In the thirteenth year of the Tianbao era: I became Yang Guozhong's eldest son.

"Since there's no place to reason, then let's not reason." Yang Xuan's tone was completely calm, as if he were discussing a trivial matter. "We brought thirty cartloads of fine salt, not to beg for alms, but to do business. When it comes to business, profit is the most important thing."

Lei Laohu swallowed hard, inwardly groaning.

interest?

Why talk about interests with those illiterate natives who only know how to speak with poison darts and machetes?

Although this county magistrate had immense influence in Yaozhou City, he was, after all, a young master from Chang'an and knew nothing about the rules of the Ten Thousand Mountains.

Here, if someone kills you, the salt will still belong to them. Who would do business with you?

Pei Zhao followed closely behind Yang Xuan's horse, one hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.

His sharp, eagle-like eyes constantly assessed the surrounding terrain, as if he were surveying a battlefield.

"My lord, something's not right here," Pei Zhao suddenly lowered his voice. "It's too quiet."

It was indeed too quiet.

The birdsong and insect chirps that used to occasionally be heard in the forest have completely disappeared.

The surroundings were deathly silent, with only the splattering sound of horses' hooves echoing through the empty valley.

Yang Xuan narrowed his eyes slightly.

The twenty salt-protecting soldiers who followed him into the mountains were all fierce warriors handpicked by Pei Zhao from hundreds of men.

Although they were not wearing heavy armor, each of them was equipped with the finest crossbows and repeating crossbows.

At this moment, they also noticed the strange atmosphere. The twenty men quickly folded up their formation, protecting the mules and horses loaded with salt in the center. They silently nocked crossbow bolts and slightly drew their swords.

"call out--"

Just then, an unusually sharp noise suddenly ripped through the silence.

The sound wasn't the whistling of an arrow cutting through the air, but rather more like the sharp whistling of some kind of bamboo tube.

"There's an ambush! Form ranks!" Pei Zhao shouted.

Before he finished speaking, a chilling scream suddenly erupted from the dense forest on both sides.

"Woo-la-la! Woo-la-la!"

Countless dark figures darted out from the treetops and bushes like ghosts. They were as agile as monkeys, leaping and darting among the vines.

Lei Laohu was shocked. He swung his machete sharply, and with a crisp "clang," he narrowly deflected a bamboo dart, about the thickness of a little finger and coated with a ghostly blue venom.

"It's a blowgun! Everyone be careful, the arrow is poisoned and can kill instantly!" Lei Laohu shouted hoarsely.

The twenty salt-protecting soldiers showed no panic. They quickly formed a tight circle, protecting Yang Xuan firmly in the center.

The soldiers in the front row raised round shields covered with raw cowhide, while the soldiers in the back row leveled their repeating crossbows, coldly locking onto the dark figures moving through the gaps in the shields.

"Don't fire the arrows!"

Just as the salt protection soldiers were about to pull the trigger, Yang Xuan suddenly shouted to stop them.

Pei Zhao turned to look at Yang Xuan, his eyes filled with confusion: "My lord, they're going to kill someone!"

"If they really wanted to kill, they wouldn't have just been blowing bamboo whistles; they would have unleashed a barrage of poisoned darts." Yang Xuan sat on his horse, calmly surveying his surroundings. "They're demonstrating. Lei Laohu, shout in their local dialect."

Lei Laohu wiped away a cold sweat and quickly opened his throat, shouting loudly in an unusually awkward and strangely stilted local dialect.

As he shouted, he raised his hands high above his head to indicate that he meant no harm.

The strange cries in the woods gradually subsided.

A moment later, the bushes in front were roughly pushed aside, and dozens of bare-chested native warriors, their skin covered with various strange totems, surrounded Yang Xuan and his companions like a pack of wolves, wielding heavy Miao swords and blowguns.

The eyes of these native warriors were filled with primal savagery and a deep-seated hatred for the Tang people.

