O Herói do Norte

The autumn wind howled, bending every blade of grass.

At the southwestern edge of the Cloud Grasslands, deep autumn had settled in. After a cold rain, frost adorned many places.

Urgent hoofbeats approached from the south—a single rider.

He urged his warhorse on, pressing his legs tightly against its flanks to spur it forward. He looked battered, with disheveled hair flying in the autumn wind and a filthy, tattered leather robe wrapped around him. Both horse and rider bore the marks of fire and smoke, with patches stained by blood.

Despite his desperate state, the rider clung fiercely to a large, blood-stained curved saber, wielding it as a makeshift whip, striking the horse’s haunches relentlessly.

The warhorse galloped madly, but age and frailty betrayed it. After miles of hard riding, foam flecked its mouth, and it seemed ready to collapse from exhaustion at any moment.

Far behind the rider, columns of smoke rose faintly.

More than a dozen figures on horseback were hot on his heels, waving sabers and bows, shouting wildly.

Pursuit and flight—such scenes played out endlessly upon this land since time immemorial, never ceasing. This was but a fleeting glimpse of the endless cycle of vengeance on the grasslands, nothing remarkable.

The Turks held sway over the northern deserts, commanding a million bowmen—yet even their might could not quell such strife. The mighty Sui dynasty, with vassal states under its rule, saw both Eastern and Western Turks honor Emperor Yang of Sui as the Heavenly Khan, but even this could not p