I, Huo Qubing, have been reborn.
A memory has appeared in my mind:
The moment I sealed the wolf’s dwelling at Mount Langjuxu was the beginning of my death.
At twenty-four, Chang’an was draped in white mourning banners, and the Xiongnu celebrated.
Ridiculous.
Now that I know how it ends, I don’t want the empty glory of “sealing the wolf’s dwelling.”
In this life, I won’t be a blade Liu Che uses and then throws away.
I’ll make the Xiongnu nobles kneel and beg me to open trade,
make the women of the steppe dream only of marrying Han men,
and make every tribal chieftain depend on trade with my Great Han to survive.
Then what will be left of the Xiongnu?
Liu Che says I’ve changed, that I’m afraid of war, too protective of my own life, and no longer sharp enough.
The court officials accuse me of secretly raising foreign troops and plotting rebellion.
I ask them only this:
“How many years can the steppe I conquered with swords and blades endure? The submission I won with tea and silk can last for ten thousand generations!”
The histories dared not record what happened next:
Chanyu Yizhixie died on the road while fleeing.
The Southern Xiongnu submitted as a whole, weeping and begging to be registered as Han subjects.
Before the Northern Xiongnu migrated west, their chieftain looked east one last time:
“Is that man surnamed Huo still alive? As long as he lives, I will never turn east toward this steppe again.”
But they didn’t know
that I was only twenty-five that year.
