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

The main tent of the Xiutu King's tribe was much larger than before.

The dome hangs high, and the thick felt on all four sides is stretched extremely tight. When the wind blows from the outside, you can only hear a low hum, as if something huge is trembling continuously in the distance.

The ground was covered with animal skins, wolf skins, bear skins, and tiger skins sewn together, with copper nails used to hold the edges in place. It was thick and soft to the touch, and most of the sound of footsteps was absorbed by it.

In the center, a huge bronze brazier was burning charcoal, the charcoal piled up like a miniature hill, with flames rising from the top of the hill.

The light bathed the tent in a warm yellow glow, making everyone's face appear reddish, yet each person wore a different expression beneath that glow.

Agula sat on the wide chair at the very top, which was covered in a wolf skin.

The chair was a new one he had made; it was taller than the original, so that when sitting on it, one could see every corner of the entire tent at eye level.

The wolf's head is still intact, with two obsidian-inlaid wolf eyes facing the tent entrance, as if watching over everyone who enters on Agula's behalf.

He was more subdued and spoke less than during the last meeting.

His cheekbones were higher, his eye sockets were deeper, and the flesh on his cheeks had almost completely collapsed, leaving only a thin layer of skin clinging to the outline of his bones, like a specimen that had been dried out for too long.

When he didn't speak, everyone in the tent kept their voices down, with only the howling wind whistling through the tent ceiling and the occasional crackling of firewood in the brazier, like two things taking turns keeping time for the silence.

The two rows of seats at the bottom.

To the left sat seven commanders of ten thousand men from the main branch of the Xiutu tribe, all of whom were newly recruited from various tribes in recent days.

They wore fur robes of various colors, with knives of different lengths hanging from their waists. Some sat upright like pine trees, while others leaned back in their chairs with their feet propped up on the edge of a low table.

Someone picked up the wine bowl in front of him and put it down, then picked it up again, repeatedly rubbing his fingers along the rim of the bowl, as if pressing something down with that action.

To the right are the three protectors of the Longevity Sect.

The Yin Protector was still wearing that gray robe, but the silver threads on the collar and cuffs were more intricate, winding from the collar to the edge of the robe like some kind of patterned vine slowly spreading across the surface.

His face was paler than before, and his eyes had a faint, eerie light, like two thin pieces of jade, revealing a faint glow behind them.

The ghost protector was curled up in the wide, dark green robe, like an old garment that had been folded up, with only half of his withered chin showing.

His chin was covered with fine, dark blue tattoos that spread up his neck, like something crawling out from under his collar.

He coughed every now and then, and with each cough, some of the officers next to him would unconsciously move half an inch away, while others would lean their bodies in another direction, as if avoiding an unseen cold wind.

The Underworld Protector sat at the very end, his figure as large as an iron tower, almost blending into the shadows behind him.

Only when those eyes occasionally twitch, flashing briefly in the darkness before dimming again, do people know that a living creature is sitting there.

Li Shuo sat at the very front on the left, his position second only to the commander of ten thousand men.

Today he wore a gray mink robe with a collar trimmed with extremely fine black fox fur, and the jade belt buckle at his waist was carved with the Li family's Fire Virtue Hanging Needle, polished smooth as a mirror.

He carried no weapon, only a string of black jade beads in his hand, which he slowly twirled between his fingers, as if counting some unseen beat.

He smiled as kindly as ever, the corners of his mouth remaining at the same angle.

It hasn't changed since it was acquired, like an old piece of cloth that has been starched and washed many times, with the folds all in the same place.

Agula finally raised his eyes.

He raised his eyelids very slowly, like someone who had been submerged for a long time slowly rising from the bottom of the water, first revealing his eyebrows, then his eyes.

He spoke, his voice low and deep, like the dull thud of a piece of iron falling from a height into deep water: "Everyone's here. Speak."

The moment he spoke, the flames in the tent seemed to shrink by a third.

The flames, which had been swaying slightly, suddenly quieted down, as if suppressed by his voice, before rising again.

