The low-key prince summons trainees from the Imperial Household Department at the start of the game.

The envoy of the Left Wise King's tribe was Sahatai.

In a battle on the banks of the Hulan River in the eastern part of the grassland, he led a hundred men to intercept and kill the cavalry of the Xiutu tribe. The scar on his face that runs diagonally from his eyebrow to his chin was left from that battle, and from then on he gained some reputation for bravery on the grassland.

He came to Hunxie King's tribe on Altan's orders, bringing only four attendants and five horses.

The horses were carefully selected, their hooves wrapped in thick felt to prevent them from injuring their tendons from running too much in the snow. The riders were also wrapped in sheepskin coats. It took them two days and one night in the wind to reach the foot of Black Wolf Mountain.

The Hunxie King's main tent was set up on the southern slope of Black Wolf Mountain.

This camp stretched for miles, from the foot of the mountain all the way to the gentle slope of the valley. Banners were like a forest, and the wolf head totems on the banners fluttered in the north wind. From a distance, it looked like a whole expanse of churned gray-white sea.

There were so many cattle and horses that they covered half the hillside. In the open space between the yurts, long wooden racks were set up with dried meat strips hanging on them, frozen solid and swaying slightly in the wind.

Two rows of sentries with spears stood at the camp gate, their armor made of polished iron plates that gleamed coldly in the morning light.

When Saghtai arrived at the camp gate, he was stopped. A centurion wearing leather armor came over and questioned him for a few minutes. After learning that he was an envoy of the Left Wise King's tribe, he ordered someone to lead him to the main tent.

The large tent was much taller than the other felt tents in the camp, with a black iron flagpole standing on top. Three horse tails were tied to the flagpole, each of which was blown by the wind into a loose strand.

The curtains were made from a single piece of cowhide, with copper nails pressed along the edges. When lifted, they emitted a scent of aged leather and charcoal.

The tent was already full of people, and the fire was burning brightly. The heat condensed into a thin layer of mist at the gaps in the tent ceiling, which hung there motionless.

Hunxie Wang Balidang was seated in the first seat.

He was in his early fifties, with very broad shoulders. He wore an old leather robe that was faded from washing but was dressed neatly, with a wide cowhide belt around his waist and a short, sheathed knife hanging from the belt.

His hair was gray, parted in the middle of his head, with a thick braid on each side hanging down in front of his chest. Each hair was tied with a wolf tooth pendant, each half a foot long and polished smooth.

He sat very steadily, like a stone statue placed on a chair, with his hands resting on his knees. His ten fingers were short, thick, and strong, with calluses all over them from years of practice.

He had two sons beside him.

The eldest prince, Huletai, sat to his right. He was imposing and robust, with a square face and a pair of phoenix eyes that were slightly upturned at the corners. When he looked at people, he always had a hint of disdain, as if he were examining something that was not worth looking at closely.

He was toying with a short knife with a gold hilt in his hand. The patterns on the scabbard were of Persian craftsmanship, and two turquoise stones were inlaid at the hilt, shimmering in the firelight.

The young prince, Hanmu, sat on the left. He was about twenty years old, tall and with a strong frame, but there was a hint of frivolity in his eyes. He sat in a relaxed posture, with one arm draped over the back of the chair and the other hand tapping his knuckles on the table, as if he was waiting for something that was not very patient.

Also present were the commanders of various tribes, several elderly noblemen, and two old wizards draped in bone ornaments.

The two sat close together by the fire pit, like two old tree roots dug out of an old tomb, their bodies covered with pendants and chains made of cow and sheep bones, making a soft clinking sound with every movement.

Saghtai stepped forward, and with the highest courtesy of the grasslands, placed his right hand on his left chest, nodded slightly, and then explained his purpose.

His voice was not loud, but it was very organized, like stacking stones one by one, each stone placed steadily and clearly, without a single superfluous word.

From the blood-soaked snowfield in the Qiyan Valley, to the corpses torn apart by the Yin Corpses, to the dark, glowing green things in the Xiutu camp, to the protectors of Agula wearing robes of various colors.

He recounted each and every detail, bringing back exactly what he had heard in Altan's tent.

When he finished speaking, the firelight in the tent flickered, and no one interrupted. Only the occasional cracking sound of wood popping from the hearth was heard.

