Dark storm clouds surged and swallowed the daylight. The hawks of Libei cut across the vast expanse of sky; Meng was the first to dive, spreading his wings with a sharp cry, scattering the thin mist as he looked down over the endless white snow. From the south, falcons shot in like a volley of arrows, streaking straight toward the hawks. Meng screeched, twisting as he skimmed past the military banners below. In an instant, the war drums thundered across the sinkhole.
The cavalry came like a tidal wave, surging in from the south.
The iron cavalry did not move an inch. When the curved blades of the approaching riders became visible, Yin Chang drew his old saber with a clang and shouted to the sky, “Open the trench—!”
The Imperial Guards lying prone in the snow immediately let go. The ropes at both ends dropped, revealing the freshly dug trench. The Biansha cavalry, famed for their speed, charged straight over it, unable to stop in time. Horses plunged in, their front knees snapping with a sickening crack.
The vanguard tumbled into the trench, throwing the formation into chaos. The Imperial Guards drew their blades at once, lunging like wolves to fight them within the ditch. The cavalry behind did not slow, spurring their horses to leap over the trench and continue the charge.
Yin Chang cut down a rider while dodging hooves flying overhead—one misstep and his skull would be crushed. Crouching low, he shouted, “Tiger! What the hell—too narrow!”
Dantai Hu’s palms were slick with sweat. He stared at the oncoming cavalry, hearing Yin Chang’s shout but not daring to answer. Gripping his twin blades, he silently recited Dantai Long’s name.
By the time the ponies were almost upon him, the curved blades were already slashing down. Dantai Hu rolled forward. Behind him, Xiao Chiye suddenly thrust out the Wolf’s Fury blade, using the rider’s own momentum to impale him clean through. Blood splashed. Dantai Hu and the garrison troops crouched low and swept their blades, severing the ponies’ legs in a single stroke.
The warhorses screamed miserably, like geese with broken wings, their necks thrown back as they crashed to the ground. Riders fell and rolled. Dantai Hu wiped the blood from his face, seized his blades, and roared, “Revenge!”
After repeated setbacks, the cavalry’s charge weakened. They no longer dared to press forward recklessly. Yet the distance had already closed—just as they thought of retreating, Xiao Chiye advanced.
He tapped his horse lightly with the back of his blade, and Langtao Xuejin surged forward. The thunder of Libei’s iron cavalry rolled like muffled thunder, driving wind and snow before it, smashing the cavalry formation into fragments. The “war chariots” allowed no pause—any rider knocked to the ground by the heavy armor was trampled under iron-shod hooves, crushed into the snow.
A falcon swept overhead, trying to flee east. Meng dove through the snow, hooked it in his talons, tore off one wing as he passed the Libei wolf banner, and flung the falcon away.
The cavalry tide broke and retreated. A young officer among them shouted commands, pulling back the regular riders and barking orders in Biansha tongue for the “Scorpions” to advance. Curved blades withdrew as they watched the Libei cavalry fall back.
Xiao Chiye slowed and returned to formation. The protruding columns merged swiftly around him. The Scorpions replaced the vanguard, raising their iron hammers—only to face not one rider, but an entire host.
Xiao Chiye led the charge. In full gallop, he suddenly sheathed the Wolf’s Fury blade. Behind him, the iron cavalry moved as one, releasing their newly forged long blades with a chilling flash. Xiao Chiye leaned forward slightly; they were like streaks of cold light in the night, plunging viciously into the Scorpion ranks.
His hands spun the long hilt, taking heads as he passed. To reduce weight, the blade had been thinned—cutting a throat took no more than a blink. Blood sprayed across the heavy armor, streaking down iron-clad arms and scattering onto the snow.
The iron hammers could not match the speed of the long blades, nor could they strike the riders themselves. They could only watch helplessly as the Libei cavalry carved through their ranks, splitting the formation in two.
Langtao Xuejin burst through the encirclement, snorting as it wheeled around. Xiao Chiye tilted his blade, flicking away the thick blood clinging to its edge.
On both sides, the Scorpions panted. Their center had been utterly cut down. Wherever Xiao Chiye passed, blood flowed into a path; the long blade had nearly stripped every head from those who stood in his way.
