Achi fled in panic along the original route, the Scorpions releasing their falcons midway. Langtao Xuejin charged forward relentlessly, the clash of heavy armor ringing as the Libei cavalry pursued in full force. The pounding hooves behind them drove fear straight into the Scorpions’ hearts—they dreaded the ice beneath their feet cracking, the sound chasing right at their horses’ tails.
Achi clenched his teeth. Humiliated, he glanced back through the storm, able to see only that looming figure in heavy armor.
Xiao Chiye.
Bayin suddenly yanked his reins, crashing into Achi from the side, shouting sharply, “Retreat, retreat, retreat! Achi, stop looking at him!”
Snow flew like scattered blossoms, heaven and earth dissolving into a blank expanse. The Biansha cavalry charged blindly through the gale, running for nearly half an hour before finally shaking off the Libei riders. They did not dare stop. As they returned along their path, Bayin suddenly said, “Remove the markers—don’t leave anything for Xiao Chiye!”
They pressed forward along the route, erasing every marker as instructed, leaving nothing for the pursuing cavalry.
“Tomorrow morning, you’ll mobilize and counterattack,” Bayin said through the muffling collar, his lashes whitened by frost, barely able to open his eyes. “Once Xiao Chiye loses direction, he won’t be able to escape the Chashi River.”
Achi’s face was livid. Rage burned through his chest, making it hard to breathe. He had not even properly engaged, yet Xiao Chiye had toyed with him—this humiliation was impossible to swallow.
“Listen to me, Achi,” Bayin shouted over the roaring wind, tearing down his collar. “Don’t fall for his provocation, understand? He’s doing this on purpose!”
“He killed my two wings!” Achi roared back, unable to contain himself. “This is a warning—this damn brat is showing off in my face!”
Three days ago, Achi had crushed Xiao Chiye’s left wing. Today, Xiao Chiye stood there and annihilated both of Achi’s wings. Those vanguards had been elites—Achi felt like his heart was bleeding. To him, this was a deliberate threat, a message stamped directly onto his face.
“I’m going to kill him!” Achi snarled hoarsely. “I will kill—”
Bayin struck him with a punch, knocking him off his horse. The mount slowed and stopped ahead. Achi rolled in the snow, his chest heaving violently.
“Rus and Ri see everything,” Bayin said coldly. “If you still want the Scorpions to merge into the Twelve Tribes, then deal with him tomorrow. Lose your head now, and you’re nothing but a jackal—and jackals can’t kill wolves. Get a grip.”
Achi lay there, grabbing a handful of snow to wipe his face. He got up, caught his horse, and said nothing more.
The cavalry fell into silence. Neither Achi nor Bayin spoke again, and no one behind them dared to. They ran for another hour through the storm, their horses exhausted and gasping. At last, the markers led to an end.
“The falcons will bring reinforcements here,” Achi said, slowing his horse as they reached land. “We can wait here.”
But unease tightened in Bayin’s chest. Ever observant, he studied their surroundings. The blizzard obscured everything—he could not see more than a few steps ahead—but he sensed it clearly: this was not the southeastern outskirts of Duanzhou where they had come from.
“We’ve gone the wrong way…” Bayin muttered, squinting against the wind. Through the shifting snow, he glimpsed what lay ahead. “This is…”
Behind them, a horse suddenly slipped before reaching shore, its hind legs plunging into a hole in the ice. The rider yanked the reins in panic, trying to force it forward, but the horse’s rear knee shattered against the ice edge. With a shrill cry, it flipped backward into the water.
The formation fell into chaos. The horses panicked, the riders shouting in vain. Afraid of slipping in themselves, they lashed their mounts desperately. Amid the noise, Achi heard the sound of heavy armor. At first, he thought it was an illusion—but soon enough, the black-clad cavalry truly emerged through the snow.
Even Achi understood now. Backing away, he shouted, “Mount up—move!”
The markers were real—but their placement had long been altered by Xiao Chiye. The tracks had been a decoy from the start. Xiao Chiye’s intention had always been to drive them here.
Seeing Bayin still frozen in place, Achi slammed into him and cursed, “Get on your horse! Stop standing there like an idiot!”
Bayin’s eyes shifted slowly toward Achi. Following his gaze, Achi looked ahead—and his face changed in shock.
Before them lay nothing else but the Chashi Sinkhole.
