The cave was pierced by a chilling wind, howling like restless spirits. Zijian's hands were bound tightly behind him with coarse hemp rope, the fibers biting deep into his flesh, leaving his wrists raw and stinging. Outside, moonlight flickered faintly, casting mottled shadows that traced the winding water stains on the stone walls, like nature's tears.
The image of Ma's departure lingered in his mind—her cold eyes, scornful tone, and biting words, "Wake up, hero," stabbed at his heart like needles. Clenching his jaw, he thought, "If she's truly the future Empress Ma—Zhu Yuanzhang's wife—I must forge a connection with her. Historically, she was his pillar, both in life and in the army. She could be key to my cause!"
This resolve drove him, overriding the pain in his wrists. Taking a deep breath, he summoned a surge of strength, his muscles tensing like steel cables. With a sharp *snap*, the ropes broke.
"This body's strength is unreal," he marveled. "Seventh Brother was no ordinary man."
Rubbing his swollen wrists, he rushed to the cave's entrance. Outside, a heavy darkness cloaked the sprawling forest, stars twinkling above but no moon in sight. Silence reigned, broken only by the rustle of wind through the treetops.
Zijian scanned the surroundings, finding the area eerily empty. Crouching, he spotted faint footprints in the soft earth near the entrance—small cloth shoe prints, unmistakably Ma's.
"She can't have gone far," he thought. "The White Lotus Society doesn't act alone. If she's important, she'll have escorts nearby."
Following the tracks, his heart raced with urgency. The night was thick, insect chirps rising and falling, the air heavy with the scent of grass and soil. He stepped carefully to avoid snapping twigs, ears attuned to every sound, wary of danger.
The late Yuan wilderness was perilous—bandits, starving wanderers, and beasts lurked everywhere. Worse, if Ma held a key role, Yuan soldiers might also be hunting her. The White Lotus Society's ties to the Red Turban rebels made her a target.
After tracking for about the time it takes an incense stick to burn, the forest thinned, revealing a clearing. Zijian slowed, his senses heightened. Ahead, he glimpsed a slender figure and quickened his pace, only to halt and move cautiously.
There stood Ma beside a crude cart, lit by a dim white cloth lantern. Two figures flanked her: a plainly dressed woman, likely a servant, and a man in Red Turban attire, a sword at his waist.
"Red Turbans?" Zijian's brow furrowed. "Ma's linked to them, as expected."
He ducked behind a sturdy pine, holding his breath, observing closely. Ma spoke gravely with the servant, then stepped toward the cart to leave.
Then, a shocking twist unfolded. The servant slipped a drug-soaked cloth from her sleeve, swiftly pressing it to Ma's face. Unprepared, Ma let out a muffled groan, eyes wide, struggling briefly before collapsing.
Zijian nearly rushed forward but restrained himself. Then, an even more startling act—the Red Turban man sneered, drew his sword, and slashed the servant's neck. Blood sprayed across the cart and ground, the servant collapsing without a sound, eyes frozen in death.
The man kicked the body aside, tossed Ma's unconscious form into the cart, and whipped the horse into a gallop, speeding off.
"Strange!" Zijian's mind raced. "The servant betrayed Ma, but the soldier killed her. Is he a Yuan spy posing as a Red Turban?"
He followed, using the trees for cover, trailing the cart. It moved slowly, likely to avoid waking Ma, giving him time to keep pace.
The night wind rose, tree shadows swaying like dancing phantoms. Zijian's modern military knowledge guided him, staying fifty paces behind the cart's flank—close enough to track, far enough to remain unseen.
After half an hour, the cart reached a hidden ravine and stopped. Zijian crouched behind a boulder, peering out. Awaiting them was a group of armored Yuan soldiers, their torches casting cold gleams.
A burly general in heavy armor, his helmet's plume quivering in the wind, approached the cart, clapping the fake Red Turban's shoulder. "Well done! With her, we'll force Guo Zixing to reveal the Red Turbans' plans and crush those rabble!"
The soldier bowed. "Your brilliance, General. This woman is close to Guo Zixing, trusted for her divination skills."
"Guo Zixing?" Zijian's mind clicked. History flooded back—Guo Zixing, a key Red Turban leader, was Zhu Yuanzhang's early mentor. "My guess was right," he thought. "Ma's tied to the Red Turbans, likely Empress Ma. If the Yuan use her against Guo, the rebels are in grave danger."
The Yuan set up camp in the ravine, tents forming a semicircle around a central bonfire, its light glinting off their weapons. The cart stood at the camp's heart, Ma bound and unconscious inside.
To the east, a steep slope led to a rushing stream below. The wind stirred the trees, casting the camp's edges into deep shadow. Zijian, hidden in the underbrush, studied the setup.
He assessed the defenses: two groups of three guards patrolled, switching every hour with a fifteen-breath gap; two guards watched the cart, occasionally checking Ma; the rest slept in tents or chatted by the fire.
"At least twenty men. A frontal fight's suicide," he calculated. "I'll wait for the guard change, sneak in, free Ma, and escape."
He slowed his breathing, crawling forward, avoiding dry leaves and twigs, using shadows and bushes for cover. His right hand gripped a short dagger, knuckles white, ready for any sudden move.
Blending modern tactics with ancient conditions, he ran through rescue scenarios: "Twenty guards, two by the cart. If I can silently take them out and set the tents ablaze for chaos, I might save her. But getting close undetected is tough—one mistake, and I'm dead."
A strange sense of duty toward Ma burned within him. "If she's Empress Ma, saving her could secure an ally. More importantly, her death would rewrite history." Yet the danger loomed—if spotted, he'd be trapped.
As he edged closer, a guard turned, scanning his hiding spot. Zijian froze, pressing himself to the ground, breath held, sweat beading on his brow. The guard frowned, lingering, but found nothing and turned away.
Zijian exhaled silently, resuming his crawl. Then, a twig snapped underfoot. Another guard spun, spear in hand, peering into the darkness. Zijian's heart pounded, his pulse loud in the quiet night. The guard stepped closer, nearly treading on his fingers.
Zijian gripped his dagger, ready to fight for his life. Fortunately, the guard, finding nothing, returned to his post.
In the darkness, he saw Ma in the cart, her pale face ghostly in the firelight. He whispered inwardly, "Hold on, Ma. I'll get you out."
The wind rustled, firelight dancing, illuminating the guards' harsh faces and cold steel. The looming crisis tightened like a net.
Time was fleeting. Zijian glanced at the sky, calculating—the guard change was near. This was his only shot to storm the tiger's den, save Ma, and alter history's course.
As the first dawn light threatened to break, the long night held untold dangers and hopes.