They eyed the mules laden with salt and the well-equipped weapons of the salt guards with the same greedy gaze they would give their prey.

The crowd parted, and a tribal chief emerged, his head adorned with several brightly colored pheasant feathers and a skull necklace around his neck.

He wasn't tall, but his muscles were bulging, like a piece of black iron.

He stared intently at Yang Xuan, who was riding on horseback, with his bloodshot eyes, a cruel smile spreading across his lips.

Lei Laohu quickly stepped forward, bowing and scraping as he communicated with the other party in his local dialect.

The two chattered for a while, when the tribal chief suddenly flew into a rage, raised his Miao knife, pointed it at Yang Xuan, and began to curse loudly in the local dialect.

"Your Excellency, he said he is the head of a branch of the Mengshe Zhao clan, named Duomeng." Lei Laohu swallowed hard, his forehead covered in even more cold sweat. "He said... he said that the Tang officials are all liars and bloodsuckers who only come to steal their grain and women. He told us to leave all the salt and weapons behind, and then... then get out of this mountain, or he would cut off our heads and use them as wine bowls."

"Damn it! They're so ungrateful!" Pei Zhao roared, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to step forward.

"Pei Zhao, step back." Yang Xuan stopped Pei Zhao and dismounted.

He ignored the knives and poisoned darts pointed at him and walked straight up to Dormont.

The two were less than three steps apart.

Duomeng was a full head shorter than Yang Xuan, but he held his chin high, like an enraged fighting rooster, trying to overwhelm the delicate Tang official with his imposing presence.

Yang Xuan glanced at Duo Meng and suddenly chuckled softly.

There was no anger in that laughter, only a condescending mockery.

"What are you laughing at?" Although Duomeng couldn't speak Chinese, he could obviously understand some of it. He shouted angrily in broken Chinese.

"I laugh at you, begging for food while guarding a mountain of gold. You deserve to eat mud in these mountains for the rest of your lives." Yang Xuan's voice was not loud, but it had a power that went straight to the heart.

Dormon was stunned, and the native warriors behind him looked at each other in bewilderment.

In the past, when Tang officials came here, they either brought large armies to annihilate them, or they were so frightened by them that they wet their pants.

No one has ever dared to call them beggars when a knife is held to their throat.

"You...you're asking for death!" Dormon roared in fury, waving his hand violently.

"Swish! Swish! Swish!"

The native warriors on both sides immediately stepped forward, and dozens of heavy Miao swords were crossed in front of Yang Xuan, forming an impenetrable net of swords.

This is the most famous "knife formation" in the indigenous tribe.

Only the bravest warriors dare to pass through this array of swords.

If he dares to back down or show the slightest fear, these knives will not hesitate to chop him into mincemeat.

Lei Laohu was so frightened that he fell to the ground with a thud.

Pei Zhao and his twenty salt-protecting soldiers instantly turned red-eyed, the sound of their crossbows clicking filled the air, waiting for Yang Xuan's order to fight these natives to the death.

However, Yang Xuan did not give the order.

He didn't even draw the sword from his waist.

He simply gazed silently at the array of blades gleaming with cold light, and then took a step forward.

"My lord!" Pei Zhao exclaimed in shock.

Yang Xuan did not turn around. He walked steadily, as if strolling in his own backyard, directly into the death passage composed of dozens of Miao knives.

The sharp blade grazed his black shorts and even cut a strand of his hair.

With just a slight tremor of the hands of those native warriors, several transparent holes would appear on his body.

But Yang Xuan's eyes never blinked. His gaze was calm and deep, like a bottomless pool of water, fixed intently on Duo Meng's face.

At that moment, Dormon suddenly felt a sense of fear.

He had killed many people and seen many fearless individuals. But those people were either fanatics or desperate.

The Tang man before them had no emotion in his eyes, only an absolute indifference to life and death, and an arrogance that seemed to trample everything underfoot.

This kind of person is a million times more terrifying than those crazy people who fight with knives.