Wiping the sweat from his temples, Achi looked out and saw the Libei cavalry wings closing in from both sides, sealing the front. When he turned back, he saw Xiao Chiye.
Seven years ago, the Biansha cavalry had massacred forty thousand Duanzhou troops here. Seven years later, on another blizzard night, Xiao Chiye used the same formation to drive them to the edge of the Chashi Sinkhole. Achi did not know Xiao Chiye well, but in that moment, he understood his intent.
Bayin swallowed, clutching the leather-wrapped book, murmuring Hasen’s words: “…an eye for an eye.”
Xiao Chiye was the most relentless wolf. Bayin knew it—he had been willing to bite Hasen to death to reclaim Xiao Fangxu. An opponent like this, once marked by wounds, would tear back in madness according to his own will.
“Reinforcements will be here any moment,” Achi said, suddenly calm. He stared at Xiao Chiye. “If we hold through this, this place will still be our slaughterhouse.”
Achi had never seen Xiao Chiye’s true face, but through the helmet, he could almost feel his sneer. Achi did not believe in Biansha gods—he believed in his tattoos. As a Scorpion who survived in the cracks, he would not yield until his head was severed.
But Xiao Chiye believed in his own markings too—they were his father, and they were Libei. The scars left by Hasen burned without cease. He had suppressed himself for too long; he could almost hear the Langli blade roaring inside its sheath.
Under the dome of snow, the raging wind shredded the falling flakes into drifting fragments. In that blinding white moment, Achi saw the cavalry charge.
The armored riders surged forward like dust-covered blades suddenly revealed, their momentum like crashing waves, sweeping away all dullness to expose a lethal, gleaming edge.
When a hammer swung toward him, Xiao Chiye blocked it with the Langli blade. His horse did not stop. Amid the screech of steel, he drove forward, smashing into the cavalry head-on. Wrapped in heavy armor, Langtao Xuejin tossed its head, knocking aside the smaller ponies in its path.
The cavalry broke like burst water skins. Under Xiao Chiye’s assault, they resisted only for a few fleeting moments before being driven back step by step by the “war chariot.” The sinkhole loomed nearby—one more retreat and they would fall.
Achi lifted his hundred-pound hammer. In that brief clash, he realized Xiao Chiye was the key target. He knocked down a rider in front of him, heard the man’s head slam into the snow, hooves trampling over the body—and in the blink of an eye, his hammer swung toward Xiao Chiye.
But it struck nothing.
Achi had expected Xiao Chiye to press the attack, but instead he withdrew to the front of the formation. The “war chariot” shifted once more.
From the rear, Bayin, clutching his book, clearly saw the transformation.
Was that even the Libei cavalry?
It was a heavy war machine.
Xiao Chiye refused to abandon Xiao Fangxu’s heavy armor—he would not prove his father wrong. Learning from Lu Guangbai, Qi Zhuyin, and Yin Chang, he had forged a new Libei cavalry.
Built upon “weight,” he discarded their old long blades and replaced them with even longer weapons—so long that hammers could not approach. He had observed Lu Guangbai’s infantry: the “war chariot” formation masked the weakness of speed. Xiao Chiye eliminated the need to chase altogether—he forced the enemy to crash into him.
Qi Zhuyin’s battlefield tactics had revolved around switching between light and heavy cavalry. Xiao Chiye fused the Imperial Guards with the Libei cavalry, creating unpredictable strategies whenever they appeared together. Field warfare was no longer Hasen’s domain.
And most crucial of all—the spearhead unit.
Yin Chang had modified Lu Guangbai’s “war chariot,” splitting forces into “blades” for penetration. Hairigu learned it, and in the Northern Plains training grounds, Xiao Chiye found a new opportunity. He incorporated the spearhead into his own formation, creating the devastating Libei cavalry now before them.
Achi quickly realized the hammer was useless. They could not get close without being cut down by long blades—but if they switched weapons, the Libei cavalry would strike in columns like sudden bayonets springing from a case, leaving the Scorpions unable to cope.
The shining blades extended and withdrew with deadly precision.
This was essentially a heavy war machine—abandoning the wooden structures of traditional siege engines, forged entirely of steel, far more mobile. If Xiao Chiye wished, they could even break apart into smaller units for ambush.
Even if still crude, even if somewhat rigid, it was unmistakably his Libei cavalry.
