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

Saghtai and his companions headed south, specifically choosing pastoral trails and dry riverbeds.

Those pasture paths have been trampled by cattle and sheep for countless years. The snow that falls on them is compacted, making them harder than other places, so horses don't sink too deep when they step on them.

The dry riverbed is even more concealed, with withered grass and snow on both banks providing natural cover for horses and riders.

When the wind and snow were heavy, they would find a sheltered earthen slope to rest for an hour or two, with people and horses huddled together to keep warm.

The man curled up beside the horse's ribs, the horse lowered its head and breathed on the man's shoulder, they relied on each other's body heat to get through the coldest nights.

The dry rations they brought were finished on the third day, and for the next few days they relied on a handful of dried meat strips that Saghtai found when he passed by an abandoned nomadic camp.

The meat strips, left behind by some tribe, were frozen as hard as rocks. They scraped them into thin slices with a knife, held them in their mouths, and waited for them to slowly thaw. Each person received more than a dozen slices, and they ate them sparingly for four days until they were stuffed.

On the fourth day, they encountered the cavalry of the Xiutu tribe.

The group of about twenty people emerged from behind the low hills in the northeast, kicking up a cloud of snow and mist, like a line of gray shadows moving horizontally along the horizon.

Saghtai reined in his horse the moment he saw them.

He had no way back; ahead lay twenty pursuers, and retreating meant going even further.

He only had time to whisper to the two scouts behind him, "Come with me. They'll see three people running south."

Then he turned to the other two, "Go north, divert their attention as far as you can, and once they're diverted, don't turn back, head towards Yunzhou to meet them."

The two scouts didn't speak, but exchanged a glance. One of them threw the half-full saddlebag of water left in his saddlebag to Saghtai, while the other took off his bow and hung it behind Saghtai's saddle.

Then the two turned their horses around and galloped off in a northwest direction, their hooves kicking up snowflakes half a person's height, like two knives being thrown out.

Saghtai led the remaining men south, urging their horses on desperately.

The sound of pursuers turning around came from behind, followed by the sound of horses' hooves splitting into two groups, one heading north to chase the two scouts, and the other still following Saghtai's direction.

Those two riders never returned.

Saghtai waited in Yunzhou for seven days, but still received no news from them.

On the seventh day, they finally saw the outline of Yanmen Pass.

In the distance, the gray-black city wall looked like an old ridge beam laid on the snow. Faint wisps of smoke rose from the beacon tower, condensing into a thin, straight white line in the cold air before being quickly dispersed by the wind.

Saghtai and the remaining two scouts were completely disfigured. His lips were split open with three bloody gashes, and every breath he took felt like someone was rubbing his throat with fine sandpaper.

The horses were also exhausted and swaying. One chestnut horse's left hind leg was swollen and it would shake with every step.

They dared not take the official road in front of the pass.

There were patrol riders from the Great Zhou Dynasty on the official road, as well as spies that the Xiutu tribe might have planted.

They made their way through the western ravine, where the snow was knee-deep, and both men and horses moved extremely slowly, having to pull their legs out of the snow before stepping down with each step.

They were intercepted as they approached the patrol area of ​​the Northern Army.

A patrol of border troops emerged from the mountain path, about ten riders in total. Their armor was frozen stiff and gleamed matte in the sunlight.

The crossbow bolts were aimed at them in unison, the iron tips on the arrowheads flashing in the snow like a row of small stars.

The centurion, speaking with a heavy northern accent, ordered his men to dismount. His voice was sharp and short in the wind, like metal plates clashing together.

Saghtai slowly raised his hands.

His hands were red from the cold, his knuckles were cracked, and when he raised them, you could see the blood scabs and snowflakes mixed together at the edge of his sleeves.

He shouted in Mandarin, his voice hoarse from thirst, but he enunciated each word clearly: "The envoy of the Left Wise King's department wishes to see Lord Han Chong, and has some old items as proof."

With his unbound hand, he slowly raised the wolf-head bronze plaque from his bosom.

The bronze medal emitted a faint warmth in the cold air.

It was the warmth of his chest that kept it warm the whole way.

The turquoise eyes gleamed in the sunlight, their dull, worn-out light resembling two old buttons whose original color was almost unrecognizable.

They were searched.

The two scouts' daggers were taken away, and the centurion took Saghtai's bronze plaque, looked at it, turned it over, read the four characters "mutually committed" on the back, and then returned it to him.

But their hands were bound with thick hemp ropes, and they were locked up inside a beacon tower.

The beacon tower was not large; the first floor contained the soldiers' quarters and cooking area, while the second floor served as a lookout tower.

They were locked in a small room on the bottom floor, with no windows, only light and wind leaking in through the crack in the door.

