Two hundred iron cavalrymen moved across the pitch-black wasteland like sliding shadows.
The horses bore gags in their mouths, their hooves wrapped in cloth.
The night wind was a bone-scraping blade of steel, skimming over the frozen grass.
Apart from the white breath snorting from the horses' nostrils, the column made not a single sound.
Xu Zhan crouched low over his horse's back, his left hand loosely holding the reins.
The barbarian fur coat on his body had long been soaked through with blood, then frozen stiff in the biting wind, like a layer of faded armor.
Two hundred soldiers followed close behind.
Fifty li of interconnected camps, fifty thousand elite warriors of the Royal Tent.
Who would ever think that two hundred men with nothing to lose would dare, on the third night after pounding the city walls, to raid the Royal Tent army's camp?
...
The west wind cut to the bone.
At the outermost edge of the camp, in a dugout pit, several Helian sentries had tucked their hands into their sheepskin coats.
The cold had drained away all their vigilance.
The crushing victory that day—when they had smashed the southern city wall—had convinced them that the southerners were fish in a barrel, with no strength left to fight back.
"Those soft-shelled shrimp of the Great Qian—by dawn tomorrow, they'll all be dead," one sentry muttered, leaning back against the earthen wall and shivering as he breathed white mist into his cupped palms.
"Once the army breaks the city, I'm going to pick myself two southern women to warm my blankets," another sentry growled in a hoarse voice.
They hadn't even strung their bows; their spears were stuck carelessly into the frozen earth.
Xu Zhan reined in his horse a hundred paces out.
He raised his left hand slightly, and his long fingers made a tiny, barely visible gesture in the darkness.
No words were needed.
Two veteran soldiers peeled away from the shadows and slid out flat against the ground like geckos.
There was nothing wasted in their movements. With bony fingers gripping the frozen dirt, they used the cover of the wind to creep silently to the edge of the pit.
The sentry rolled over in a pleasant dream, smacking his lips in his sleep.
But he never saw the faint glint of steel. A blade had already swept cleanly across his throat.
Hot blood sprayed onto the earth and immediately formed a thin layer of frost. The sentry's body convulsed violently twice before the veterans pressed him down hard—not even a muffled grunt of struggle escaped.
Draw the blade, wipe the blood, sheathe it.
The two veterans flashed a "safe" signal in the darkness.
Cao Kuo bit down on the back of his saber and led a dozen or so suicide fighters forward.
The caltrops on the western flank lay sprawled across the night, spikes pointing outward.
The barricade was massive, and among its wooden stakes still hung the mangled limbs of Great Qian soldiers.
Cao Kuo made no sound.
His shoulder braced against the thick timber, his feet dug into the ground, and his face had already turned crimson from strain.
The dozen suicide fighters pushed together, holding their breath, and shifted the heavy barricade inch by inch.
At last, the bottom stakes were pulled free.
A gap wide enough for three horsemen to ride abreast opened in the camp's defensive line.
The cold wind poured straight through that gap into the enemy camp, making the braziers on the palisade sway violently and scattering sparks in all directions.
Xu Zhan rode his horse up to the first line of the palisade.
His left hand brushed the cold iron mace strapped to his horse's flank.
His deep, dark eyes calmly surveyed the sprawling camp before him. His expression was as still as an ancient well, showing not a single ripple.
There was no tragic resolve of a man going to die, no bloodlust of a killer—only the cold, hard indifference of one who has seen death and no longer fears it.
Behind him, the soldiers had already unstrapped the leather sacks from their horses' bellies.
...
Inside the camp, the braziers burned dim, their coals nearly dead.
The Helian soldiers had fallen into total exhaustion after the day's frantic assault, and the camp was filled with the occasional snores of sleeping men.
This vast military encampment was like a great beast snoring in its slumber, utterly unaware that a venomous serpent had already sunk its fangs into its throat.
The taut string of a bow was drawn to its breaking point, hidden deep in the darkest hour of night.
A Helian barbarian soldier lifted his tent flap.
He shuffled out in his boots, still half-asleep, walked over to the edge of the palisade, and undid his trousers.
Urine splattered onto the frozen ground, throwing up a puff of steam.