After listening, Baridang did not rush to speak.

He picked up the bowl of hot mare's milk wine in front of him, took a sip, paused with the rim of the bowl to his lips, then put the bowl down and said unhurriedly, "Have a bowl of hot wine to warm yourself up first."

He gestured with his chin toward the servants beside him, and immediately someone brought a full bowl to Saghtai.

Saghtai did not answer.

He shook his head slightly, his voice still coherent, but with an underlying tension: "This is not the time for drinking, Your Majesty. The Xiutu tribe has already swallowed up the Qiyan, Tiele, and Baidi tribes. Agula's forces are more than double what they were three months ago, and he has more and more allies around him. Black Wolf Mountain is only a six-day journey from the Qiyan tribe's valley. The next stop is here."

Someone inside the tent chuckled softly.

It is Huletai.

He twirled the gold-hilted dagger in his hand, the scabbard spinning half a turn in his palm, then gripped it, tapping the tip down lightly on the table in front of him. His voice was neither loud nor soft, carrying a tone of "What kind of joke are you telling me?": "Your Left Wise King tribe was once known as the mighty tribe of the East, yet now you've been frightened to this state by Agula."

He turned his head to look at Sahetai, the disdain in his phoenix eyes like a layer of oil floating on water, swaying gently yet impenetrable: "The tribes he swallowed were nothing but a flock of cowardly sheep. How old is that little prince of the Qiyan tribe? Seventeen. The old king of the Tiele tribe is already half-buried in the ground. The Baidi tribe is even more laughable; eight hundred men carrying a flag dare to call themselves a tribe. Black Wolf Mountain is no ordinary place. The men of the Hunxie tribe, as long as one of them can still mount a horse, will not hide behind others."

As soon as he finished speaking, several centurions burst into laughter.

Some people slapped the table in agreement, while others raised their wine bowls toward Huletai, their laughter still escaping.

Hanmu also chimed in.

He remained seated, one arm still draped over the back of the chair, while his other hand, having stopped tapping, pointed in Saghtai's direction with a youthful, unpolished frivolity: "Saghtai, you're a renowned warrior of the grasslands, so why are you adopting the Han Chinese ways, forming alliances and schemes? Have all the horses of your Left Wise King's tribe run away?"

His words drew a few more laughs.

But the two old wizards beside the fire pit didn't laugh.

One of them lowered his head and looked at the flames, while the other paused for a moment when Saghtai uttered the words "yin corpse."

That moment was very brief, like a gust of wind sweeping across the surface of the fire, causing the flames to dip slightly before rising again.

Saghtai stood there, the scar on his face glowing slightly red in the firelight.

He was not interrupted by the laughter, nor did he rush to refute it.

He waited until the laughter stopped before slowly turning his head to look at Hanmu.

His gaze was not heavy, yet as flat as a stone slab placed on a table, without any sharp edges, but it carried considerable weight: "Prince Hanmu, have you ever seen a corpse?"

Hanmu was stunned for a moment.

The laughter inside the tent subsided slightly.

Without waiting for his reply, Saghtai untied his outer robe and took out a piece of oilcloth wrapped around his waist.

The tarpaulin made a sticky sound when it was untied.

As the frozen oilcloth was unfolded, several fine cracks appeared, revealing the dry, cracked black fabric underneath.

Several scale-like things were stuck to the piece of cloth, which had a matte gray-black sheen in the firelight, and there was a trace of dried, dark brown at the edge.

A very faint fishy stench emanated from the cloth, as if something had rotted far away, and the smell had been carried by the wind a long way to reach here. It had faded, but it was still there.

Saghtai held the fragment in his palm and moved it forward, letting the firelight illuminate it.

His voice was lower than before, but every word seemed to be hammered into wood: "This was torn from the body of the Qiyan tribe's centurion. That centurion was ripped apart alive by these things. They are impervious to knives and arrows, they don't bleed, and they don't stop. No matter how brave the men of the Hunxie tribe are, when your scimitar strikes them..."

He paused, as if waiting for everyone to hear the next sentence: "It's like cutting into three feet of frozen mud; when you pull the knife out, it's already reaching for your throat."

There was a moment of silence in the tent.

