Volume 1, Chapter 24: One Hundred Thousand Northern Yan Cavalry Descend Upon the Border!

The Sifang County seat was gripped by an atmosphere of nervous tension.

On the city walls, Liu Yunzhao stood clad in gleaming armor, a combat saber strapped to his waist. Surrounded by hundreds of soldiers with arrows nocked and blades drawn, the scene cast a grim, chilling reflection upon the snow-covered ground below. The streets within the county were desolate, nearly devoid of pedestrians; even the street vendors had vanished. Only the red lanterns hanging from wine shops and the spring couplets pasted on doorways offered a faint, lingering sense of the approaching New Year.

Zhang Muyang, Su Ying, and their companions made no stops, heading straight for the barracks.

Tian Chong was already waiting at the gate, urging, "Muyang, are all the men from our two squads... here?"

"Nineteen of them, not a single one missing. Why do you ask?"

"Why do I ask?" Tian Chong whispered, "Let me tell you, other squads have men who didn't return, and the Captain is furious. You’d better be careful in there."

Desertion on the eve of battle? This was no trivial matter; at best, it meant decapitation, and at worst, the execution of one's entire clan. Zhang Muyang told Su Ying and Lin Xiaobei to wait for a moment before following Tian Chong into the main tent.

As soon as the door flap was lifted, he saw seven or eight squad leaders and corporals kneeling on the ground, heads bowed, not daring to draw a full breath. Wei Wantong and a centurion stood in the corner, their expressions dark.

"Useless trash!" Chen Xiucheng roared. "I don't care if your men are dead or crippled; if they aren't in this camp, they are deserters, and it is your responsibility! A great battle is imminent, so I’ll mark this debt for now. Once the war is over, I will settle accounts with each of you! Get out!"

The men, as if granted a reprieve, scrambled out on their hands and knees.

Chen Xiucheng glanced at Zhang Muyang and asked coldly, "You're back? How many of your men ran?"

"None."

"If none ran, then get out and eat! Don't be an eyesore to me."

"There is no rush." Zhang Muyang grinned, pulled an oilcloth parcel from his chest, and handed it to Wei Wantong. "Centurion Wei, I brought you a gift."

Wei Wantong paused, instinctively taking it and unwrapping the oilcloth—

A bloody human head stared back at him!

The blood at the severed neck had already congealed into a blackish-purple, and the upturned, white-filmed eyes glared straight at him.

"Ah!" Wei Wantong shrieked in terror as the head rolled to the floor. "Zhang Muyang! Are... are you insane?"

Zhang Muyang stepped on the head and said coldly, "This man claimed to be Wei Feng. I don't know who instigated him, but he said he was acting on your orders to kill me. But I don't believe it! Centurion Wei treats me like a brother; how could he possibly want me dead?"

"Wei... Wei Feng?!" Wei Wantong’s face turned paper-white. He pointed a trembling finger at Zhang Muyang and stammered, "You... you killed him? Do you know who he is? He is the foster son of Wei Song, a strategist for the Prince of Beijing! Killing him will cost you your head!"

"Impossible. I have no grudge against Wei Song; why would he want to kill me? Could it be that Centurion Wei really did order it?"

"You..."

This was tantamount to the sky collapsing. Wei Wantong had never dreamed that Wei Feng, a cultivator in the Bone-Refining Realm, would be killed by Zhang Muyang. He didn't even dare to dwell on the consequences. Clutching the head, he stumbled out in a daze, not even knowing how he made it back to his residence.

Wei Feng was dead. Would Wei Song spare him? Now, the only thing he could do was kill Zhang Muyang and Su Ying, perhaps then he might have a sliver of a chance at survival.

The tent fell into a deathly silence. Chen Xiucheng stared at Zhang Muyang for a long time before speaking slowly, "You have quite the nerve."

"Wei Feng wanted to slaughter my entire village. I could hardly just stretch out my neck and wait for death," Zhang Muyang replied, his senses on high alert, ready to draw his blade at the first sign of danger.

"Enough, go eat." Chen Xiucheng did not press further, merely waving his hand.

The mess hall was uncharacteristically lively. Large iron pots boiled with cabbage and potatoes, a layer of oil floating on the surface, with chunks of fat meat settled at the bottom. Wooden basins were piled high with millet rice—a feast reserved only for the New Year. The new recruits were famished, wolfing down their food so greedily they didn't even bother to wipe the spilled broth from their clothes. The veterans, however, had little appetite, poking at their bowls with chopsticks, swallowing slowly as if chewing wax.

"Brother Muyang, why aren't they eating?" Zhang Xiaobei asked, his mouth full of fat meat.

"Because they know that after this meal, there might not be another." Zhang Muyang placed a piece of meat into his bowl. "Don't be like them. We must eat our fill; only then can we kill, and only then can we survive."