He let out a satisfied sigh. Just as he was about to pull up his trousers, the corner of his eye caught sight of a black horse standing just outside the camp fence.
The man on the horse had only one arm—his left—and was looking down at him from above.
The soldier's pupils suddenly dilated wide.
He opened his mouth, but before a single shout could escape—
A black shadow flew through the air!
An iron hook pierced his throat without a sound.
The soldier clawed at the hook with both hands, trying to free himself, but his legs kicked uselessly against the ground twice before his body slumped limp.
Xu Zhan withdrew the hook and swept his gaze across the suicide fighters now in position.
Cao Kuo retreated to a safe zone, clutching half a fire-striker in his hand.
He looked up at Xu Zhan.
Xu Zhan nodded slightly.
For half an instant, the wind died.
It was as if all the air on the wasteland had been sucked away.
In that suffocating silence, even the horses' heartbeats seemed to stop.
A tiny spark flickered at the end of Cao Kuo's fire-striker, then touched the fuse.
"Throw!"
No wasted words. All two hundred hardened soldiers of the Great Qian swung their arms in perfect unison, hurling the jars of burning oil and fire-bombs they'd prepared deep into the camp.
Hundreds of dark red arcs streaked across the night sky.
"KABOOM——!"
The fire-bombs crashed into the camp and erupted.
The shockwave blew apart the first row of palisades. The jars of burning oil shattered, and searing stone-oil splashed in every direction.
The moment it met sparks, it exploded into towering flames, which spread into a single blazing sea of crimson in an instant.
The camp was lit up!
War horses screamed in panic. The shrill, agonized cries of the barbarians tore through the night.
The fire, driven by the wind, spread madly deeper into the Royal Tent camp.
Those Helian soldiers still lost in their dreams—many never even had time to put on their armor before the sea of fire swallowed them whole.
Fire-bomb after fire-bomb detonated, sending shrapnel and iron pellets tearing through the crowd, carving bloody furrows through flesh.
The camp was in complete chaos!
The terror of a routed, panicked army spread faster than the flames themselves.
Countless barbarian soldiers burst out of their tents empty-handed, charging around like headless flies, trampling each other underfoot.
Swords cut into allies, spears struck friends—scenes of butchery and self-slaughter unfolded in every corner.
But among the Helian there were certain battle-hardened veterans, and their reaction was indeed brutally fast.
"Enemy attack! Form ranks!"
In the blaze, a Helian Chiliarch burst out of his tent bare-chested.
His face was twisted with fury. He swung his curved blade and hacked down several slaves who were scurrying in panic.
Blood sprayed across the tent walls as he tried to suppress the panicked rout with slaughter, forcing the broken line to hold.
"Hold your ground, all of you! Who retreats, dies!"
But out of the fire there suddenly stepped a black horse.
Its hooves crushed burning wooden frames, sparks scattering under its belly.
The man on its back had only one arm—his left.
The Chiliarch spun around, his eyes bloodshot, fixed on the one-armed southerner stepping out of the inferno.
No wasted words.
The Chiliarch let out a roar. Both feet driving into the ground, he dragged his curved saber and charged against the tide.
The blade scraped across the dirt, throwing up a trail of sparks, and slashed straight at Xu Zhan's face.
He meant to take this cripple's head to rally the mutiny and restore order.
Xu Zhan's face showed nothing. He didn't even dodge.
He pressed down with his single arm on the iron mace!
Driven by the terrifying force of the horse's charge, the mace came down like a black dragon breaking through the waves, tearing through the searing air.
There were no fancy techniques—only the purest, most brutal killing blow.
"CRRRAAAACK——!"
No stalemate. No deflection.
The iron mace shattered the curved saber with devastating force, and without losing momentum, crushed through the Chiliarch's chest.
Bones split. Flesh tore.
Before he could let out even one scream of agony, the Chiliarch's head was sent flying into the flames by the sheer force, and his headless body was hurled sideways by the charging horse.
Blood rained down like a storm onto the charred earth.
One strike. One kill.
The surrounding Helian soldiers, watching their fierce captain of a thousand be cut down like a dry branch by a one-armed southerner, felt the last shred of their will to resist collapse completely.
