Chapter One: Pursuing the Lost

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 prevent blood feuds.

This was a land steeped in slaughter, now serving as one of the buffer zones along the long border between Sui and Turk.

Chase and flight; in the blink of an eye, several miles had passed.

The old horse was drenched in sweat, blood mixed with foam at its mouth. Amid its desperate run, it stumbled, crashing to the ground, the sharp crack of breaking bones echoing harshly.

The rider was thrown off, but he curled himself into a ball in mid-air, rolling over the ground a dozen times before springing to his feet.

The autumn wind swept his hair aside, revealing a youthful face still tinged with innocence—he was but a teenager.

Ordinary and rough-hewn, his face was illuminated by a pair of sparkling, keen eyes that lent him an uncommon presence.

Though he hadn’t yet grown to full stature, his physique was already robust, radiating strength and an untamed fierceness.

Despite his attire and appearance resembling those of the steppe nomads, his features betrayed him as unmistakably Han, the wind and cold of the grasslands having darkened and roughened his skin.

Though battered, he looked southward to the rolling mountains, and hope glinted in his eyes. He grinned, showing a row of white, sharp teeth.

In that moment, he seemed less a desperate fugitive and more a wild beast cornered by pursuit. When he glanced back at his pursuers, a fierce, savage look flashed across his face.

He did not hesitate. Shaking his head slightly, he darted back, grabbed the saber from the ground, and fled toward the mountains without looking back.

The pursuers arrived in an instant, but the youth, nimble as a hare, had already reached the foot of the mountain and soon ascended the northern slope.

To the south, the Han Great Wall stretched like a hidden serpent among the mountains.

The riders gave themselves away by their shaved foreheads, fur hats, and dirty leather robes. Clearly not Turks themselves, they were likely from one of the Turk-affiliated tribes wandering here, or perhaps even from steppe tribes under Sui’s dominion.

Such tribes were common on the Cloud Grasslands, herding here and shifting allegiance between the two great powers, their identity ever ambiguous.

Neither the Turks nor the Sui had any intention of settling the land’s ownership quickly; in the long game of empires, such chaotic, ambiguous buffer zones were indispensable.

They might be Khitan, Xianbei, or descendants of Han and Xiongnu—at this time, few cared, and perhaps even they could not trace their bloodlines.

Now, neither the steppe pursuers nor the fleeing Han youth cared for such matters.

Hatred had been forged, to be washed away only in blood. The struggle of life and death had endured too long on this land, and would continue still.

At the foot of the mountain, the pursuers reined in their horses, dismounted, grabbed their bows, and began firing arrows up the slope, eager to slay their foe.

They paid no heed to the value of their arrows; the enemy had killed their chief. As the chief’s guards, they had lost the right to return—either they would wander the grasslands, or take vengeance and follow their chief in death.

Returning to the tribe meant only one thing—cruel execution, no second chance.

From the moment their chief fell, the fate of their wives and children was sealed. Their pursuit was driven by hatred and by fear.

Frantic and desperate, they no longer cared that the distant Great Wall was forbidden territory for their kind. They were determined to kill the wily, despicable brat and avenge their leader.

Yet their enemy’s skill in escape surpassed anything they expected.

He had slipped their blockade earlier, and now, on the steepening slope, the fleeing youth darted here and there, never running straight, never giving them a clear shot.

Arrows hissed past him, one even grazing his shoulder and tearing a long gash in his battered leather robe, but he didn’t so much as blink.

At last, the forest thickened, and the rocks offered greater cover.

The youth leaned against a great tree, gasping for breath, then peeked down at the furious pursuers below.

“Looks like I made it out. These bastards want my life? They’re not even close.”

Catching his breath, he didn’t rush deeper into the mountain, but revealed half his body, expertly slashing an incoming arrow aside, then raised his middle finger at the enemies below, laughing aloud.

His laughter rang out, and despite his bedraggled flight, he seemed to possess a hint of heroic spirit.

Though the pursuers didn’t understand the international gesture, they knew well enough he was mocking their incompetence.

Curses erupted at the foot of the mountain. After a heated argument, seeing the youth vanishing into the woods, a burly man drew his saber and struck down the loudest complainer, roaring as he left two men to watch the horses, then led the others up the slope in pursuit.

(A new story from A Cao, set in the late Sui era—ambitious in scope, but I worry I won’t manage the pacing, and the research will take time. So I’ll just write as I go. If there are any flaws, please don’t mind; after all, it’s not official history. If timelines or ages don’t match up, don’t be too picky.)