Remarried to a top-tier playboy, her reborn ex-husband is filled with regret.

Xiao Fang took a deep breath to suppress the sour feeling.

He gripped his long sword tightly and roared at his brothers behind him.

"Reinforcements have arrived! Charge!"

The remaining few hundred soldiers let out a deafening roar and followed Xiao Fang like a pack of hungry wolves, rushing towards the top of the sand dune.

The father and son each charged in from two different directions, like two red-hot knives cutting into butter.

When Xiao Ji reached the bottom of the gentle slope, he saw a Northern Hu soldier wielding a curved sword, slashing at Xiao Fang from behind.

Xiao Fang had his back to that direction, and his long sword had just pierced another enemy's chest, leaving him no time to defend himself.

Xiao Ji didn't have time to shout, or even to stab with his gun.

He sprang up from the ground, took a step forward, and swept his silver spear horizontally.

The gun barrel smashed into the back of the Northern Hu soldier's head, tilting his head to an odd angle.

He flew sideways, crashed into a rock, and lay motionless.

Xiao Fang sensed the movement behind him, turned around, and met his father's bloodshot eyes.

Those eyes held murderous intent, anxiety, lingering fear, and something burning hot like fire.

Xiao Ji didn't ask, "Are you alright?" or "How badly are you injured?"

He glanced at his son to make sure he was still standing, then turned around, pressed his back against his son's, and held the silver spear horizontally in front of him.

Xiao Fang didn't speak, but turned around and raised his long sword.

The father and son stood back to back, facing the Northern Hu soldiers who were closing in from all directions, like two mountains standing side by side.

No one can cross these two mountains.

The eight thousand iron cavalry finally arrived, a black torrent surging past them from both sides and crashing into the Northern Hu people's ranks.

They shattered the wolf-like encirclement.

The Northern Hu people finally began to collapse.

Xiao Fang knelt on one knee, supporting his body with his long sword, panting heavily.

His armor was covered in blood, making it impossible to distinguish which parts were his own and which were those of the enemy; he looked as if he had been pulled out of a pool of blood.

Xiao Ji stood beside him, his silver spear planted on the ground. Blood from his armor dripped down the spear shaft, pooling into a small patch of dark red mud on the ground.

He looked down at his son without saying a word.

He didn't speak, not because he had nothing to say, but because he had too much to say and didn't know where to begin.

The setting sun is like blood.

The sandy ground of Pingge Beach was littered with corpses lying haphazardly.

The defeated Northern Hu soldiers had retreated deep into the sandstorm, leaving only a desolate scene on the battlefield.

Xiao Ji instructed his deputy to count the casualties.

Xiao Fang gathered the remaining brothers together and counted their numbers; of the three thousand elite cavalry, less than eight hundred remained.

He had to bring his brothers' bodies back, he thought, and walked toward his warhorse.

Xiao Ji also mounted his horse. He was not injured—at least he didn't appear to be.

His armor was covered in blood, but he still walked upright and mounted his horse with nimble movements.

He sat on his horse, watching his son's retreating figure as he mounted, and a slight twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth.

It seemed like he wanted to laugh, or perhaps he just wanted to say something.

Then he suddenly felt a chill on his back.

It's not the kind of cold that comes from the wind and sand, but the kind of cold that seeps out from the very bones.

He was all too familiar with that chill.

A person who has fought for thirty years certainly knows what that is.

He looked down at his chest.

The armor was intact.

But on his back—he knew without touching it—there was a deep cut.

He was slashed from behind by a Northern barbarian soldier while he was fighting his way through the enemy lines.

That blade severed his armor straps, cleaved through his armor, and pierced into his flesh.

He didn't stop, because he couldn't stop.

His son was still ahead, and he didn't want his son to blame himself.

"Father?"

Xiao Fang had already taken the horse and glanced back at him.

He probably felt that his father's movements were a bit slow; this wasn't the decisive and efficient Prince Zhenbei he remembered.

Xiao Ji rode on his horse, the setting sun shining from behind him, casting a golden outline on his figure.

His back remained ramrod straight, like a silver spear planted in the sand.

He looked at Xiao Fang with a complex, indescribable look in his eyes.

"You go first."

Xiao Ji's voice was exactly the same as usual: calm, concise, and carrying an unyielding authority.

"I'm a little tired, I'll sit here and rest for a while."

"Go back and reorganize the troops first."

Xiao Fang frowned.

He had a vague feeling that something was wrong.

My father never complained of being tired on the battlefield. The first thing he did after a battle was to personally count the casualties.

The second thing was to arrange defenses.

The third thing was to write military reports.

Want to sit here and rest for a while?

This is not something his father would say.

But his father's tone was so ordinary, so ordinary, that he felt he was overthinking things.

Perhaps Father was just tired.

After all, he was getting old, and after all, he had just single-handedly fought his way through an enemy formation of several hundred men.

After all, he is no longer the young man who would chase someone for three days and three nights without dismounting.

Xiao Fang nodded and led his horse a few steps forward.

He walked slowly, as if something was making him uneasy.

A muffled thud came from behind.

The sound was deep and muffled, like a bag of sand being dropped from a great height onto the ground.

Then he heard the deputy general's voice.

That was the old deputy general who had served my father for thirty years. Even with a knife to his throat, he wouldn't flinch.

But at this moment, the sound was ripping, shrill, and carried a chilling fear and disbelief.

"General—"

Then came the shouts of many people.

"Your Highness!"

Your Highness, wake up!

Xiao Fang suddenly turned around.

Xiao Ji had fallen off his horse and lay face up on the sand.

His armor had a long tear in it from the back.

Blood was gushing out of the crack, staining the yellow sand beneath him a shocking dark red.

His silver spear was still stuck in the sand beside him, the shaft trembling slightly, reflecting the fragmented light of the setting sun.

Xiao Fang was stunned.

Just for a fleeting moment.

Then he threw down the reins, rushed over like a madman, and fell to his father's side, pressing his hands haphazardly against the wound.

The wound was too deep, and blood was gushing out from between his fingers, no matter how hard he pressed, he couldn't stop it.

His hands were shaking violently.

Those hands, which never trembled when holding a knife, were now shaking like a withered leaf in the autumn wind.

"Don't move—don't touch him!"

He roared at the soldiers who surrounded him, his voice rough and hoarse, as if it had been sanded with sandpaper.

"Call a medic! Go call a medic right now!"

Xiao Ji raised his hand and pressed down on his arm.

That hand was still strong, still rough, still with large knuckles.

That was a hand that had spent its whole life drawing a bow and holding a gun.

But at this moment, the warmth of that hand is slowly fading away.

"It's too late."

Xiao Ji's voice remained steady, but it was much softer than usual, as if he was using up all his remaining strength to say each word.