Just as Achi saw defeat looming, a sharp falcon’s cry pierced the storm. His hunting bird descended, bringing the reinforcements he had been waiting for.
“Why are there so many?” Yin Chang was about to sit down and pour the blood-soaked water from his boots, but then he saw cavalry pouring in from the southwest like ants. He scrambled up, stomping his boots, shouting, “Damn it—there’s nearly three times our number!”
The Scorpions’ morale surged. Amid the roar of battle, both sides clashed fiercely at the edge of the sinkhole. Blood splattered across the snow. The Libei cavalry and the Imperial Guards fought without reserve—the only chance to break through was now. Miss this night, and there would be no survival.
Gu Jin grabbed Hairigu by the collar and kicked him into the fray. Seeing Yin Chang limping, he slashed aside a Biansha soldier and shouted, “Old Yin, you’re hurt?!”
Yin Chang wrinkled his red nose, shifting awkwardly. “My foot… soaked too long. It itches like hell.”
Hairigu darted through the crowd, dodging curved blades. Every now and then, he flashed his little gold token at blood-crazed Imperial Guards, shouting, “Friendly!”
Meanwhile, Achi had already locked onto Xiao Chiye. He wielded his curved blade far better than his hammer. The crushing press of both forces shook the ground. Someone fell first—and then the entire edge of the sinkhole collapsed, sending everyone tumbling down together.
The Imperial Guards spat out dirt, lifting their heads amid the sea of enemies, shouting, “Damn! Did Second Master get shoved down too?!”
Langtao Xuejin rolled into the bottom of the pit. Achi leapt forward, kicking off the rocks. Xiao Chiye had no time to rise—he drove a kick into Achi’s chest. Achi staggered back, and Xiao Chiye surged to his feet just as a hammer swung past his face. He blocked it with his bound arm.
“Bang!”
Feng Ta Shuangyi crashed through a rotten wooden barrier. Shen Zechuan raced through the blizzard, his cloak whipping in the wind, frost cutting across his brows, his profile sharp with killing intent.
Fei Sheng dared not lag behind, leading the Embroidered Uniform Guard close at Shen Zechuan’s heels.
Tantai Hu also refused to let Shen Zechuan charge alone. Leading his troops, he nearly stood on his saddle, shouting through the wind, “Prefect! Northeast—Chashi Sinkhole!”
Hooves scattered snow. Shen Zechuan’s grip soaked the reins—he had barely stopped along the way, and Feng Ta Shuangyi was already exhausted.
The Chashi Sinkhole.
All along the way had been endless white plains—but as Shen Zechuan entered the area, nightmare memories surged like a tide. The familiar stench of blood choked him. Breathing hard, he could not see Xiao Chiye amid the chaos.
“Xiao Ce’an—!” Shen Zechuan shouted.
Fei Sheng scanned the battlefield and spotted Yin Chang. Seeing the Prefect in white from afar, Yin Chang leapt up, waving his blade and shouting, “In the pit! In the pit—Second Master’s in the pit!”
Shen Zechuan’s face went deathly pale. His limbs turned cold. He tumbled from his horse, his hand trembling as it gripped Yangshan Xue. His white robe was soaked with blood as he stepped over corpses, staring only at the sinkhole he had seen countless times in his nightmares.
He paid no attention to anything else, stumbling down the slope. Snow fell endlessly as he called out in a shaking voice, “Xiao Ce’an…”
Dream and reality overlapped. Shen Zechuan had seen himself lying dead here—but never had he imagined Xiao Chiye would be the one lying here.
Fei Sheng had never seen him like this. He rushed down to help, but Shen Zechuan refused. Amid heaps of corpses, he clawed at the bodies around Langtao Xuejin, his hands turning red.
A “corpse” suddenly lifted its hand and seized Shen Zechuan’s wrist—fast and precise.
“Lanzhou,” Xiao Chiye muttered from inside his helmet. “Lan…”
Shen Zechuan had already torn off his helmet. In the swirling snow, he saw Xiao Chiye’s face clearly. Ignoring the blood, he pulled him close, cradling his head tightly.
Xiao Chiye reached up, pressing a hand to Shen Zechuan’s back, wanting to say something—but in the roar of the wind, he heard Shen Zechuan whispering over and over:
“Xiao Chiye…”
Xiao Chiye’s heart shattered.