That stillness was different from the quietness just now.

The silence that followed the laughter was still tinged with a lingering sense of disdain.

The stillness at this moment is a stillness where something beneath the skin is tightened, like an old bow being slowly drawn to its fullest extent, with the rubber bands on the bow beginning to make a faint creaking sound.

Baridang laughed.

He slowly raised his head, shifting his gaze from the black fragment to Saghtai's face.

His smile was faint, the corners of his mouth curving into a barely perceptible arc, but his wolf-like eyes gleamed in the firelight, like two polished obsidian stones reflecting a cold, hard light: "When I was twenty, I single-handedly entered the Bai Di tribe and beheaded their priest. When I was thirty, I led eight hundred cavalrymen through the Tiele tribe and dragged their king by the tail of a horse for seven days."

He pulled up the necklace of wolf fangs from his chest, weighed it in his hand, and let each wolf fang clink against each other, making a soft, tinkling sound. "Throughout my life, I've only believed in the scimitar, only in the horse I ride. Those ghosts you speak of..."

He placed the necklace back on his chest, his palm resting on the wolf's fang. "No matter how powerful, he's still a human being. On the grasslands, fire can burn everything that cannot be killed. If Agula dares to come, I will show him what the Hunxie tribe's arrow rain is like."

The two old wizards beside him echoed his sentiments.

The wizard who had just lowered his head to look at the fire raised his head and said in a hoarse voice, "The ancestral spirits are sleeping on Black Wolf Mountain." The other one repeated, "Black Wolf Mountain cannot be broken," as if reciting an old incantation he had memorized.

Their voices mingled together, sounding somewhat confident and boastful in the flickering firelight.

Saghtai stood there, the black fragment still in his palm, the oilcloth spread out on the low table beside him.

Looking into Baridang's wolf-like eyes, he suddenly felt something sinking inch by inch in his heart.

This wasn't the first time he'd felt that kind of heaviness.

The last time I saw that child curled up in a ball was in the valley of the Qiyan tribe.

He took a deep breath, rewrapped the oilcloth, tucked it back into his waistband, and then looked up at Bardang one last time.

"Your Majesty." His voice wasn't loud, but every word was enunciated clearly, "My commander has said that this isn't a matter of territory, but of life and death. If the Hunxie tribe is willing to form an alliance, the Zuoxianwang tribe is willing to share the grasslands equally with Your Majesty; if not…"

He paused.

The firelight in the tent flickered across his face, illuminating the scar clearly, like an ancient riverbed being bathed in the last rays of the setting sun.

"When the Xiutu tribe and those demons reach the foot of Black Wolf Mountain, the Left Wise King's tribe will not come because of today's refusal."

Huletai slammed his hand on the low table.

The silver bowl on the table was jolted and a few drops of mare's milk wine spilled out and soaked into the felt.

With a loud bang, he jumped to his feet, gripping the gold-hilted dagger tightly in his hand. The turquoise scabbard flashed briefly in the firelight before dimming again. "Are you threatening us?" he said.

Saghtai did not look at him.

His gaze remained fixed on Baridang's face, and he waited for three breaths.

Baridang did not speak.

He simply picked up the bowl of mare's milk wine in front of him, took another sip, put it back on the table, and glanced at Saghtai's face as if he were looking at something that was no longer worth discussing.

Saghtai did not speak again.

He withdrew his gaze, tightened the oilcloth around his waist again, and bowed to Baridang.

The greeting was less formal than when he arrived; it was just a fleeting gesture before he turned and walked out of the tent.

When he lifted the tent flap, a gust of wind rushed in from outside, causing the flames in the hearth to be pressed down on the ground and then bounce up again, and all the shadows in the tent flickered.

He went outside, and the curtains fell behind him, cutting off the wind.

The north wind was biting at my face, and the snowflakes felt like fine needles hitting my skin.

Saghtai mounted his horse, wrapped the reins around his palm, and pulled the horse's head to turn it around.

After settling into his saddle, he glanced back at the sprawling camp.

The camp was brightly lit, and the light shining through the gaps in the tents spread long orange strips on the snow. The wolf-head flags on the flagpoles were still rustling in the wind, just as they had when they arrived, unchanged.

