Xiao Chiye had been scolded, and tomorrow he would be publicly punished again in the military tent. His rank had been demoted; he was no longer even a commander. What use was being a prodigy? Even a defeat meant being treated like a child. On a battlefield, past glories or victories counted for nothing. Xiao Chiye had killed Hu and Lu in the Sha Third Camp, stirring talk among the troops—but Xiao Fangxu had given him no reward. Instead, he was assigned as the commander of the supply transport. Outsiders might not understand this, but veteran generals knew: this was Xiao Fangxu’s way of signaling that he intended to rely on Xiao Chiye in the long run.
By withholding reward, Xiao Fangxu silenced any criticisms, proving he was harsher on his son than on anyone else. Guo Weili, fighting with Hu and Lu in Tudalong Banner, had barely won any skirmishes; Xiao Fangxu promoted him, assigning him to Sha Third Camp as a commander. The contrast was stark—smart observers knew to remain silent. It meant Xiao Chiye’s future promotions would rely solely on real achievements, and also left room for him to recover from defeat.
Battlefields were no place to fear losing. Both Xiao Jiming and Guo Weili could lose, Chao Hui could lose—that was acceptable because they were seasoned Northern generals. Their defeats were forgivable. Xiao Chiye, however, lacked this cushion. Once he truly stood at the forefront, he had to win. He had to prove to the languishing Northern Cavalry that he was the best choice for them.
Xiao Chiye left the tent and dressed. Bandages wrapped his back, with his right arm most seriously injured; he could not yet draw the Overlord Bow, and even wielding the Wolf Fang Blade required care.
He exhaled a few times to warm his breath and whistled for Lang Taoxuejin. The horse had just been cleaned and wasn’t yet saddled. Xiao Chiye mounted, patted its neck, and whispered something in its ear. The horse obeyed, thundering into the night.
“Same as always,” Zuo Qianqiu remarked from the tent entrance. “He likes riding when he’s frustrated.”
“Holding in anger,” Xiao Fangxu said, lifting the steaming coarse tea. “After six years in Qu City, he’s learned restraint. Back then, he would’ve thrown down the curtain and bolted at my second scolding. Only the old foxes of Qu City could handle him.”
“This battle isn’t entirely his fault,” Zuo Qianqiu said, glancing back. “Hansen set such a trap in Tudalong Banner. Even you or I might not have come through unscathed.”
“There’s no ‘even’ in war,” Xiao Fangxu replied. “It’s his battle; he bears the losses. I knew he would fail if he turned into the Tudalong Banner swamplands for flanking maneuvers—yet I was glad he did.”
“Right?” Zuo Qianqiu smiled knowingly. “You’re a hypocrite.”
Xiao Fangxu sipped tea. “But I can’t praise him.”
“You praised Jiming plenty.”
“They’re different,” Xiao Fangxu said, turning his face. “Jiming takes after his mother. Once he had a younger brother, people often said Xiao Chiye was like his father, as if he’d been born years earlier to steal Xiao Chiye’s place. So I had to praise Jiming regularly. Xiao Chiye, like me, is the youngest. With Jiming protecting him, he’s wild. He dares anything. Before fourteen, he trained horses alone, nearly breaking his neck. Once healed, he would sneak back to train more. That battle at fourteen was excellent; everyone praised him. Whatever he wanted, no one else could give—it had to be his own. He didn’t need praise; he needed discipline.”
“Being a father is a science—I’m no match for you,” Zuo Qianqiu said. His wife had died young, and after the Tianfei Que battle, he wandered Da Zhou with no children of his own. He laughed softly. “Still, Biansha has produced talented sons, and Amur has a good one. Hansen is decisive yet unassuming.”
“Amur has good judgment,” Xiao Fangxu said, sipping tea. “Hansen is rare—unconventional in tactics but stable in character.”
“If we moved Jiming here,” Zuo Qianqiu said, “he could probably rein Hansen in.”
