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Li Yin wanted to refuse, but there was no use in doing so. On the other side, Chen Lan gave him no choice at all—he simply clapped his hands, and from the rear courtyard emerged a dancer.

He was burly, towering at over eight feet, his skin dark as bronze, and his appearance so hideous it was frightening.

No, this was not a joke—this was truly the “dance” Chen Lan had prepared for Li Yin’s enjoyment. Yet, the dance was really a martial display, and in particular, a sword dance.

“This is the sword dance. I believe, Mr. Li Yin, you have never seen such a thing before. Please, enjoy it!” Chen Lan said to Li Yin with a smile.

“Sword dance? Ha.” Li Yin glanced at Chen Lan. As if he had never seen a sword dance before? In other places, sword dances were performed by beauties, their elegant robes fluttering, captivating all who watched. Yet here, Chen Lan’s sword dance was an affront to the eyes. Was Chen Lan really so kind as to let Li Yin enjoy such a performance? Hardly.

So Li Yin could only offer a mocking smile.

“Mr. Li Yin, watch closely. This move is called ‘The Overlord Strikes the Cauldron!’” As Chen Lan spoke, the burly man wielding the sword suddenly slashed his weapon with a hiss straight toward Li Yin. By Li Yin’s side stood an incense burner, filled with the finest musk, its fragrance beguiling, all contained in a bronze cauldron.

The long sword’s aim seemed to be the incense burner, but truly, it was for Li Yin’s benefit—a show meant to intimidate.

Chen Lan wanted to see Li Yin panic, to lose his composure. But he was bound for disappointment.

Suddenly, a burly man leapt out from behind Li Yin, drew his saber, and intercepted the sword that was speeding toward Li Yin.

“Block!” The oncoming sword was knocked away with a clang.

“Protect the lord!” Seeing the saber drawn, the minor leaders of Mount Tianzhu also unsheathed their weapons.

Chen Lan’s face darkened. He stared at Li Yin. “Mr. Li Yin, what is the meaning of this? I invite you to watch a sword dance, and you respond with drawn blades?”

“Haha, General Chen Lan, you jest. How could I possibly threaten you with a blade?” Li Yin laughed in return. This Chen Lan had improved—he could now lie without blinking, his face unflushed, his heart steady. To put on such an act, Li Yin could almost give him full marks.

But before Li Yin, it was still not enough. Li Yin was well-read and knew this story: Xiang Zhuang’s sword dance was aimed at Liu Bang. A sword dance by a woman was a delight, but by a man, it was a plot. Chen Lan was not giving up; he wanted to use this sword dance to unnerve Li Yin. If, by “accident,” Li Yin were cut—say, his nose sliced, or his ear severed—what could Li Yin say?

He had no recourse.

Li Yin was already angry. Since Chen Lan wanted to play, he would accompany him to the end. Though his heart raged, his expression remained calm, even smiling at Chen Lan. “Since General Chen Lan enjoys sword dances so much, it would be remiss of me not to offer my own guidance.”

Li Yin called to Zhang Xun, who wielded the saber. “But a single performer is rather dull. I happen to have a man skilled in the sword dance myself. Why not let the two of them perform together?” Li Yin smiled at Chen Lan.

“Eh?” Chen Lan’s eyes turned. He looked at the man Li Yin had brought—there was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t place the face. Perhaps just one of Li Yin’s guards, but he trusted his younger brother’s skill.

His brother, Lei Bo, had been one of the top warriors under Li Shu—few could best him. So Chen Lan was at ease.

His eyes flashed. “Mr. Li Yin, blades know no mercy. These two have never fought together. What if someone gets hurt?”

“No matter, no matter. If someone is injured, it means his skills were lacking—no one else is to blame. Isn’t that so, General Chen Lan?”

“In that case, I’m reassured!” This was exactly the answer Chen Lan wanted. “Go, show our guest’s man the meaning of sword dance!” Chen Lan winked at Lei Bo. He dared not kill Li Yin, but his subordinate was another matter.

Lei Bo nodded and drew his long sword.

Chen Lan’s real purpose was not the wine, but Li Yin himself. He wanted to teach Li Yin a lesson, to show that he was not to be trifled with—that he was no longer the lowly general once beneath Li Yin’s command, but now the master of Mount Tianzhu, the chief of this band. Li Yin was nothing more than a strategist for a rebel—what could Li Miao have offered him? A broken riverside pavilion with a few thousand men—nothing compared to Mount Tianzhu.

But when Chen Lan had extended the olive branch, Li Yin had refused the toast and insisted on the penalty cup, so he could hardly be blamed.

He dared not kill Li Yin, true, but that did not mean he would spare his subordinates, nor did it mean he feared injuring Li Yin himself.

So he brought out Lei Bo, to make an example—of the three men Li Yin brought, he would see all three carried out.

“Lei Bo?” Li Yin sat calmly, watching the burly man with the sword. If he remembered right, this was Chen Lan’s younger brother, the second-in-command of Mount Tianzhu, Lei Bo.

Li Yin recalled Chen Lan only because Chen Lan had once bribed him on behalf of Li Miao, but Lei Bo was less familiar. Today, he’d finally met him.

Seeing Lei Bo in person, even Li Yin had to admire him—a natural general. Over seven feet tall, built like an ox, his eyes like bronze bells. He radiated power, commanding respect without anger.

Watching the sword spin in Lei Bo’s hand, Li Yin could see his martial prowess was formidable.

Had Li Yin come with only his usual guards, perhaps he really would have been humiliated by Chen Lan’s show of force. But he had brought Zhang Xun.

Zhang Xun was no kinsman of the Li family, nor was he a sycophant like Yang Hong, who had flattery down to an art. Zhang Xun relied solely on his own ability to rise to the rank of chief general under Li Shu.