He whispered something to his attendant, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the wind: "They won't believe it, and by the time they do, it will be too late."

He didn't say "it might be too late," he said "it might be too late."

The attendant didn't understand the difference, but simply nodded and followed him as he urged his horse eastward.

The sound of horses' hooves crunching through the snow carried far across the open grassland, only to be quickly drowned out by the wind.

Inside the large tent, Hanmu was still smiling.

He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head towards Huletai, a hint of youthful eagerness to prove his judgment was correct beneath his smile: "The Left Wise King's tribe is indeed afraid. What is there for Agula to be afraid of? No matter how powerful those things are, can they be denser than the arrow rain from the Hunxie tribe? Next spring, why don't we take down the Left Wise King's tribe first, and then wipe out the Xiutu tribe in the process, saving them the trouble of running around delivering messages."

Huletai sat down again.

He placed the gold-hilted dagger on the table, its scabbard facing outwards, the turquoise glowing softly in the firelight.

He didn't respond to Hanmu's words, but simply picked up the wine bowl and took a sip. The disdain in his eyes hadn't faded, but he didn't say anything more.

Baridang picked up the golden cup and slowly took a sip of mare's milk wine.

After finishing his drink, he didn't put down the cup. He held it in his hand, gazing at the gaps in the tent flaps outside, which were being repeatedly battered by the wind and snow.

A few snowflakes splashed in through the cracks, landed on the edge of the fire pit, melted into water, and then quickly evaporated.

He suddenly remembered what happened last night.

The old shaman's expression suddenly changed during the bone divination.

The three bone sticks were supposed to be laid flat during divination, but last night, during three divinations, each time one of the sticks stood upside down, as if something was pushing upwards from the ground.

The old shaman didn't explain, only saying, "There's dark energy in the north wind."

Baridangdang didn't take it seriously at the time.

It's normal for an old shaman to have loose bones and shaky hands, making it difficult to hold the bone sticks.

At that moment, he felt as if something was buried under the snow, waiting to emerge, through the upside-down stick.

He looked at the cup of mare's milk wine in his hand, the surface of which reflected the firelight, shimmering and swaying like a thin layer of blood.

He put down the golden cup, moved his fingers off the cup and onto the wolf tooth necklace on his chest, turning the largest one half a turn so that it faced the tent entrance.

He didn't say anything, but simply turned halfway around and then brought his hand back to rest on his knee.

Laughter and conversation resumed inside the tent.

Several centurions picked up their wine bowls again, and some began to talk about the wolf hunt a few days ago, saying how cunning the old wolf was, circling the trap three times before getting close to the bait.

Hanmu was captivated by the story and leaned forward, occasionally interjecting with a comment.

Huletai picked up his wine bowl and took another sip. He nodded to a centurion by the fire pit, and the two seemed to be making an agreement with each other.

The laughter and chatter were like a thin layer of snow covering the ice; it looked smooth, but when you stepped on it, you realized it was hollow underneath.

Only the old tribunal leader in the corner.

The person who hadn't said much, leaning against the tent pillar and slowly drinking a bowl of wine.

He sighed softly after Saghtai left.

The sigh was so soft, as if he were simply releasing a breath he had been holding in for a long time. It was drowned out by the clinking of wine bowls, the crackling of the fire pit, and Hanmu's laughter from below, without disturbing anyone.

He looked down at the wine in his bowl; the surface of the wine reflected the firelight, looking like a thin layer of blood.

He slowly finished the bowl of wine, put it down, stood up, and walked out.

The snow is still falling on the grassland.

A gust of north wind slipped in through the gaps in the tent, causing the flames to flicker and the light on the wolf tooth necklace, which Baridang had twirled halfway around, to flash briefly before settling back down.

Meanwhile, Saghtai, who had just left, was hurrying towards the Left Wise King's territory.

The horse's hooves left two deep, rapid tracks in the snow, which were slowly covered by the falling snow, like words being erased from a page.

He needed to deliver the message to Altan before dawn.

His horse had been running for almost half an hour, and white foam was beginning to appear at the corners of its mouth, but he did not slow down.

Time is running out for all of them.

He didn't need to look back to know that more lights were being lit in the camp behind him, and in the places where the firelight couldn't reach, shadows were spreading like water.