Gripping their reins, the Scorpions muttered in Biansha tongue, “Chidaqi…”
The Libei cavalry surged forward once more. At the first rumble of hooves, the Scorpions turned and fled, unwilling to fight again. The young officer in the rear shouted in fury, but it was useless. Fear had taken root—without their leader, they had become offerings to this battlefield.
Langtao Xuejin sped ahead, the Libei cavalry in pursuit.
The cavalry on the southern side of the sinkhole could no longer resist. Their curved blades could not pierce the heavy armor. Dismounted riders fled across the snow, gasping clouds of white breath like a bursting flood. The iron cavalry shook the ground; those who lagged fell, their blades thrown aside. Before they could even reach for their spikes, they were swallowed beneath pounding hooves.
Xiao Chiye broke past the formation’s edge, chasing them—just as Xiao Fangxu had done thirty years before. Beneath iron hooves, there was no mercy. The Libei cavalry rampaged forward, their heavy armor cutting across the battlefield like a great unsheathed blade in Dantai Hu’s eyes.
Amid the fleeing riders, the Scorpions cried out, “Chidaqi!”
Evil wolf!
Seven years ago, Xiao Jiming had led troops south under the name “Iron Horse, Frozen River.” Tonight, Xiao Chiye pursued the Biansha cavalry for twenty li, the ground echoing beneath each strike.
“What the hell…” Yin Chang swallowed, wiping the blood from his face, the thought rolling through his mind.
When the killing frost passes, not a blade of grass remains.
Shen Zechuan brewed tea inside the tent. The prefect was no master of the art—he simply stuffed coarse tea into a pot, poured in water, and set it over the fire. A folding fan rested on his knee, documents piled beside him, yet his eyes stayed fixed on the pot as it boiled, bubbles churning with a steady gurgle.
Hai Rigud squatted at the tent entrance, peeking through the gap, and said to Fei Sheng, “You can’t drink tea like that, can you?”
Fei Sheng had no fondness for this “Scorpion.” Arms crossed, he stared ahead, listening to the war drums urging on, and replied, “You’re not the one drinking it. Why do you care?”
Shen Zechuan sat there for a long while. By the time he came back to himself, the tea had nearly boiled dry. He took it down, added more water, and set it to boil again. The sound of boiling masked some of the war drums. Their pounding left him dazed—he had done nothing all night.
Seeing how late it had grown, Fei Sheng lifted the tent flap and said softly, “Master, would you like to rest for a bit? The moment there’s news, I’ll wake you.”
Shen Zechuan lowered his eyes and did not answer.
Fei Sheng understood—his master would not rest. He did not dare press further and withdrew to wait at the entrance. The tea boiled through the entire night. Near dawn, Shen Zechuan finally heard the war drums fall silent.
He rose and pushed aside the flap. Fei Sheng quickly draped a cloak over him and followed him out into the snow. Shen Zechuan stood in the dim, misty light, waiting a while longer. The morning was bitterly cold; stand too long and the tip of your nose would turn red, the northern wind cutting like knives across the face. After half a quarter-hour, he suddenly heard hoofbeats—layered, approaching fast. Meng returned first.
Fei Sheng let out a long breath of relief and immediately said, “Master—it’s done!”
Meng circled, about to land on Shen Zechuan’s arm. But today Shen Zechuan wore no arm guard. As he raised his arm, a whistle sounded from afar.
Xiao Chiye burst through the vast fog, not slowing, and as he rode into camp, he swept Shen Zechuan up in one motion. Langtao Xuejin slowed, turned, and carried the two of them back into the snowy mist. Missing his perch, Meng landed on the banner, narrowing his eyes as he watched them disappear, scraping his talons clean.
Yin Chang clutched his spoils, about to speak, but Fei Sheng pressed him back down, not letting him open his mouth. The others wore varied expressions. Dantai Hu spat into his palm, rubbing them together for warmth, and said, “…Let’s go back to the tent first. Reports can wait a moment—no rush.”
He paused, then repeated, as if to cover something,
“No rush.”
“No rush?” Yin Chang craned his neck, still looking out, puzzled. “We’re supposed to return to the city at dawn. The prefect’s in a hurry!”