The night wind was as sharp as a blade. Chen Changfeng stood on a high vantage point on the northern slope, his gaze fixed steadily southward toward the direction of Zhenbei Pass.
Inside the camp, soldiers were busy packing up provisions and equipment.
Warhorses whinnied nervously.
Charcoal in the braziers flickered, and thick smoke was torn apart by the howling gale, spreading flat across the frozen wasteland. The Baiyin grassland had been destroyed in a single blaze; the army's supply routes were severed. Retreat was now inevitable.
Who had set that fire?
Chen Changfeng ran through every possible lead in his mind, one by one.
The Baiyin grassland was ringed by a three-zhang-high weathered stone cliff, with only two narrow paths—one in the north, one in the south—for entry and exit.
Ashina Dubi had stationed five hundred armored Qiexue guards there.
If those five hundred men were gathered in the heart of the grassland, not even a few hundred scattered stragglers—nor even the most elite Light Cavalry of the Great Qian—could charge in without being pulverized under the weight of heavy armor.
The military report that came back said the fire-thunder jars had collapsed half the mountain.
Ordnance of that magnitude required oxcarts to haul it.
Hauling a wagon train of munitions through the tightly guarded layers of Helian's roaming cavalry was utterly impossible.
Though Xu Zhan's whereabouts were unknown, his men could not possibly survive long on the steppe. And the garrisons of the other Great Qian border towns had stirred not a single soldier, as per the Ministry of War's deployments.
The Great Qian regular army could not break out.
If not the Great Qian regular forces, then what of the miscellaneous tribes on the steppe? The Wanggu tribe didn't even have enough sheep to last the winter; the Tatar tribe was squeezed into the marginal grasslands, gnawing on roots.
Those broken, shattered clans couldn't scrape together a capable death squad, much less men willing to willingly throw their lives at heavy armor.
No way through.
Every thread of evidence converged into a dead knot.
A venomous viper had bitten through the Helian tribe's vital spot, not leaving even a single scale behind.
But Chen Changfeng was not a man who formed conclusions so easily.
Caution ran in his very bones.
And so his thoughts slid inexorably toward the worst possible outcome!
That meant Xu Qinghuan had truly established her own power on the steppe.
The cold wind seeped down his neck into his thin long robe, but Chen Changfeng did not move a step. After years of scheming in the north, this was the first time he had been backed into a dead end.
Couldn’t untie it?
If he couldn’t untie it, then he’d just flip the whole table over.
Chen Changfeng turned and walked back to his side tent.
He went behind the desk, dragged out a battered old leather trunk. Lifting the lid, it was stuffed with aged documents and odds and ends.
His hand reached down to the bottom of the trunk, groped for a moment, and grasped an object wrapped tightly in several layers of oilcloth.
He peeled open the oilcloth. Inside lay a cold, square bronze token.
Four inches long, two inches wide, its brass body covered in a layer of green patina.
On the front were engraved two seal-script characters: Zhenbei—"Subdue the North."
The edges of the characters had been worn smooth by sweat and desert grit.
Flipping it over, the reverse was engraved with the military rank of its bearer. This was an old-style military ID token of the Great Qian border forces—only officers above the rank of battalion commander were eligible to wear one.
Five years ago, at the parade ground of Zhenbei Pass, yellow sand stung the eyes so badly they couldn’t stay open.
On a wooden execution platform, a certain patrol sentinel named Zhao, his arms bound behind his back with hemp rope, was forced to his knees before the executioner's blade.
Under military law, being drunk and missing the evening watch at the beacon tower was a capital offense—immediate beheading. The great blade was raised high just as Chen Changfeng, passing through Zhenbei, stepped onto the platform. He slammed the deed for thirty fine horses bred beyond the frontier onto the supervising officer's desk.
The border forces endured bitter hardship.
Laws were made by dead men, but living men needed money to get by.
He still remembered: during that transaction, the sentinel had knocked his head bloody on the ground, saving his own life.
On the frontier, favors were the cheapest thing in the world—yet also the dearest.
A bond forged with one's life weighed heavier than blood.
Five years passed. That man, through battle merits and careful bribery up and down the ranks, had risen to the position of deputy gatekeeper general of Zhenbei Pass.
This was the last hidden piece Chen Changfeng had placed in the south, a desperate measure he had intended to keep as a backup—to open the city gates from within when the army breached the walls.