The ground was covered with a layer of dry grass, which was covered in dust.

Two people brought them water and a dry, hard biscuit twice in two days, but no one spoke to them.

Sahetai squatted in the corner, clutching the bronze medal in his palm, rubbing the wolf's head pattern with his thumb.

Two days later, a military clerk came to question them.

The newcomer was dressed in a civil official's blue robe, with a sheepskin vest over it, and was carrying a roll of paper and a charcoal pencil.

He asked very detailed questions, from Saghtai's name to the current situation of the Left Wise King's tribe, from the time when the Qiyan tribe was swallowed up to the location where the Yin Corpse appeared, he wrote down everything.

Saghtai repeated his purpose, from Altan's words to the attitude of the Hunxie tribe, from what he had seen with his own eyes to the two scouts under his command who had not returned.

The clerk was half-believing and half-doubting, frowning occasionally as he listened. After finishing writing, he folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. Before leaving, he looked back at Sahetai, said, "You can rest now," and then pushed open the door and went out.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, a young general arrived at the camp.

He was extremely tall, dressed in black armor, with a long sword at his waist, and the armor plates made a soft clattering sound as he walked.

He dismounted swiftly in the snow outside the beacon tower, his boot heels tapping on the frozen ground before he regained his footing. His gaze swept over the entrance of the beacon tower like a sharpened blade before he strode across the threshold.

His gaze was sharp as he asked questions, and his voice, though not loud, carried an unyielding firmness that left no room for interruption.

The clerk followed behind and introduced his identity.

Li Wenzhong, a military officer in the Northern Frontier Army.

Upon hearing the words "Left Wise King's tribe," he paused for a moment, his movement as he was about to sit down. He then sat down, leaning forward, his fingers interlaced on his knees: "You say you were sent by Altan. What banner does Altan use now?"

Saghtai said, "Gray background with a white wolf's head, three red borders at the corners of the flag."

Li Wenzhong then asked, "How many tents does the Left Wise King's army have now? How many men are capable of mounting a horse?"

Saghtai answered each question.

When answering the third question, Li Wenzhong suddenly switched to the grassland dialect, his accent harsh and heavily northern: "Altan summoned you here, is it because something you can't defeat has appeared on the grasslands?"

His speech sounded somewhat awkward, as if he rarely spoke the grassland dialect, but every word was pronounced correctly.

Saghtai was taken aback.

He hadn't expected the young man to ask him this question in the grassland language.

He paused for a moment, then nodded.

The nod was heavy, like a stone falling from a height and creating a crater in the frozen ground.

Li Wenzhong didn't ask any more questions.

He stood up and asked people to untie them and bring them hot water and dry food.

When Saghtai was untied, there were two deep red marks on his wrists. He moved his fingers and took the bowl of hot water. The bowl was hot against his palm, but he caught the heat without pulling his hand away.

The next day, Huo Qubing rushed back from Baiyangbao.

As he entered, he lifted the curtain, letting in a gust of cold wind that made the oil lamp on the kang table flicker.

He was wearing a worn-out leather armor, without a cloak, and his shoulders were covered with a layer of snow that he hadn't had time to brush off.

The first thing he saw when he entered the room was Sahetai sitting on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), wrapping his frostbitten feet with a strip of cloth.

The tips of his toes had turned purple. He gritted his teeth as he wrapped the cloth around them, but his hands didn't stop moving.

Huo Qubing frowned.

Without asking any questions first, he turned to look at Li Wenzhong and said, "This man is no ordinary person; he's traveled for seven days..."

He turned his head slightly, his gaze shifting from the frostbite on Saghtai's feet to his face. "You can still walk straight in."

His tone wasn't one of praise, but rather the assessment of a hunter who had seen another wolf run a long way across the snow and still had its ears perked up.

He walked over and sat down at the table, arms crossed, then asked, "That undead corpse, which of you saw it with your own eyes?"

Saghtai finished wrapping the last strip of cloth around his feet, put them back into his boots, and looked up at him.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was heavy: "My brother had his throat ripped open by that thing. I saw it clearly. That thing charged at us from the front. He shot two arrows, and they stuck in its chest but didn't fall down."

"It rushed in front of his horse, grabbed his bow with one hand, and with the other hand..." He paused, glancing down at his palm as if gesturing a distance, "...it tore him open from his left shoulder to his right rib. I saw it from thirty paces away; the blood was still warm when it spurted out. It stood there, covered in his blood, and then it turned and walked toward the next living person."

He didn't cry when he spoke.

He was simply stating a fact, like piecing together a scene that had been repeatedly cut up and was no longer painful, and placing it on a table for people to see.

