Xu Chengguang’s expression did not change as he met Tie Lanshan’s scrutinizing gaze with calm composure.
He stressed the word “self-interest” heavily.
This kind of unadorned frankness instead defused much of the provocativeness in his words.
Putting the thought of challenging Xu Zhan out in the open was still better than scheming behind the scenes.
A few veteran generals who had been gripping their blades relaxed their hands slightly upon hearing this.
Tie Lanshan let out two dry laughs, a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Second Young Master Xu is quite straightforward. But right now, our Northern Defense Pass is standing at the gates of hell—seven thousand iron cavalry could come storming in at any moment. This timing… it’s really not right.”
Just as his words fell, a soft sound came from below.
Xu Qinghuan set down her tea cup.
She lifted her eyes to the commander-in-chief seated at the head.
“Marshal Tie, since Second Young Master Xu is a general forged through blood and steel in the northwest, and bears a secret order from the Grand Secretary, I doubt he has come merely to watch the show. The Northern Defense Pass is sorely lacking in bold generals who can fight hard battles. An extra fine blade is always welcome.”
Her words were gentle, yet every phrase struck at the heart of the matter.
By pairing Xu Chengguang’s status with “fine blade,” she not only honored the Xu family greatly but also discreetly set the fire beneath him.
If he was to be a fine blade, he had to prove his worth on the battlefield and earn that title.
Tie Lanshan, a man of sharp intuition, understood the subtle implication immediately.
He stopped beating around the bush and leaned forward slightly.
“General Xu was sent out for a surprise raid beyond the city and has not yet returned. If General Xu wants a contest, he must wait until the man returns.”
His gaze locked onto Xu Chengguang.
“Second Young Master Xu claims to have the Grand Secretary’s order—I must verify it. To see whether it’s real, and whether it’s worth opening our gates for you.”
Xu Chengguang did not waste words. He reached into his robes and retrieved the token that had sparked the commotion at the city gates, presenting it with both hands.
Tie Lanshan took it, turning it over in the flickering candlelight.
The object was heavy in his hand; the patterns and hidden marks on the back matched perfectly—it was a special-grade mobilization command issued by the Cabinet Military Council.
After examining it, his expression darkened slightly, and he pushed the token back onto the table, his tone softening by a few degrees.
“The secret order is genuine. Matters of coordinated defense are significant. You may first take lodging in the camp. As for your specific post, we will discuss it once General Xu returns.”
…
The next morning, at the abandoned White Sound Pasture on the far side of the Yin Mountains.
The northern wind swept yellow sand, lashing against the half-collapsed stone and wood piles of a sacrificial altar.
A few withered wooden stakes used for offerings howled in the wind, like the choked wails of a living man being strangled.
Amur sat on a wooden chair upholstered with a tattered wolf pelt.
Before him on the muddy ground were three heavy camphorwood chests lined up in a row.
Arslan stood with fifty elite death warriors of the Qiyan tribe, flanking on both sides.
All fifty men were clad in the Great Qian’s fine steel lamellar armor; the cold gleam of the hard plates radiated a chilling air under the gray sky.
At the edge of the pasture, the sound of hooves grew closer.
Several dozen ragged herdsmen rode near on their horses; two of them dismounted and stepped forward.
These were Bater, the exiled chieftain of the Wanggu tribe, and Wuyun Bagen, the leader of the remnant branch of the Tatar tribe.
These chiefs of fringe tribes lived in extreme misery.
Bater’s leather robe was patched with seven or eight layers, with hard clumps of grime.
The scabbard of Wuyun Bagen’s curved sword had worn through, revealing a rusted handle.
On the steppe, the Great Helian tribe’s rule was to squeeze every drop of blood: fine horses, strong men, quality iron—all had to be tributed. What remained for the lesser tribes were only sparse grasslands and long, harsh winters.
Bater walked up to the wooden chair and looked at the three camphorwood chests without speaking first.
Amur skipped all pleasantries and simply raised his chin.
Arslan strode forward and kicked open the copper lock on the first chest with his leg.
With a loud clang, the lid flew up, revealing neatly stacked blocks of grey salt.
Each block was the size of a palm, tightly wrapped in oiled paper.
Then, the second chest was kicked open; eight hundred standard-issue Great Qian horizontal sabers lay quietly inside, their blades coated with anti-rust oil, radiating a killing aura.
On the steppe, iron tools meant the capital to kill and plunder; salt meant the lifeline of a tribe’s survival.
It was precisely by monopolizing these two things that Great Khan Helian held the necks of the smaller tribes in a tight grip.
Now, Amur placed these items openly before them—it was as good as using a blade to pry at the foundation of the Khan’s court.
Wuyun Bagen saw the contents of the chest but did not show greed or reach for a saber.
Instead, he stepped back half a pace and let out a cold laugh.
“The Qiyan tribe was wiped out root and branch three years ago by the Great Khan. Now you, Amur, are nothing but a stray dog. These eight hundred sabers and thousands of pounds of salt—where did you get them? From the Great Qian? Why would the Great Qian give them to you? Don’t tell me you’re trading our heads for your future?”
On the steppe, betrayal was as common as eating and drinking. No one believed in gifts from heaven.
Amur did not argue a single word.
He stood up, pulled a saber from the chest, and tossed it casually to Arslan.
