They forgot that my parents were heroes who died on the battlefield, not "defeated generals" who would be the subject of gossip.
I, Mu Yunxi, am a descendant of the Mu family; my bones should carry the toughness of a spearhead.
The winds of the North have been blowing for five years, turning the childishness on my face into frost.
They also embellished my story, transforming me from a young soldier whose legs were so weak from practicing horse stance that I couldn't even hold the spear, into a captain who could carry a 20-pound tiger-head spear and chase after fleeing Western Qiang soldiers for ten miles.
I wore out seven pairs of boots, and on each pair of soles was sewn the character "沐" (mu), which my mother taught me. The stitches were crooked, but I sewed them by the campfire at night.
If you prick your finger with a needle, suck the blood into your mouth before stitching it up; the blood will make the thread stronger.
The calluses on his palms were so thick they could tear coarse cloth, yet he handled the gun barrel with more familiarity than any silk or satin.
He could even tell by touch where there was a dent or a shiny spot on the gun barrel with his eyes closed.
"Ta Xue" was a fine horse from Hexi that the emperor secretly gave to me later. It was all black except for its four hooves which were a bit white like snow. Its mane was so long that it could reach down to its knees. When it ran, it looked like a black wind.
When it was first brought here, it was very temperamental. It would scratch at people whenever it saw them. I led it around in the snow for three days and three nights.
When we were thirsty, we would lie down together in the snow to drink snow water. When we were hungry, we would share a piece of dry biscuit. I would take a bite and then put it to its mouth, and it would slowly eat it.
On the morning of the fourth day, it suddenly rubbed its head against my palm, and I knew that it recognized me.
Now, upon seeing the wolf-head banner of the Western Qiang people, it paws its hooves and neighs, its mane bristling like a ball of black fire, recognizing the enemy even before I do.
Even Wang Huzi said, "This horse is intelligent, just like your mother's 'Treading Clouds' back then."
I was twelve years old when I first went to the battlefield. It was snowing heavily, with snowflakes falling like goose feathers. I was wrapped in a thin shirt and lay in the snowdrift, my nose red from the cold.
Even their breath was tinged with white vapor, and their exhaled breath frosted over their eyelashes.
The barbarian soldiers from the Western Qiang, seeing that I was short and had a fair complexion, grinned and cursed, "Is Tianxuan out of people? Sending a little girl to die, do they want us to capture her and use her as a plaything?"
As he spoke, he raised his curved sword and slashed at me. The blade, carrying a chill, grazed my ear, shaving off a few strands of hair. Snowflakes seeped down my neck, making me shiver from the cold.
I rolled sideways into the snowdrift, my sleeves filled with snow. With a backhand thrust, I knocked his knife away, the blade clattering to the ground and sending snowflakes flying.
When the gun tip was pressed against his throat, the barbarian's smile froze on his face, and his crotch was soaked with sweat.
Urine trickled down his trouser leg, accumulating into small yellow puddles in the snow, steaming.
I stared into his eyes, my voice colder than snow: "I am Mu Yunxi, the daughter of the Duke of Mu and the Protector General. You plotted to kill my parents back then, and today, it's time to pay the price."
Upon hearing the words "Duke of Mu" and "General Protector of the Nation," the barbarian's legs went weak and he knelt down, his knees hitting the snow with a loud thud.
He cried out, "Spare me! Spare me! I was blind and didn't recognize your greatness! Please, General, spare my life! I will never dare to rebel again!"
Tears and snot mixed together, smearing my face and freezing into ice crystals.
Later, it was rumored among the barbarians that there was a young general named Mu in Tianxuan, whose face was whiter than Kunlun jade and whose spear was more ruthless than the King of Hell's soul-snatching lock.
As soon as her "Snow-Treading" horse neighs and she flicks her spear, its head can roll three zhang (approximately 10 meters) on the ground, even kicking up three chi (approximately 1.5 meters) of sand and gravel.
The little boy from Xiqiang cried and refused to sleep. His mother would say, "If you cry again, General Mu will come and pick your head and hang it on the wall of Yanmen Pass."
He immediately shut his mouth and pretended to be dead, not daring to even breathe loudly.
When I was sixteen, I led three thousand light cavalry to raid the stronghold of the Western Qiang.
On a snowy night, the horse's hooves, wrapped in burlap, made no sound as it walked on the snow.
The spear tip reflected the cold moonlight, gleaming with a bluish-white light, much like the spear that Mother used back then.
I once saw it in the armory; the words "Protect the Nation" were engraved on the spear, which was rusted black but was still sharp.
We went around through the secret passage at Yanmen Pass. That passage was dug by my father and his soldiers back then, and only the Mu family knew the entrance.
Beneath a giant rock engraved with the character "沐" (Mu), we followed the frozen Cang River into the Western Qiang royal court.
The sentries guarding the camp were still warming themselves by the fire and drinking. A piece of mutton was placed on the fire, and the oil dripped down the wooden skewer, sizzling as it fell into the fire.
He was stuffing a piece of cooked mutton into his mouth, oil dripping down his chin, without even noticing us approaching.
I silently circled behind him, covered his mouth with my left hand, drew the short knife from my waist with my right hand, and slit his throat in one stroke.
The blood splattered on the snow, like a brightly blooming red plum blossom, burning hot to the touch.
When the King of Western Qiang scrambled up from the pile of beauties and drunkenly reached for the curved sword beside his pillow, my gun was already at his neck.
The snow on the blade hadn't melted yet, dripping onto his golden crown, melting into tiny watermarks that trickled down the dragon pattern, soaking his mink coat.
The King of Western Qiang was so frightened that he wet his pants, just like that barbarian from years ago, trembling all over and grinding his teeth.
He cried out, "Spare me! I'm willing to submit! I'll pay tribute to Tianxuan every year! And send him a hundred beauties!"
"Send me a thousand fine horses! Send me ten thousand bushels of grain! I beg the general to spare my life!"
When the imperial envoy arrived with the golden seal of "General Who Guards the West," I was sitting on the tiger-skin chair of the King of the Western Qiang, drinking inferior wine from his silver wine pot.
The wine was strong and astringent, with a muttony smell, not as good as the osmanthus wine in the palace.
The wine dripped down his chin and onto the tiger skin, looking just like the blood that had flowed beneath the Yanmen Pass gate tower years ago, a dark red color.
The imperial envoy turned pale with fright, ran over and grabbed my arm, his voice trembling: "Grandma! You mustn't!"
This tiger-skin chair belongs to the barbarian chieftain; it's very dirty. Please don't get your clothes dirty!
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