The territory of the Mongluo Tribe lay near the Huzong Forest. From afar, it looked as though they lived within an eternal desert bonfire—the desert poplars were their emblem. A tributary of the Chashi River flowed here; they controlled the only water source in Mosa Three Rivers. Further east lay the heart of the desert, ruled entirely by extreme heat.
Bayar hosted Xiao Chiye in a banquet here. He wore a thick, white-streaked goat beard and had a bulky build. Personally pouring wine for Xiao Chiye, he said, “I’ve heard the legend of the wolf. Your iron cavalry is as cold as severe frost, stamping through the Chashi sinkhole with thunderous force, crushing Achi’s elite scorpion forces.”
The open-air banquet was bathed in moonlight. The desert night had no true black—only a deep, saturated blue. Xiao Chiye sat there; unlike the fierce men of the borderlands, he carried the wildness and ease of Lianbei, more striking now that he had removed his armor.
“I’ve received the praise of the Mongluo Tribe,” Xiao Chiye said. “I am willing to form an alliance with Mongluo, like the Huiyan Tribe, becoming brothers who can rely on each other.”
“In that case, why not unite through marriage?” Bayar looked at him and sighed. “A good son born of Hongyan Mountain. I know Lianbei men are all hard bones. I truly admire you. My daughter truly wishes to marry you. If you are worried your wife at home would disagree, I am willing to offer five hundred camels as compensation to this ‘first wife.’”
In the Twelve Tribes, women controlled the tribe’s supplies. To Bayar, if Xiao Chiye’s “wife” was sensible, she should accept such an arrangement and reduce her husband’s burdens.
Far away in Dancheng, Shen Zechuan sneezed lightly. Ji Gang, holding medicine outside, called in, “Chuan’er, take your medicine on time. The weather changes suddenly; if you’re careless, you’ll start coughing again.”
Xiao Chiye held the wine Bayar offered. He was a heavy drinker, usually fine even drinking on horseback. Yet now he seemed slightly intoxicated, unlike his earlier seriousness when negotiating with Bayar.
This gave Bayar hope. He gestured for Xiao Chiye to look right—his youngest daughter sat there with a thin veil, head lowered in shy demeanor. Bayar confidently believed no such girl existed in the Great Zhou.
“My Wuyah is very obedient,” Bayar said. “She can serve your Great Wife like a younger sister.”
Lu Guangbai sliced beef with a dagger and glanced at Xiao Chiye. “Our governor—your Great Wife’s family has no siblings. If there were a younger sister, it wouldn’t be bad.”
Xiao Chiye followed Bayar’s gesture. The girl lowered her head even further.
Bayar said, “Wuyah, come offer a cup of wine to the Wolf Leader.”
Wuyah stood. Her waist ornaments jingled with every step. But Xiao Chiye drifted off—he suddenly thought of a time in Danzhou when he had “punished” Lan Zhou, and silver bells had been tied to Lan Zhou’s ankles, ringing just like this. The sound mixed with Lan Zhou’s damp, chaotic breathing.
Wuyah arrived before him, carrying a strange fragrance. When she bent down, her pale neck was exposed.
Lan Zhou’s neck looked best when drenched in rain, soaked in water, or covered in sweat—its graceful curve rising and falling under restraint… Xiao Chiye missed Shen Zechuan. In that moment, it was especially clear.
Wuyah poured the wine and leaned forward. Her long lashes lifted, revealing clear hostility. The golden chain at her waist rattled sharply. In the motion of offering wine, her slender hand flipped over a hidden dagger aimed directly at Xiao Chiye’s throat.
The change came in an instant. Before Chen Yang could react, Gu Jin already sensed danger and stepped forward. “Second Master—!”
A golden cup slammed onto the table; wine splashed outward. Xiao Chiye did not even touch Wuyah. Using his arm guard, he caught the dagger mid-strike. In the next moment, the table flipped, and Wuyah was thrown aside. Her dagger fell into Xiao Chiye’s hand.
Bayar was still frozen in shock. Xiao Chiye rose and drove the dagger straight into the table before Bayar.
The blade nearly pierced Bayar’s fingers. He fell back in terror.
Xiao Chiye wiped the wine from his arm guard, eyes calm and clear. “I came sincerely to make friends. The Mongluo Tribe turns out to be treacherous cowards who smile while hiding blades.”
The surrounding soldiers stood instantly. Three layers of iron cavalry drew their blades at once. The red glow of Huzong Forest was filled with cold steel light. Tension snapped tight.
“No!” Bayar panicked. “This was not my intention! Please, Wolf Leader, do not be angry!” He rushed forward and kicked at Wuyah. “I raised you for over ten years, and you commit such a crime!”