Back in the Blood Wolf Special Forces, he had carried out countless missions with a nine-in-ten chance of death. Thinking too much about life and death was useless; it was better to fill one's belly. The prerequisite for living was having the strength to swing a blade.

Once full, everyone returned to their barracks to rest. At the hour of the Dog, a sudden, urgent roll of drums erupted.

"Assemble!"

The entire camp exploded into motion. Everyone grabbed their weapons and rushed out. The drill ground was soon packed with a sea of men, the very sound of their breathing thick with tension.

Chen Xiucheng stood on a high platform, his saber at his waist, and shouted, "Beibei Pass is in peril! One hundred thousand Northern Yan cavalry are pressing against the border! Battalion Commander Wu has ordered our unit to depart immediately! Remember, those who leave the ranks without authorization will be executed on the spot!"

"Understood!" The roar of five hundred men shook the torches.

"March!"

At Chen Xiucheng's command, the unit moved out of the barracks in silence. There were no gongs or drums; even the horses' hooves were wrapped in cotton, for fear of alerting the county's citizens, or perhaps to prevent the route from leaking.

The moonlight was pale, casting enough light on the snow to make out the path. The new recruits stumbled under the weight of their weapons like refugees, a sharp contrast to the steady, rhythmic march of the veterans.

Zhang Xiaobei stayed close to Zhang Muyang. "Brother Muyang, are we really going to war this time?"

Zhang Muyang nodded, patting his shoulder. "Stay close to me. Don't fall behind."

After an hour of marching, the unit stopped in an open field. Tian Chong pulled out the roster and began counting heads, his voice exceptionally clear in the quiet night.

"Zhang Xiaobei?" "Here!" "Zhang Ying?" "Here!"

After the roll call, three men were missing. A soldier reported that the three new recruits had gone to relieve themselves and never returned; they had likely fled into the night.

"Zhang Muyang!" Chen Xiucheng’s voice was cold and brooked no argument. "Take your men and hunt them down! Everyone else, hold your positions!"

"Yes!"

Zhang Muyang shouted, "Twelfth Squad, follow me!"

Su Ying, Lin Xiaobei, and the others followed him back without a word. In a secluded area, they shed their heavy gear and used the sleds they had prepared, gliding across the snow under the moonlight much faster than running. A few miles back, they spotted several skulking figures, stumbling through the deep snow toward the county seat—it was the three deserters.

"Capture them!"

At Zhang Muyang's command, Zhang Xiaobei and Gousheng pounced, pinning the deserters to the snow and binding their hands tightly behind their backs. The three recruits were terrified, weeping and pleading for mercy, their faces smeared with snot and tears.

When they returned to the main group, a bonfire was already burning, its light reflecting off the tense faces of the soldiers. Zhang Muyang pushed the deserters before Chen Xiucheng and saluted. "Captain, the men have been captured."

Chen Xiucheng didn't even spare them a glance. "Execute them."

"Have mercy! My lord, have mercy!" The three deserters collapsed, sobbing. "I was forced into this! I have an eighty-year-old mother at home..."

A deathly silence ensued. The faces of the new recruits turned pale, their hands trembling as they gripped their weapons. The veterans remained expressionless, as if they had long grown accustomed to such scenes.

"Execute them." Chen Xiucheng repeated, his gaze sweeping over the ranks as if warning every man present.

Battalion Commander Wu Kexiong had five captains under his command, each with a hundred men. Other units might have shown leniency, but Chen Xiucheng had no room for deserters. The battlefield was no child's play; one person's retreat could plunge the entire unit into a death trap.

Zhang Muyang felt no stirrings in his heart. In this world, to survive, one must either be ruthless or fight with everything one has. If you neither want to be a soldier and fight for your life, nor have the courage to maim yourself to avoid the war, then you can only become a ghost under the blade. Where could one find such a perfect middle ground?

*Crack! Crack!*

Several scarred veterans stepped forward, their blades rising and falling. The heads of the three deserters rolled toward the bonfire, fresh blood splashing onto the snow, a blinding, vivid red.

"March!" Chen Xiucheng mounted his horse without so much as a blink.

Horseshoes crunched into the snow with a dull sound as he led the way toward Beibei Pass. No one paid any mind to the corpses, and no one spoke. The unit pressed on, the torchlight casting long, flickering shadows across the snow. Everyone kept their heads down, their footsteps heavy as lead. That scene was like a stone pressing down on every heart—this was the battlefield.

Either you kill, or you are killed.

You must only move forward, keep moving forward, until you fall, or until you survive.

Zhang Muyang tightened his grip on his Hanling saber. The frost patterns on the hilt seemed to burn, as if urging him on, or perhaps warning him.

From the direction of Beibei Pass, a low, thundering sound could be heard.

It was not thunder.

It was the hooves of the Northern Yan heavy cavalry...