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

The snow on the southern slope of Black Wolf Mountain is deeper than elsewhere.

The snow was blown down from the mountain ridge by the wind and piled up on the gentle slope of the south side, accumulating to a thickness of about half a foot.

When you step on it, the entire boot shaft sinks in, and when you pull it out, it brings out a foot full of snow, which flies in the air for a moment before falling back down.

The camp of the Hunxie King's tribe stretched for more than ten miles, from the foot of the mountain all the way to the ice surface of the river valley.

Banners fluttered in the wind, cattle and horses roamed in herds, and herdsmen drove their flocks of sheep slowly around the camp. The sheep's hooves trod across the snow, like fine stitches embroidered on white silk.

It's rare for Ba Ri to get up early today.

He slept relatively well last night, although he was woken up once by a sudden tightness in his chest, but he turned over and fell asleep again.

He got up before dawn, put on the old fur robe he had worn for more than ten years, and sat down on the wooden chair outside the main tent.

That chair was something he had stolen from a tribe in the north when he was young. It was carved from a single piece of elm wood and had a very high back.

A complete bearskin was laid out on top, with the bear's head resting on the top of the chair back, its two empty eyes, made of black pebbles, staring ahead.

He sat in this chair whittling an arrow shaft, the small gold-handled knife in his hand being his most handy tool. The blade was sharpened so thin that whittling wood was like whittling a piece of dried mud.

Standing beside him were the eldest prince, Huletai, and the second prince, Hanmu. Below them were six centurions and two old shamans.

The old shaman, wrapped in an old robe adorned with bone ornaments, stood a short distance away, holding a leather pouch containing divination bone armor, occasionally glancing up at the northern sky.

Yesterday, a scout reported that the Xiutu tribe had moved north and was only about a hundred li away from here.

After listening, Baridang simply waved his hand and said he understood.

The scout knelt before the tent for a while, and seeing that the king had no further questions, he withdrew.

"Father, what is Agula trying to do?" Huletai stood beside the chair, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed as if a knot was tied in his throat. "He really dares to come?"

Today he was wearing a leather armor adorned with iron plates, newly made last autumn, the two shoulder plates gleaming darkly in the morning light.

He's grown taller than last year, and the angles of his jaw are sharper; when he stands there, he already has the silhouette of a grown man.

Baridang shaved off the barbs on the arrow shaft with a knife, held the shaft up to his eyes, squinted and looked at it from beginning to end to see if it was straight and even.

He moved slowly, as slowly as someone who wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere.

Then he stuck the arrow shaft into the snow beside him and looked up at the northern sky.

The sky was grayish-blue, with low-hanging clouds and a thin layer of white covering the distant mountain ridges, like someone had smeared a handful of snow on the edge of the sky.

"Whether he dares or not, we'll know today." He withdrew his gaze, placed the knife on his lap, and rubbed the wood shavings on the blade with his palm. "The Hunxie tribe has three times more horses than the Xiutu tribe. His few men are not enough to fill the ditch in Black Wolf Mountain."

Hanmu stood behind his brother, his hands tucked into his sleeves, and chuckled upon hearing this.

His laughter had that lightness unique to young people, like a gust of wind passing under the eaves, unable to be stopped by anything.

"I think he's been bewitched by those ghostly things, thinking he can devour the entire grassland with just a few corpses."

He tilted his head and gave a wry smile toward Huletai, as if sharing something that only the two of them found funny with his brother. "The other day, that envoy from the Left Wise King's tribe was talking a lot of nonsense, saying that the Yin Corpse was not afraid of knives or arrows. I thought Agula was really that capable."

"Looking back now, he was nothing more than a brainless brute who led a bunch of horse-riding idiots to attack Black Wolf Mountain. Did he think our Hunxie tribe's horses were vegetarians?"

Several centurions nearby also laughed.

Someone chimed in, "That messenger also said something about 'it might be too late by the time we get the letter,' but now it's not us waiting for the letter, it's Agula waiting to die."

The group laughed even louder.

Only the old shaman standing in the distance did not laugh.

He lowered his head and slowly turned over the few pieces of bone armor inside the pouch with his thumb, turning them over and over again, as if searching for something that was no longer inside.

Baridang stuck the arrow shaft into the ground.

The arrow shaft is deeply embedded in the snow, standing firmly.