The people sitting at the lower end unconsciously adjusted their posture. Some pulled their feet back from the edge of the table and put them flat, while others moved the scabbards of their knives to the side, so that they were against their legs instead of facing the chair.

Yin, the Dharma Protector, took over the conversation first.

He spoke calmly and deliberately, his voice like a thin, steady thread flowing from beneath his gray robe, not easily interrupted by the wind: "Your Majesty, the Hunxie King's tribe is entrenched in Black Wolf Mountain, with no fewer than fifty thousand archers. A direct confrontation is not impossible..."

He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping across the faces of the rank of centurions opposite him, as if to make sure everyone was listening. "But the losses would be too great, not worth it."

He paused, then continued, "The Holy Sect can now mobilize three thousand Yin Corpses, including five hundred Black Corpses and three hundred Blood Corpses. Ordinary small corpses will be in the front, Black Corpses will be in the rear, and Blood Corpses will be on standby. This is enough to crush the Hunxie tribe's cavalry formation."

He said it so casually, as if he were saying, "It probably won't snow tomorrow."

But the expressions of those centurions all changed.

Chawu sat at the head of the ten thousand commanders. He was a strong and sturdy man with an old scar running diagonally from his right eyebrow to his left cheek, like a thick line that had been sewn on.

After listening to Yin Hufa's words, he slammed the wine bowl he was holding onto the table. Two drops of the remaining wine spilled from the bottom of the bowl and landed on the felt, forming dark spots.

He snorted coldly, his voice like a rough stone rolling down a slope: "Three thousand Yin Corpses? What's the point of wielding our scimitars then? Let the Holy Church fight them themselves."

Yin Protector didn't even lift his eyelids.

He held the steaming bowl of milk tea in front of him, blew on the foam, took a small sip, and then slowly put the bowl down before glancing at Chagwu.

That glance was very light, like a feather falling from a great height, but when it landed on Chagwu's face, it made the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Commander Chawu," the Yin Protector's voice carried the composure of "I knew someone would say this," "Without your cavalry, our sect wouldn't be able to enter Black Wolf Mountain. The Yin Corpses can kill..."

He stretched out his long, thin finger and drew a small circle on the table in front of him. "But it can't take over the pasture. Grasslands trampled by the Shadow Corpses won't grow grass for three years. You, the commanders of thousands, can't graze your troops in the cracks of the rocks in Black Wolf Mountain."

"To truly suppress the Hunxie tribe, we still need the cavalry of your Xiutu tribe. The Yin Corpses cleared the way, the cavalry brought up the rear, each doing their own thing: you take the pastures, and the Holy Church takes the people."

Chawu's lips twitched a second time, but he didn't speak again.

He picked up the bowl of wine again, tilted his head back, and took a big gulp. A trail of wine dripped down the corner of his mouth, but he didn't wipe it; he just casually wiped it with the back of his hand.

The ghost protector suddenly coughed twice inside his robe.

The cough was dry, like the cracking sound of firewood being broken in two, carrying a sense of strain as if it were being pulled out from the depths of the lungs.

He moved slightly, something was wriggling under his robe, then stopped.

His voice came from under his hood, hoarse and fragmented, like a handful of gravel being slowly stirred in a copper basin: "Black Wolf Mountain... the wind is strong. The wind there blows down from the ridge and can throw a person off their horse."

He paused, coughed halfway, and continued, "The Yin Corpses are only effective at night. Although the sunlight during the day cannot stop them, it will slow their movements by 20%. To fight them, you have to choose a windless and moonless night."

"It would be best to set fire first. Fire can confuse horses and also confuse people. If the fire spreads up the southern slope, the Hunxie tribe's cavalry will be thrown into disarray."

He spoke incoherently, as if piecing together fragments that he himself wasn't quite sure he could put together.

After saying that, he shrank back into his robe and stopped moving.

Only then did the Underworld Protector make his move.

He moved slowly, as if he had to rearrange his body weight before he could speak.

