The Bandit Emperor

"Scarface!"

On a mountain slope within a narrow gorge between Little East Mountain and Azure Mountain—a vital pass for local travel—a middle-aged man with skin dark as charcoal, a balding head, and a squat, stocky frame slapped the shoulder of a young man beside him and shouted, "Here they come!"

At that moment, a wedding procession was passing through the gorge, drums and gongs resounding as they made their way.

The young man, whom the balding one called "Scarface," chewed a wild stalk of grass between his teeth, his face marked by an unruly, rough air. Yet he was not ill-favored; his features were quite striking in their own way, and, ironically, his skin bore not a single pockmark.

Most comical of all was his attire: he wore a scholar's robe, ill-fitting and stolen from who-knows-where, which hung awkwardly on his frame, making him look utterly absurd.

His face twisted in a cruel grin, all trace of youthful gallantry turned to bandit ferocity. He aimed a kick at the balding man and cursed, "How many times have I told you? I'm not Scarface!"

The balding man only grinned wider, unfazed. "Your father was Scarface, so you’re Scarface too!"

"Enough squabbling!"

The young man known as Scarface fixed his gaze on the bridal sedan below, his voice harsh and fierce. "Damn it! I'm already twenty and still without a wife. Today, brothers, you must help me take this woman back to the stronghold!"

They were, obviously, a band of mountain bandits