Wuyah’s veil had fallen. She spat at Bayar. “You betrayed Ursun and Ri! You handed me to the enemy of Hasen! You are unworthy to be my father—”
Bayar struck her hard, knocking her down. Then he turned back to Xiao Chiye, pleading, “She was misled by Amuer! She is no longer my daughter! I will kill her myself—please do not punish the Mongluo Tribe!”
Xiao Chiye did not respond.
The iron cavalry already surrounded the tribe. Bayar had no leverage left. Trembling, he raised a blade toward his own daughter—but could not bring himself to strike. In the end, he dropped the weapon and knelt.
Under the cold moon, Bayar wept and said, “I only have this one daughter… I only wanted to marry her to the strongest wolf king…”
Xiao Chiye tightened his arm guard, his gaze indifferent. After a pause, he turned and walked away.
As he left, he flicked the dagger out and tossed it before Wuyah.
“Tonight,” he said coldly, “the Mongluo Tribe’s survival is something you gave me.”
Wuyah turned deathly pale.
Behind him, Bayar’s desperate voice rang out, swearing allegiance.
Xiao Chiye whistled softly. Meng leapt onto his arm. Ahead, the entrance of Mosa Three Rivers was open—the moonlit path leading directly forward. Behind him, the Lianbei wolf banner replaced the desert’s eagle flag.
“You guessed she would attempt assassination?” Lu Guangbai asked as they rode away.
Xiao Chiye said, “You said Bayar intended to marry her off to Hasen. I guessed it was her own intention. If Bayar insists on marrying her to me, it only means she has already looked down on the men of this desert.”
Lu Guangbai sighed. “I was worried you were drunk.”
“I’m not,” Xiao Chiye said calmly. “Wine and fragrance mean nothing.”
Lu Guangbai accepted it without doubt, unaware that Xiao Chiye’s thoughts had been entirely elsewhere—on Shen Zechuan.
He changed the subject. “Now that Mongluo remains here, only the Hu Lu Tribe supplies Amuer. Duolan has brought back remnants of the Yixiong forces. Amuer’s elite are nearly gone.”
Xiao Chiye intended to end this war in a single strike.
After Hasen’s death, the border tribes had withdrawn. But Amuer could not be allowed to live.
Amuer was not only a war leader—he was a strategist, a man who had spent twenty years weaving collapse into the world. If given even a breath, he would regenerate plans more ruthless and concealed than before.
This man had to die.
Amuer sat alone on his throne. The golden tent was open, moonlight falling at his feet. He looked at the endless dunes beneath the moon.
“Many years ago,” Amuer said slowly, “I once met Xiao Fangxu beneath Hongyan Mountain. He was still an unknown soldier. I treated him as my lifelong opponent. I defeated him many times, and was defeated by him many times.”
The old strategist in the corner whispered hoarsely, “You defeated him.”
Amuer closed his eyes. “It was my son who killed him.”
“Their son killed yours,” the strategist said weakly. “But you still have a grandson. Duolan can bear Hasen a strong child. We have not lost this war.”
Amuer stood. “When I first marched to Luoxia Pass, you said the same. We left the desert seeking land to live, but war never stopped. The Great Zhou is like a rotten tree, yet Heaven still does not favor us. Lianbei lost Xiao Fangxu, and immediately gained a new wolf king. I hear his war drums approaching my tent. He is younger… and stronger.”
“You are the last dawn given by the desert,” the strategist insisted.
Amuer looked toward the motionless dunes. “Then release the scorpions.”
Feng Quan listened as the hat-and-robe attendant spoke in the dark.
“The Middle Plains must fall before Qudu’s gates. Only by killing Shen Zechuan can the dynasty survive.”
Feng Quan replied calmly, “You have had countless chances to kill him. Yet you failed every time.”
“He is stronger than expected,” the attendant said.
Feng Quan said flatly, “You are useless.”
The candle flickered.
The attendant pressed something cold against Feng Quan’s leg—a long ear pick. “Stay calm. That plague also gave Mu Ru her chance. Xue Xiuzhuo trusts you now. You are already at the center of everything. After this war, you will be free.”
Feng Quan looked at him without emotion. “From the day I left Qudu, I was already trapped.”
The attendant smiled faintly. “Your foolish father is dead. You could have stopped him, but you didn’t.”
“He was not a scorpion,” Feng Quan said. “He was already mad. I simply sent him off.”
“You let him take the firearms.”
“If he wanted to die,” Feng Quan replied coldly, “those fakes suited him perfectly.”
The attendant stood. “You are right. Shao Chengbi was a madman.”
He adjusted his robe.
“You should take your medicine now.”