Huo Qubing did not interrupt him and listened to him finish speaking.

Then Huo Qubing lowered his arms, which he had been holding, and placed them on the table. He stared at Sahetai for a long time, as if to confirm that what the person in front of him was saying was something he had seen with his own eyes.

He didn't ask about the Yin Corpse again, but changed the subject: "What did Baridang of the Hunxie King's tribe say?"

Saghtai repeated Baridan's original words.

"I only trust the curved sword, and I only trust the horse beneath my feet."

"Fire can kill everything that cannot be killed."

"If Agula dares to come, I will show him what the arrow rain of the Hunxie tribe is like."

When talking about how Khuletai slammed his fist on the table and Khanmu laughed and said, "Why not take down the Left Wise King's tribe first?", Saghtai's tone did not change at all. He was just narrating, as if he were counting a bag of beans, counting every single one.

Huo Qubing listened but offered no comment.

He simply nodded, as if confirming information he had already guessed, then stood up, walked to the brazier, and warmed his hands over the fire.

The firelight illuminated his young face, making his features clearly defined, and the curve of his jawline looked as if it had been cut with a knife.

Two days later, Han Chong's military order came from the Yunzhou camp, ordering the envoy of the Left Wise King's army to be brought to the main tent.

When Saghtai was led away by two soldiers, he had already changed his clothes.

It was an old cotton robe from the army, faded from washing but still relatively clean, with a dark patch sewn on the collar.

His face still bore purplish-blue frostbite, and he walked with a limp. The frostbite on his left foot slowed his pace by half a beat compared to when he arrived, but he walked steadily, making sure each step was firm before taking the next.

The Great Tent was much larger than I had imagined.

The cowhide tent was stretched very tight, and the top of the tent was so high that a horse could almost walk over it with its head held high. The brazier was half a person's height, and the charcoal fire inside made the whole tent as warm as late spring.

Han Chong sat behind the desk at the north end, his white hair as white as snow, his face thin and long, and his eyes brighter than Sahetai had anticipated.

Several veterans sat on either side, some drinking tea with their heads down, some flipping through a book, and some staring directly at Saghtai's face as if weighing a newly acquired item.

Huo Qubing and Li Wenzhong were also there, standing to Han Chong's right, one leaning against a tent pillar and the other with his hands clasped together.

Sahetai stepped forward, knelt on one knee in the steppe salute, and then presented the wolf-head bronze plaque with both hands.

His movements were slow, not because he hesitated, but because his frostbitten left knee hurt when he bent down, and he controlled himself so that no one would notice.

Han Chong accepted the bronze medal.

His fingers were large and calloused, yet he took the bronze medal with a light touch, as if he were handling something fragile.

He turned the bronze plaque over and slowly rubbed his fingertip across the engraving of the four characters "两不相负" (meaning "neither of us will betray each other"). The characters were already somewhat faint, and the edges had been worn almost flat by years of friction.

He stroked it more than once.

He stroked it three times.

On the fourth time, he stopped, pressed his finger on the horizontal stroke of the character "不" (not), and then looked up at Saghtai.

"This is what I had when I met with your old commander years ago." His voice wasn't loud, carrying a hoarseness honed by years spent on the frontier, like a bell struck on a distant mountain, its echo fading but still lingering. "Is the old commander... still alive?"

Saghtai knelt with his head bowed.

His gaze fell on the bronze plaque in Han Chong's palm. The plaque's dim light shone slightly in the firelight, like a pair of eyes closing.

He said, "The former commander has passed away. He left three years ago. That winter, there was a white avalanche. He led people to rescue several herder families trapped north of Wild Wolf Gully. An avalanche occurred, and his body was not found until the following spring."

"Now that Commander Altan is in charge, he asked me to bring this token..."

He raised his head, looking into Han Chong's eyes, "It's not about trying to curry favor with the past, I just want the Marquis to know that right now, the Left Wise King's tribe is the first, and possibly the only one left, to speak with the Great Zhou."

Han Chong remained silent for a moment.

He held the bronze medal in his palm, squeezed it briefly, then handed it back to Saghtai and gestured for him to stand up.

When Saghtai stood up, his knees bent slightly, and he had to use his hands to support himself on the ground before he could straighten up.

Han Chong asked him to start from the beginning.

Sahatai then began from the beginning, from the snow-covered land of the Qiyan tribe's valley soaked in blood, the child curled up in a ball, the warhorse with its chest ripped open, to Agula's successive annexation of the Tiele, Wuhuan, and Baidi, to the Yin Protector's absorption of corpse energy, the stench of corpses emanating from the Ghost Protector's sleeves, and the coldness without warmth beneath the Nether Protector's robe.