Then pointing at Wuny Bagen’s rusty iron armor—stripped from the corpse of a Helian regular soldier—he said:
“Take it off. Hang it on that wooden stake ten paces away.”
Wuyun Bagen frowned but obeyed.
Arslan gripped the saber with both hands, took a deep half-breath, and stepped forward.
Without any extra motion, he swung his arm in an arc and slashed down!
“Crack!”
Amid the harsh sound of breaking metal, the armor—which could barely stop stray arrows—along with the thick wooden stake supporting it, was chopped clean in two.
The cut was as smooth as a mirror; the fine steel saber’s edge showed not a trace of curling.
The expressions of Bater and Wuyun Bagen changed completely.
Amur walked back to the wooden chair and sat down, tossing the other saber back into the chest with a crisp clatter.
“The sabers and the salt are just a gift. I didn’t summon you here to make trades, but to divide the spoils.”
He pulled a sheepskin map from his vest and nailed it to the wooden post of the altar.
The map was marked with charcoal, showing the supply lines of the Great Helian’s Right Wing camp.
“The main Helian forces have moved south, so the Right Wing camp is vulnerable. I want you to lead your men and raid their livestock and supplies. Of what you seize, I keep only three-tenths; the rest is all yours.”
Bater stared at the map, bloodshot eyes fixed on it, but still did not nod.
Amur looked at him coldly, his voice carrying a bone-chilling edge of cruelty.
“The Great Helian’s thousand-household system has chained you to the poorest grasslands, forcing you to hand over seven out of every ten livestock to the court each winter. Your children are born as slaves, not even worthy of owning a single good blade.”
“Today, I give you sabers. I give you salt. I give you the chance to reclaim your own pastures. This bloody piece of meat—can you swallow it?”
These words struck the very core of the chieftains’ grievances.
Bater rubbed his calloused hands, greed outweighing fear.
“Young Chief, we accept the sabers and the salt. But even if the Great Helian’s Right Wing camp is depleted, two thousand elite guards remain stationed there. We’ll be trading our lives for it—we need some guarantee to survive. Word has it the Great Qian possesses some kind of fire-spouting jars. Since you managed to get these sabers, could you spare us a few dozen of those fire weapons as well?”
Amur didn’t even lift his eyelids as he flatly refused:
“No firearms. Great Qian’s military treasures cannot fall into your hands.”
Before Bater could show his disappointment, Amur pulled out a rolled silk document and tossed it over:
“But I have the exact times of the rotation at Helian’s Right Camp and the precise location of their gunpowder depot. With this, you don’t need a frontal assault—just toss a torch in during the half-hour window of the shift change.”
Wuyun Bagen clenched his back teeth and stepped forward.
“Empty words. On the steppe, an alliance demands hostages.”
Amur nodded, then shot a glance at Arslan.
Arslan waved his hand, and from behind, five teenagers from the Qiyan tribe were brought forward.
These five boys were skin and bones, but their eyes burned with the ferocity of wolves—the last elite seedlings of the Qiyan tribe.
Amur pointed at them:
“These five will stay in your camp. If I fail to send troops as agreed, you can cut off their heads anytime.”
Bater and Wuyun Bagen exchanged looks. Each summoned two of their own nephews from their retinues and pushed them before Amur.
On the bottom rung of the steppe, there were no contracts, no faith—only blood ties and hostages could bind an alliance.
Amur didn’t refuse. He had the four hostages taken away under guard.
Seeing that Wuyun Bagen of the Tatars still hesitated, Amur tore away his last shred of pretense:
“Wuyun Bagen, your tribe lost thirty percent of its livestock last winter, and this spring you were hit by a white disaster. If you don’t raid the Helian Right Camp’s herds, half your people will starve this winter. You have no choice.”
Wuyun Bagen’s cheek twitched twice. His face turned ashen, and finally, he bowed his head heavily, accepting the task of attacking the eastern pastures.
Bater, in turn, took the job of burning down the gunpowder depot.
Amur waved his hand, and the blades and salt were distributed to each man.
The herders who received the supplies let out no cheers. They silently tied the blades under their saddles and stuffed the salt bricks tightly into the inner folds of their shirts.
The wind and sand still scoured the land.
Amur sat in his chair, watching these men mount their horses and vanish into the dim yellow horizon.
There was no oath-taking, no fervor—only the rawest drive to survive, pushing these beasts of the steppe to tear at a larger prey.
After they left, White Sound Pasture fell silent except for the wind.
Arslan walked to the wooden chair and spoke in a rough voice:
“Young Chief, these Great Qian cross-blades and salt—we earned them with our blood. If we give them to those turncoats and they take the goods without acting, or sell them to the Helians, what then?”
Amur sat back down, drew the cross-blade from its scabbard, took out a rag, and slowly wiped the oil from the blade:
“They won’t dare. I gave them blades so they would bite the Helians. Once the Helians fall, these same blades will be their death warrants.”
He paused his wiping, his voice cold as the ice on the northern slope of the Yinshan Mountains.
“Three years ago, when the Qiyan tribe was destroyed, the Great Khan Helian sent only ten thousand soldiers. The other thirty thousand were volunteered by the Wanggu and Tatar tribes to show their loyalty. They devoured our grasslands and gnawed our bones.”
Amur stood, sheathed the blade, and gazed south toward the Zhenbei Pass.
“Today’s blades and salt are just the first taste of interest. After this battle, not one of those tribes will be left standing.”