Now that their supply lines were cut, he had to play this card early.
Chen Changfeng picked up a stub of worn ink stick, added water to a chipped stone inkstone, and ground the ink. He dipped his brush, letting it soak up the black liquid, then set it to rough paper.
The writing followed no formal structure—it was all market slang used by grain merchants to track accounts: so many bushels of aged wheat worth so much silver, so many catties of salt traded for so many bolts of cloth.
The felt curtain was pushed aside, and a gaunt man stepped in. He wore a tattered sheepskin coat and a worn felt hat, his hair and beard matted into clumps.
This was a grey-line spy who had spent years working the frontier trade routes.
"At dawn tomorrow, the Turkic army pulls camp. The refugees outside the pass will flee toward Zhenbei Pass. The city needs laborers for defense, so the gates will open. You’ll pose as a grain merchant’s clerk, scattered by the chaos, and slip inside." Chen Changfeng gave the order, his eyes fixed on the man.
The gaunt man picked up the paper and the copper token. He pulled out a bone needle and waxed thread tucked into his belt, tore open the lining of his inner jacket, stuffed the two items inside, and sewed the lining tightly shut.
"Once inside, go to the old locust tree at the base of the north wall. There’s a one-eyed cobbler selling straw sandals under it. Pass him the bill, and he’ll take you to the deputy commander." Chen Changfeng’s tone was calm, unruffled. "See the man, hand over the token. Don’t say a single word more than necessary."
The gaunt man nodded, pulled his felt hat low over half his face, and retreated into the night.
…
The next day, light had barely broken when the Turkic army fully withdrew.
The wooden wheels of heavy supply carts pressed into the frozen, hard-packed earth, gouging two deep ruts. The former army camp was left in shambles.
Out on the open plains, several hundred prisoners and refugees who had escaped the slaughter poked their heads out from pits and clumps of withered grass. Their clothes barely covered their bodies, their faces purple with cold. Seeing the Turkic troops retreat, the crowd erupted in strange shouts. Dragging the elderly and clutching their children, they stumbled toward the grey-white walls of Zhenbei Pass.
At the corner of the barbican, a heavy iron-plated side door swung inward. The gate passage was so narrow it allowed only two people to walk side by side.
Dozens of armed soldiers lined up on both sides, spear tips pointing outward, holding back the surging crowd.
"Line up! One by one! State your hometown and travel permit!" the clerk in charge of checking called out, his voice hoarse in the cold wind.
The refugee crowd jostled and shoved, wailing pitifully.
Several spear shafts struck the shoulders of the men at the front, drawing cries of pain, and the line finally settled down with reluctance.
"Strong men go to the assault battalion to carry sandbags! The old and weak go to the south city base to set up shelters!" the official barked, each word cold and hard. "Those without travel permits or whose accents don’t match, detain them in the dungeon first for identity verification!"
The gaunt man’s face was smeared with black soot and dried animal blood. Hunching his back, he mingled in the middle of the queue.
The screening was ruthless. The man in front claimed to be from Shanxi, and the clerk casually asked about local foods. The man stammered his answer.
The city gate officer waved a hand. Two soldiers pounced like hungry tigers, pinned the man down, and dragged him by the arms deep into the gate passage. His sharp cries of innocence barely carried beyond the gate, drowned by the wind outside the city.
When it was the gaunt man’s turn, he shrank his neck and stepped up to the inspection table.
"Where are you from? What do you do?"
"From Shuntian Prefecture. A runner for the Qingfeng Grain Store," the gaunt man said in a flawless northern accent. He reached into his inner lining, fumbled for a while, and pulled out a crumpled, stained travel permit, handing it up with both hands.
The clerk took the document, scanned it briefly. The seals on the paper were all intact—indeed the stamp of the Qingfeng Firm. "How'd you end up outside the pass?"
"The boss led a team to the border market to collect goat hides when the barbarians attacked... Everyone scattered. I... I hid beneath a pit of corpses so the barbarians wouldn't take me to fill the city walls." The man's body trembled at the right moment, his voice quivering.
The clerk dipped his brush and made a mark in the register, then tossed the travel pass back onto the desk: "Pass. Go to the left barracks to sign in and collect your tally."
The man grabbed his travel pass, bowed his head, and merged into the crowd of able-bodied men...