From the black sheds in the Xiutu tribe's camp that were only brought out at night, to the prisoners of war who were dragged into the sheds and came out with only a layer of wrinkled skin, to the attitude of the Hunxie King's tribe and Baridang's wolf tooth necklace.

He spoke calmly, without any unnecessary emotional fluctuations between each paragraph, like someone who had seen all these scenes too many times and was no longer suddenly frightened by them, recounting something that had happened and could have gotten even worse.

Han Chong listened to the whole thing.

He didn't interrupt once, except when Sagatai mentioned that the Yin Corpse was dragged out to eat blood, his gaze shifted slightly to the side, as if he were looking at a very distant place.

After Sahetai finished speaking, Han Chong picked up the bowl of hot tea in front of him, took a sip, put it down, and asked, "What do you want the Great Zhou to do?"

Sahatai did not hesitate: "Borrow troops, borrow fire, borrow a road. If the Great Zhou is willing to send troops from the northern border, together with the Left Wise King's forces, we will first eliminate Agula, and then annihilate the Eternal Life Sect..."

He spoke slowly, each word as if weighing its own weight in his mind before placing it on the table: "The Left Wise King's tribe is willing to cede five hundred li of grassland east of the Hulan River."

The veteran generals in the tent looked at each other.

Someone snorted softly, the sound not loud, but in the warmth of the brazier, it was like a piece of ice suddenly thrown in.

Han Chong ignored the cold snort.

He remained looking at Saghtai, his gaze as steady as a scale placed flat on a table, and asked slowly, "Can you make that decision?"

Saghtai straightened his back.

He straightened his back, which aggravated the frostbite on his left leg, causing a sharp pain, but his face remained expressionless: "The commander said the terms can be discussed further, but if we don't..."

He paused, his gaze shifting from Han Chong's face to the veteran generals beside him, then back again. "The grasslands are gone. Beyond Yanmen Pass, there are no more living people who can shield the Great Zhou from these demons."

Han Chong looked at him.

After a long pause, Han Chong spoke, his tone as even as before: "I will report this matter to the court. You should return to your camp and rest well. You are not to leave Yunzhou for the next five days. If the court issues an order, I will summon you again."

Saghtai clasped his hands in a gesture of respect.

When he bowed, he pressed his right hand against his left chest. He immediately realized that it was a custom of the grasslands. He felt slightly uncomfortable doing it in front of the Han people, but he did not change it. He finished the bow and stepped back.

As he stepped out of the main tent, another gust of wind swept in, and snowflakes landed on his face. He squinted for a moment, then walked toward the tent where he would rest.

Li Wenzhong saw him out of the tent.

When the two men walked to the row of wooden fences outside the tent, Li Wenzhong paused and glanced at Sahetai.

Saghtai paused for a moment, and the two stood a few steps apart, neither of them in a hurry to speak.

A breeze passed between them, causing the hem of Li Wenzhong's armor to flutter slightly.

Li Wenzhong nodded.

There were no extra movements, just a simple tap, like two people who had traveled a long way meeting halfway through their journey and confirming that the other was still alive—that kind of tacit understanding.

Then he turned around and walked back.

Huo Qubing leaned against the side of the back tent, a blade of grass dangling from his mouth.

He moved the blade of grass from the left corner of his mouth to the right, watching Saghtai limp toward the distant tent. Suddenly, he spoke, his voice low, as if to himself: "This Altan is more cunning than Agula."

Li Wenzhong walked back to his side without turning around: "That's why he's still alive."

The two of them remained silent.

The north wind swept through the camp, making the flagpole bearing the character "Han" flutter loudly, the edges of the flag slapping against the pole in the wind.

Saghtai walked step by step toward the tent where he would rest. The frozen ground beneath his feet was as hard as iron, and each step produced only a faint, dull echo that came from the soles of his boots, as if the earth itself was saying, "You have come."

He paused when he reached the tent entrance and glanced back in the direction of the main tent.

The light from the large tent shone through the gaps in the leather, casting thin orange lines on the snow, like a narrow path cut into sections.

He took the bronze medal out of his pocket and glanced at it.

The bronze medal, warmed by his body heat throughout the journey, was still warm to the touch.

The turquoise eyes dimmed and brightened briefly in the sliver of light peeking through the tent flap, like two old eyes slowly opening.

He thought that at least the token had been handed over.

Han Chong accepted it, read it, and returned it.

He saw the four characters "two will not betray each other" and touched them with his finger.

The rest depends on whether fate will allow this grassland to breathe again.

He put the bronze medal back into his pocket, lifted the curtain, and went inside.

An oil lamp was still lit inside the tent, its wick burning quietly in the dim light, like someone waiting for something, who hadn't slept.