His voice, forced from the depths of his throat, was rough and short, like a stone rolling across sand, consisting of only three words: "I want human blood."

Agula looked up at him.

The two people stared at each other for a moment, separated by most of the tent.

Agula didn't ask "why," because people like him are no longer used to asking "why."

He only asked, "How much?"

The Underworld Protector seemed to ponder for a moment, or perhaps he was measuring a number.

His eyes flickered in the darkness, like two pebbles half-buried in mud slowly turning, before the three words reappeared: "Three hundred, alive."

Silence fell over the tent once more.

The stillness was thicker than before, like a layer of compacted snow. You wouldn't hear a sound when you stepped on it, but you knew there was something underneath.

Several commanders looked angry.

Chawu's lips twitched for the third time, and this time his eyebrows furrowed as well, like two iron wires twisted together.

But no one spoke first.

Agula slowly toyed with a short knife in his hand.

The knife was shorter than a typical steppe scimitar, and its scabbard was made of iron, dark and without any decoration.

He pressed his thumb against the end of the scabbard, flipped the sword over in his palm, then flipped it back over. The blade danced in the firelight, like a half-open, half-closed eye.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice as calm as if he were discussing a sorted shipment: "Choose from the prisoners."

Chawu suddenly stood up.

As he stood up, his knee bumped against the corner of the low table, causing the silver bowl on the table to wobble, but he ignored it.

His voice rose the instant he stood up, like a knife being drawn from its sheath: "Your Majesty! Those prisoners are also steppe people! They are from the Qiyan, Tiele, and Baidi tribes. They were captured after being wounded by our arrows. They drank the water of the Hulan River just like us!"

Agula did not look up.

His gaze remained fixed on the scabbard of the short knife, as if counting the fine lines worn into it by time.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a piece of iron being plunged into cold water, making a hissing sound: "Those who don't want to go, die first."

The five characters fell neatly on the felt floor, like five bricks laid out in a row.

Chawu stood before the table, his chest heaving violently twice.

His face flickered in the firelight, and the old scar on the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as if it had come to life.

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but his gaze fell on the short knife in Agula's hand.

Agula's thumb rested on the finger at the end of the scabbard, and he finally fell silent.

He sat back down heavily, the chair leg hitting the ground with a short, muffled thud.

He picked up the wine bowl in front of him, drank it all in one gulp, and when the bottom of the bowl hit the table, it was three times heavier than before.

Li Shuo then spoke up slowly and deliberately.

He placed the string of black jade beads on the table and pushed it forward half an inch, as if to make everyone notice that he was about to take over the conversation.

His voice was gentle and even, carrying the rhythm unique to someone who had negotiated prices with all sorts of people on the trade route countless times: "The patriarch often mentioned your bravery and strength in Jinyang."

He swept his gaze across the crowd, his eyes lingering briefly on Chawu's face, as if he were looking at something he had known would happen all along. "The Hunxie tribe is strong, but it has been strong for too many years and has become dull. Baridang will not form an alliance, nor will he flee. He will only guard his Black Wolf Mountain and wait for you all to run into it."

He picked up the black jade bead, held it in his palm, and lowered his voice by half an octave, as if he were telling a secret that only they could hear: "As long as we use smoke signals to confuse them at night, then use the Yin Corpses to break through their front lines, and have the Xiutu Iron Cavalry press their flanks, no matter how fast the Hunxie tribe's horses are, they can't outrun the will-o'-the-wisps."

Yin Protector chuckled softly.

The laughter was short and thin, like the soft sound of ice sliding across the warm glass: "Envoy Li is indeed a man who has studied military strategy. We crude men who only know how to refine corpses really didn't think of the smoke signal layer."

Li Shuo gave a modest bow.

His bow was slight, just enough for everyone to see: "We're all just doing what's right."

He picked up the wine bowl in front of him, raised it slightly towards the Yin Protector, but did not drink it; he simply held it up as if performing a ritual in the air.

Agula slammed the dagger into the table in front of him with a "snap".