One could ask: if Zhang Xun was so capable, why was he a minor character in the histories and romances of the Three Kingdoms? The answer: among short men, he stood tall, and in the end, power belonged to the victors. Zhang Xun’s ability was middling compared to the greatest, but far above the average.

Lei Bo was one of those “short men,” while Zhang Xun was the true power here.

So Li Yin sat calmly, unruffled.

A true master revealed his skill at a glance.

At first, Lei Bo looked down on the guard brought by Li Yin, a cruel smile on his lips, his sword spinning as he imagined how best to cleave his opponent’s skull and present the head to Li Yin as a side dish.

But Lei Bo’s hopes were dashed—the moment he crossed swords with Zhang Xun, his fate was sealed.

Lei Bo’s sword was fast, but Zhang Xun’s saber was faster.

Each time Lei Bo thrust, Zhang Xun parried, giving him no opening.

Lei Bo’s face reddened, while Chen Lan, watching, thought his brother was merely toying with the foe.

Lei Bo tried to use brute strength to overwhelm Zhang Xun, but Zhang Xun’s strength matched his own, if not surpassed it. The result was that Lei Bo nearly found himself cut down by Zhang Xun’s saber.

As the saying goes, if you’ve signed up for the race, you must finish it, even through tears.

Lei Bo had stepped up—now he had to perform his part. Each time his sword met Zhang Xun’s saber, his hand grew more numb, his grip tearing at the web between thumb and forefinger. Blood trickled from his palm.

Zhang Xun watched Lei Bo, a faint smile on his lips. Lei Bo was skilled, but he was outmatched—and, crucially, he was unsuited to the sword.

The sword requires finesse; it moves along subtle tracks, often striking at angles. But Lei Bo, all brawn and bulk, relied on brute force, which blunted the sword’s edge. What Lei Bo thought would be a quick matter—dispatching an unknown nobody in moments—had turned into a contest against a master.

So Lei Bo was doomed.

At first, Chen Lan failed to notice his brother’s predicament, believing he was simply playing with Li Yin’s guard. But soon he realized something was wrong—Lei Bo’s complexion, dark at first, turned red, then purple. Chen Lan’s keen eyes spotted blood pooling at Lei Bo’s feet, and it could only be his.

He saw now that Lei Bo was in dire straits. Chen Lan grew anxious. “Stop! Quickly, stop!”

“What’s wrong, General Chen Lan? The sword dance is just reaching its climax. To stop now would be to insult the art. How could I offer any guidance?” Li Yin smiled at him.

Chen Lan glared at Li Yin. “The sword dance is unworthy of the grand hall—Mr. Li Yin, forgive me. There’s nothing more to see.”

“Oh, but it’s just getting interesting! If you doubt me, General, why not ask General Lei Bo himself—isn’t this the most exciting part?” Li Yin said cheerfully. He was in no hurry. Even a layman could see Lei Bo was being thoroughly beaten.

Lei Bo could scarcely speak, but even if he could, he would never admit defeat in public.

“You know Lei Bo?” Chen Lan stared at Li Yin.

“General Lei Bo? How could I not know him?” Li Yin replied calmly. At first he hadn’t recognized him, but later he realized who it was.

“And that man?” Chen Lan asked coldly.

“To match General Lei Bo in a sword dance, one must be highly skilled. So I brought General Zhang Xun with me,” Li Yin replied.

“Zhang Xun?” Chen Lan’s eyes widened, as if he had swallowed a fly. Zhang Xun had once been his own commander—he knew his skill well. Though not a match for the likes of Lu Bu, Zhang Xun was a top-tier second-rate general.

Few could best Zhang Xun in single combat. Lei Bo was strong, but still a notch below Zhang Xun—and he was using a weapon he was not adept with.

Lei Bo and Zhang Xun traded blows, neither able to stop—indeed, neither dared. If either let his guard down, it could cost his life.

Yet if they did not stop, Lei Bo would be beaten to death. The web of his hand was torn and bleeding, and still he gritted his teeth, refusing to yield. Zhang Xun would not kill Lei Bo, but crippling him was well within his power.

“Li Yin, what do you want?” Chen Lan saw that Zhang Xun would not stop without Li Yin’s order, and that if this continued, Lei Bo might be ruined. Gnashing his teeth, he glared at Li Yin. He had thought to humble Li Yin, but found himself caught in a trap.

“General Chen Lan, what are you saying? I want nothing—only to offer a sword dance in your honor on your birthday!” Li Yin replied serenely, infuriating Chen Lan all the more. Just as he was about to explode, Li Yin waved his hand. “General Zhang Xun, that’s enough, come back—General Lei Bo is tired.”

Li Yin knew that to press further would only harm himself. Though Zhang Xun had the upper hand, they were, after all, in a bandit’s lair, on Chen Lan’s turf. To offend him too deeply would do Li Yin no good—their lives were still in Chen Lan’s hands.

At Li Yin’s signal, Zhang Xun ceased his attack and withdrew. Lei Bo, seeing him step back, wisely did not press his luck. Gasping for breath, he retreated behind Chen Lan.

“Mr. Li Yin, you’ve come in person, and brought General Zhang Xun—surely it isn’t just to celebrate my birthday?” Chen Lan asked pointedly. Normally, he would not have brought up the real business; negotiations are about patience, about outacting the other. Whoever speaks first shows impatience and loses half the battle. At first, Chen Lan had been calm and unhurried, but now he could not maintain the façade—each attempt to intimidate Li Yin had been foiled, and he had nearly lost face himself. If things continued, he saw no advantage—better to speak plainly.

“Haha, come now! Celebrating your birthday is, of course, my main purpose, but there are a few small matters to discuss as well,” Li Yin replied, smiling, not pressing his advantage but watching Chen Lan amiably.