[Water Margin] Hu Sanniang with her delicate hands - Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

The three-day deadline felt like a sword hanging over her head; every moment was exceedingly long and agonizing. On the surface, Hu Sanniang remained normal—inspecting defenses, handling military affairs, even personally supervising archery practice—her expression so calm that no one could detect any anomaly. Yet, only she knew that the tension within her was stretched to the limit. Every roll of the assembly drum, every summons from Song Jiang, made her heart jump, fearing it was the moment of revelation.

She used these three days to make her final preparations without raising suspicion. Under the guise of “inventorying the spoils from Dongping Prefecture to be sent back to the stockade’s treasury,” she packaged some difficult-to-carry gold and valuables, mixing them into the baggage train bound for Liangshan. In secret, she instructed Hu Cheng to hide these assets in a covert mountain cave known only to a few of them along the predetermined route. Furthermore, under the pretext of “rewarding meritorious soldiers and providing stipends for the wounded and deceased,” she drew a sum of cash and distributed it to her trusted confidants, both as a settlement and a reward for their past loyalty.

These actions were all within her authority and executed meticulously, arousing no suspicion from others. Only Hu Cheng, Instructor Chen, and a handful of others vaguely sensed the hidden resolve beneath the Third Mistress’s calm exterior, but they chose silence and assisted her covertly.

On the third day, night finally arrived as expected. It was a moonless night; thick clouds covered the sky, and the stars were hidden, making it the perfect time for stealth. The lights of the main Liangshan stronghold were sparse, and the rhythmic footsteps of the patrolling lookouts sounded in the distance, further highlighting the dead silence in Hu Sanniang’s outlying camp.

It was nearing midnight.

Hu Sanniang shed the magnificent yet heavy Xuanlian armor, as if casting off an invisible shackles. She changed into a clean, dark night-travel outfit, tightly bound her long hair, and wrapped it in black cloth. Her Sun and Moon sabers were concealed close to her body. The wolf’s head token and the now-empty Western Region jade flask were carefully tucked into the closest inner pocket of her garments. She took one last look around the room where she had lived for a long time, her gaze sweeping past the cold armor and the unread military treatise on the desk. There was not a trace of sentimentality.

Pushing open the back window, a cool, moist breeze rushed in. Like a nimble night owl, she silently climbed out the window, her figure merging into the dense darkness. Following the hidden path she had long since mapped out, avoiding the main sentry posts, she hastened toward the abandoned woodsman’s hut in the back mountain.

Every rustle of the wind, every movement of grass, seemed to signal danger. Every step was on the brink of life and death, and every flicker of a distant torch made her heart momentarily stop. She could hear the surge of her own bl00d and feel the cold sweat seeping from her palms as she tightly gripped her saber hilt. This path was more perilous than any charge into battle she had ever made.

Finally, the outline of the dilapidated hut emerged in the darkness. The surroundings were silent, broken only by the low chirping of unknown insects in the grass.

She held her breath, approached the hut, and tapped the door panel with the agreed-upon signal: three long, two short.

The wooden door silently slid open a crack. A pair of light brown eyes, sharp as a hawk’s even in the darkness, flashed behind the door.

It was Dǎlǐbō.

She was also dressed in dark, close-fitting hunting gear, wearing no ornaments, her long hair tied back. Her face showed signs of travel and fatigue, yet her eyes shone astonishingly bright, like stars in the dark night. She said nothing, but quickly moved aside, allowing Hu Sanniang to slip inside, then quietly closed the door.

There was no fire lit inside the hut. Only faint light filtered in through the cracks of the decaying window frame, barely outlining the other woman’s silhouette.

“Follow me. The route is arranged.” Dǎlǐbō’s voice was extremely low, carrying an unquestionable decisiveness. She did not ask Hu Sanniang if she regretted her decision, nor did she offer any greeting, as if everything was under control.

Hu Sanniang nodded, equally silent. At this moment, any extra words would be superfluous.

Dǎlǐbō turned and led Hu Sanniang out through a gap on the other side of the hut, submerging into the denser, darker woods behind. She seemed intimately familiar with this terrain, her steps light and swift, like a forest fox, always precisely avoiding thorns and any dry branches that might make a sound.

The two traveled silently through the pitch-black forest, one leading the other. Only their suppressed breathing and the occasional slight crunch of fallen leaves underfoot broke the silence. Hu Sanniang could feel a scent emanating from Dǎlǐbō—a mix of grass, cool spices, and a faint hint of sweat—and this unique scent strangely eased her tense nerves.

After an unknown duration, having pushed through an extremely thick thicket, the space suddenly opened up. A concealed mountain stream appeared before them. The water gurgled, and the air was moist. Two magnificent Khitan horses were tethered by the stream, fully equipped with saddles and bridles. Two sizable saddlebags were also lashed to their backs.

“Mount up.” Dǎlǐbō commanded briefly, smoothly swinging herself onto a jet-black warhorse first.

Hu Sanniang did not hesitate, leaping onto the other chestnut horse. The horses were well-trained and did not neigh.

Dǎlǐbō gave her reins a shake. The black horse shot forward like an arrow released from a bow, galloping upriver along a nearly indiscernible path by the stream’s edge. Hu Sanniang spurred her horse to follow closely.

The two fast horses, like beasts that had broken free from a cage, galloped wildly on the rugged mountain path. The wind roared past their ears, stinging their cheeks. The cold air rushed into her lungs, yet it brought an unprecedented, almost painful sense of freedom.

They galloped along the stream, circled several mountain ridges, and left the lights of Liangshan Marsh behind in the boundless darkness. It wasn’t until a faint white streak appeared on the eastern horizon that Dǎlǐbō reined in her horse on a high cliff that overlooked the path they had taken.

She turned her horse to face the direction of Liangshan Marsh. In the faint morning light, the massive marsh and the stockade built against the mountain were only a vague, silent silhouette, like a crouching giant beast.

Hu Sanniang also stopped her horse and looked back with her. That place where she had fought fiercely, endured humiliation, and which held so many complex emotions for her, was slowly receding from sight, destined to become a mere symbol in her memory.

There was no anticipated surge of emotion, only a sense of calm resignation, and… a vague anticipation for the unknown journey ahead.

“From this point on, Liangshan Marsh and you have no more ties,” Dǎlǐbō’s voice rang out in the cold morning wind, clear and composed. “The road ahead may bring hardship, but the world is vast, and you are free to roam.”

She turned her head and looked at Hu Sanniang. The morning light outlined her heroic profile. Her light brown eyes reflected the first rays of dawn appearing in the sky, and also reflected Hu Sanniang’s figure.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Hu Sanniang took a deep breath of the crisp, free air, tightened her grip on the reins, and withdrew her gaze from the receding silhouette of Liangshan, turning it toward the vaster, unknown land to the north.

“Let’s go.”

No grand words, just two simple characters, yet they contained her full resolve to break with the past and rush toward the future.

The corner of Dǎlǐbō’s mouth curled into a genuinely unrestrained and proud smile. She said no more, nudging her horse’s flank. The black warhorse let out a loud neigh and galloped toward the north.

Hu Sanniang took a final, deep look at the silhouette of Liangshan, which was now the past. Then, she turned her horse and spurred the chestnut steed to follow closely behind the black figure that acted as her guiding light.

The two horses sped away, breaking through the last darkness before dawn, and disappeared along the winding ancient path leading north, merging into the vast mountains and the brightening sky.

In the legends of Liangshan Marsh, the story of “Ten Feet of Blue” Hu Sanniang might have ended here.

But the brand-new chapter belonging to Hu Sanniang had just fiercely turned its first page amid the howling of the north wind.