The sound of the knife tip piercing the wood was short and crisp, like a thunderclap that had been cut off.

Everyone tensed up at the same time.

Some people put down the wine bowls they were holding, some straightened their slightly swaying bodies, and some turned their gazes away from elsewhere and focused on Agula.

Agula stood up.

As he stood up, the obsidian wolf eyes on the wolf-skin chair gleamed briefly in the slanted firelight, like a pair of squinting eyes opening.

He walked to the central brazier and looked down at the fire.

Flames rose from the middle of the charcoal pile, illuminating his face in a half-light, the thin skin above his cheekbones taut like the bottom of a drying riverbed.

He stood in front of the brazier, his back to everyone, and remained silent for a long while.

Then he spoke.

The voice wasn't loud, but each word was like a red-hot iron being plunged into cold water, leaving a clear black mark after the white steam dissipated: "Five days later, we will fight the evil spirits, with the Yin Corpse in the vanguard and the cavalry on the wings."

He paused, tilted his head, and his profile, illuminated by the firelight, revealed a sharp edge: "If anyone dares to retreat before the enemy lines, their entire clan will be exterminated."

He didn't look at anyone when he spoke.

But those words were like a branding iron, pressed into everyone's heart, leaving a burn mark of the same shape on everyone's chest.

Chawu gritted his teeth and stood up from behind the desk.

His movements as he stood up were much slower than before, as if every joint had been locked and then slowly unscrewed.

He placed his right hand on his left chest, palm against the surface of his fur robe, and bowed slightly: "Chawu... obey my command."

His voice was hoarse when he finished speaking those two words, as if he had something stuck in his throat that he hadn't swallowed, but he still managed to finish the sentence.

The other six commanders also stood up, clasped their hands in greeting, and listened to the order. Some moved quickly, while others were a beat slower, but before Agula's gaze swept over them, everyone had done the proper gesture.

Yin Protector slowly rose to his feet.

He rose very quietly, like a blade of grass growing from the bottom of the water, without disturbing anything on the surface.

He performed an awkward, unorthodox grassland salute.

With his right hand on his chest and his left hand hanging at his side, the posture looked a bit strange, like someone wearing someone else's clothes.

But a smile played at the corners of his lips, the curve of which was particularly sharp in the firelight, like a blade turning over on a whetstone: "Then let the grasslands see in five days..."

He slightly raised his chin. "Who is the true master?"

The shadows of the people in the tent were stretched long and crooked by the firelight, cast on the thick felt all around, like a pack of wild beasts slowly approaching.

The edges of the shadows overlapped, making it impossible to distinguish which was whose.

Agula remained standing beside the brazier, his back to everyone.

He looked at the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes, reflecting two points of orange-red light, but something beneath those two points of light was darkening, like the opening of a well slowly closing.

Outside the tent, the horn made a few muffled sounds as the wind blew.

The horn's deep, resonant sound echoed far above the camp, like a war drum resounding from the earth, one beat at a time, unhurried and measured, as if it were measuring the distance of something.

The snow started falling again sometime during the night, flakes drifting down from the gray sky, silently piling up on the top of the flagpole in front of the tent, pressing the edges of the wolf-head flag down slightly. Everything was white.

The night on the grassland is still long, and the five-day deadline is like a rope that is being tightened more and more, quietly and steadily looping towards Black Wolf Mountain.

As the charcoal in the brazier burned late into the night, the firelight gradually dimmed, slowly transforming the shadows of the tent from wild beasts back into human figures.

But those people's eyes were still shining, some with anger, some with cold light, some with calculation, and some with a kind of emptiness that they themselves couldn't explain, which was being filled inch by inch by something.

Agula stood by the brazier for a long time until the fire went out completely, leaving only a trace of dark red in the charcoal ash.

He turned around, walked back to the wolfskin chair, sat down, pulled the dagger from the table, sheathed it, placed it on his lap, and then closed his eyes as if listening to the sound of the wind passing through the top of the tent.