation of rolling stones and burning oil he had laid had nearly buried the vanguard general under Yuan Shao, along with three hundred elite soldiers, in the valley. Broken banners and charred armor piled up into a ghastly sight in the dusk.
"Advisor, the pursuers have retreated!"
A guard's shout was torn apart by the wind, but Pang Tong only stared toward the distant Chenyu Valley. There, Zhao Yun was alone, trapped in the siege of Yuan Shao's army. This ambush had been meant to cut off the pursuers' strength and win a slim chance of survival for the white-robed general.
The chill of the iron sword spread up his palm. Suddenly Pang Tong coughed violently, a dull pain flaring in his side, grazed by a stray arrow during the fight. He pressed a hand to the wound; blood seeped between his fingers, glinting dark and oily in the fading light.
"Count the casualties. Rest here for a moment," he waved at the guard, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "In half an hour, we march to relieve Chenyu Valley."
The guard obeyed and left. Only scattered footsteps and the groans of the wounded remained on the path. Pang Tong leaned against a rock blackened by fire and smoke, his gaze piercing through layers of mountains, as if he could see that white robe charging through the chaos in Chenyu Valley.
He remembered the first time he met Zhao Yun: the man standing before the tent with silver spear and white horse, his eyes sharp and unyielding. Yet when he heard Pang Tong would use himself as bait, Zhao Yun had whispered softly, "Take care, Advisor."
The mountain wind suddenly turned cold, carrying an unnatural silence. Pang Tong's eyes snapped open — his sword nearly sliding from its sheath. The guards who had been clearing the battlefield just moments before now stood frozen, as if an invisible hand had clamped around their throats. A thin red line marked each neck, their eyes still wide with unspoken shock.
A dark figure slithered from behind the rock like a viper in the mountain stream. The man wore Yuan Shao's armor, but his face was covered with gray cloth, revealing only a pair of cold, empty eyes. His dagger dripped with blood. This was He Ji, the deadliest assassin under Yuan Shao.
"Pang Shiyuan," He Ji hissed, his voice grating like metal against stone. "My lord commands: your head for Zhao Zilong in Chenyu Valley."
Pang Tong's hand closed around his sword hilt, but his wounded side flared with pain, slowing his movement for an instant. He Ji lunged like a ghost, his poisoned dagger aimed straight for Pang Tong's throat — a fatal strike targeting the gaps in armor, clearly calculated for his exhausted state after battle.
"Despicable!" Pang Tong roared.
He twisted desperately. The dagger sliced across his neck, leaving a bloody gash. The stinking venom splashed onto his robe, burning several black holes instantly. He swung his sword horizontally, but He Ji dodged lightly. The assassin moved with astonishing speed, like an ape climbing year-round among cliffs, striking from impossible angles.
The narrow mountain path favored short weapons. He Ji's dagger clung to him like a bone-eating parasite, every move targeting vital spots. Pang Tong gritted his teeth, swinging his iron sword in an unbroken wall of steel. He knew he must buy time — once the guards' bodies were discovered, reinforcements would come.
But He Ji saw through his plan. His attacks grew fiercer. Poisonous mist swirled in the dusk, making heads spin.
"You think Zhao Yun can escape?" He Ji sneered.
His dagger feinted, then stabbed straight into Pang Tong's wounded side.
"Chenyu Valley is surrounded by a net. Even if you survive today, he will not escape!"
Those words pierced Pang Tong's last defense. He thought of Zhao Yun's resolve to hold the line alone, of the glance he had given before leaving. For a split second, his focus wavered — and searing pain exploded in his ribs.
The dagger sank an inch deep. Black blood oozed from the wound, cold and numbing.
"Puh —"
Pang Tong spat blood, his vision blurring. He stared at He Ji's face hidden behind gray cloth, and suddenly laughed. His laugh was hoarse but proud.
"Yuan Shao… cannot trap him…"
He Ji's eyes turned cold. He ripped the dagger out, then stabbed it back into Pang Tong's chest.
This time, Pang Tong could no longer stand. His body fell backward like a puppet with cut strings.
In his final moments, he saw He Ji's cold face, the guards' corpses turning cold in the wind, and in the distance toward Chenyu Valley, a white figure breaking through layers of siege, galloping toward dawn.
As his body plunged off the cliff, the wind howled in his ears. Pang Tong seemed to see the years past, debating philosophy with Master Shuijing. The master once said of him: "Ugly in face, wise in heart — yet fate shall be cruel."
At the time, he had taken it as a joke. Now he thought: to trade his life for Zhao Yun's escape… it was not a bad deal.
Inside Chenyu Valley, Zhao Yun's spear pierced the last of Yuan Shao's deputy generals. Blood dripped from the silver spear onto the blue stone slabs, blooming into dark red flowers. He leaned on his spear, breathing heavily. His armor was covered in sword marks; his left arm still bleeding — a gash from an enemy blade during the breakout.
For some reason, the pursuers behind him fell into chaos. The shouts of battle faded. Zhao Yun turned. Yuan Shao's soldiers, as if given an order, turned their horses and retreated toward Lingmeng Mountain. The once-impenetrable encirclement now gaped open.
"Strange…" He frowned, gripping his spear tighter.
This was not Yuan Shao's style. The cunning warlord never showed mercy, never let an enemy leave alive.
A faint sound of fighting seemed to drift on the mountain wind, only to be swallowed by deeper silence. Zhao Yun's heart sank.
He suddenly remembered Pang Tong clapping his shoulder before leaving: "Zilong, go. I will hold the rear."
He remembered the advisor always smiling and saying, "My ugly face may not be much, but it can block a few blades for you."
A chill crawled up his spine. He almost turned back toward Lingmeng Mountain — but reason held him fast. This chance for life had been bought with Pang Tong's life. He could not waste it.
"Advisor…" Zhao Yun whispered the title, his voice trembling without his knowing.
He took one last look toward Lingmeng Mountain, where twilight had grown too thick to see through. Something precious, he felt, had been left forever in those blood-soaked mountains.
He turned his horse. His white robe flapped loudly in the night wind. The silver spear pointed toward the wilderness outside the valley.
The pursuers had completely withdrawn. In the silence of Chenyu Valley, only the sound of his lone gallop echoed into the distance. His back was resolute, lonely, and brave.
Many years later, whenever he passed a similar valley, he would sometimes recall that evening of heavy twilight in the fifth year of Jian'an. He would remember the advisor who always smiled with narrowed eyes — the one who never came back from Lingmeng Mountain.
Night deepened. The moonlight over Chenyu Valley was cold and clear, shining on the empty mountain path. Only scattered bloodstains proved that a brutal battle had raged here.
Beneath the cliffs of Lingmeng Mountain, Pang Tong's body had long been swept away by the mountain stream. All that remained was a rock stained red with blood, glinting coldly in the moonlight.