“Yes,” Xiao Fangxu shifted his feet slightly. “Chao Hui learned Jiming’s style closely. But Hansen fought Qidong first, facing someone like Jiming, Qi Zhuyin. He’s used to that rhythm. Look at Chao Hui: he can restrain Hansen’s assaults, but Hansen still pins him to the northern route.”
Zuo Qianqiu smiled. “But Hansen versus Xiao Chiye—tip of a needle against the sharp end of wheat—if forces are equal, I’d expect mutual destruction.”
“That’s generous. He’s no match for Hansen now. Hansen has more battlefield experience than Jiming. Experience outweighs talent. Xiao Chiye falls far short.” Xiao Fangxu stood, twirling a dagger between his fingers, eyeing the straw target. “The Wolf Cub can’t win.”
Zuo Qianqiu clasped his hands behind him. “Supply commander is a good post. Once mastered, he’ll understand Northern troop lines, unit strengths, even commander personalities.”
Xiao Fangxu threw the dagger hard, embedding it in the bullseye. He turned to Zuo Qianqiu, grinning. “I want to give Amur a gift—let him see my skill.”
Xiao Chiye returned at dawn. Drenched in sweat, he dismounted, and Chen Yang offered him a cloth. He wiped his neck, noticing Xiao Fangxu nearby, signaling him over. He ignored it, pretending not to see.
Xiao Fangxu slung one arm over Xiao Chiye’s neck, forcing him to bend, while the other hand ruffled his hair into a mess.
“Where’s my hawk?” Xiao Chiye asked, twisting free. “Don’t feed it raw meat.”
“Your hawk? Why ask me?” Xiao Fangxu stepped forward, frowning. When Xiao Chiye looked displeased, he feigned a kick.
Xiao Chiye leapt aside. “I’m just asking!”
Xiao Fangxu ignored him, feeling Lang Taoxuejin, and said, “We got a new batch of horses last year—one is the opposite color of yours, white with black markings. Very beautiful.”
“Oh,” Xiao Chiye understood. “You want to give it to me?”
Xiao Fangxu glanced at him. “For you? That was your sister-in-law’s gift for your wife.”
Xiao Chiye looked at Hongyan Mountain behind him, silent.
“Those arm bindings are nice,” Xiao Fangxu said, stepping onto the railing, leaning to watch Xiao Chiye. “Where’d you get them? Not Qidong style.”
“Of course they’re good,” Xiao Chiye said, lowering his voice as if revealing a secret. “They’re my talisman.”
Xiao Fangxu murmured, then asked, “Where’s she from? Don’t tell me she ended up in Bianbo Camp—that’s full of… rotten men. How old is she?”
“Rotten men?” Xiao Chiye repeated.
Xiao Fangxu didn’t understand.
Xiao Chiye took a few steps back.
Squinting, Xiao Fangxu said, “You didn’t bring a Huajia girl back, did you?”
Xiao Chiye continued retreating, seeing his father’s puzzled, amused expression. He tossed aside the Wolf Fang Blade.
“Xiao Chiye,” Xiao Fangxu noticed something, “be honest.”
Suddenly, Xiao Chiye shouted, “Rotten men!”
“Huh?” Xiao Fangxu doubted his ears.
“I brought you a man!” The sunlight illuminated Xiao Chiye’s face, chasing away the clouds of yesterday. Mischievously, he shouted, “The handsomest man in all Da Zhou is my wife!”
Without waiting for a reaction, he turned and ran.
Xiao Fangxu froze for a moment. Chen Yang swallowed nervously as Xiao Fangxu leapt up, nearly tripping in the dirt.
“Wha—” Chen Yang began.
“Xiao Chiye!” Xiao Fangxu roared, supporting himself to chase after him. Failing to catch up halfway, he grabbed a clump of horse dung and hurled it, yelling, “Come back here and explain yourself!”