"No need to say more." He stood up, the bearskin slipping off his knees and piling up at the foot of the chair.

When he straightened up, his back made a faint sound, like an old bow that had been used for too long.

He gestured with his chin toward the several centurions: "Tell each centurion to feed their horses well and fill their quivers. When Agula arrives, let him see what a real steppe man is."

Huletai and Hanmu accepted the order and left.

Huletai walked faster, his steps carrying a restlessness that had been suppressed for too long; he had been waiting for this battle for a long time.

Hanmu followed behind, his steps leisurely. Halfway there, he turned back and called out to Baridang, "Father, after we defeat Agula, can we expand our grasslands to the north?"

Baridang didn't turn around, but raised his hand and waved it behind him, meaning "we'll talk after the fight."

Hanmu shrugged and jogged to catch up with Huletai.

The snow stopped in the afternoon.

The wind pressed in from the north, carrying an indescribable, fishy smell.

The fishy smell was not like the smell of livestock blood, nor like the smell of slaughtering sheep and cattle in the kitchen; it was milder and stickier.

It's like something rotting far away, its smell carried away by the wind until it's almost undetectable, yet you still know it's there.

The first thing the Hunxie tribe's outpost saw was a few wisps of black smoke.

Black smoke rose from behind the snow line in the north, first as a wisp, then three, then five, and finally merged into one, spreading horizontally in mid-air under the pressure of the wind, like someone had spilled a basin of ink in the north.

Then a dark shadow slowly rose from behind the snow line.

That wasn't a cavalry formation; it looked more like a wall.

A tall, dense wall that keeps crawling forward. At the base of the wall are countless feet taking the same steps, and at the top of the wall are countless heads wrapped in burlap with indistinct outlines.

A few green lights occasionally flashed in the middle of the shadows, like a dozen fireflies in a cage blinking at the same time.

The drumbeats began.

The drumbeats came from the north, slow and steady, one beat at a time, with even intervals, like someone was striking a large drum with a long mallet.

The horns of the Hunxie tribe were also sounded.

The horn sounded faster and louder than the drums, and it was blown out in a series, startling all the birds in the camp.

Thousands of cavalrymen mounted their horses and drew their scimitars.

The blade gleamed with an orange-red light under the setting sun, like fire rising from beneath the ice.

Huletai took the lead and charged ahead.

He glanced back and saw his father, Baridang, standing beneath the banner, holding the golden sword in his hand, the turquoise hilt of which shimmered in the wind.

A surge of heroic spirit welled up within him, and with a spur of his legs, his warhorse galloped off.

Three thousand light cavalry from the Hunxie tribe surged down the hillside like a tidal wave.

Horse hooves pounded the frozen earth, and curved blades gleamed coldly in the setting sun.

They shouted, their voices carrying the fierce energy of years of battle.

The shouts of thousands of people merged into a wave of air that pressed down from the hillside, causing the snow on the surface to tremble.

Before the two armies clashed, the Hunxie tribe unleashed a barrage of arrows.

More than a thousand bows fired simultaneously, arrows flying like locusts, blotting out the sky and the sun.

When that volley of arrows flew out, the sky darkened for a moment. Countless arrows drew dense arcs in the air, like a net that was being pulled in.

But when the dark shadow drew near, the rain of arrows fell into it, only to vanish without a trace.

There were no screams, no neighing of horses.

The arrows pierced the corpses, some in the chest, some in the shoulder, some through the burlap and into the flesh, but they only paused for a moment before continuing their march.

There was a corpse riddled with seven or eight arrows, the shafts protruding from different directions on its body, like an old rag doll covered in needles, yet it continued to walk forward without faltering in its steps.

Huletai's expression changed immediately.

He saw those "things".

He was wrapped in linen, covered with ash-colored talismans, and green flames flickered in his eye sockets.

They move slowly, but every step they take carries an unstoppable weight.

That kind of heaviness isn't clumsy; it's a kind of unwavering certainty, like a mountain moving, completely unconcerned about what you hold in its way.

The archers of the Hunxie tribe began to panic.

Someone shot a second arrow, then a third, but their fingers trembled so much on the bowstring that they couldn't hold it steady. The arrows went far off course and stuck in the snow like a row of crooked fences.

Someone started shouting "Can't kill them!" The sound spread through the ranks, from one squad of ten to another, from left to right, until it turned into a buzzing whisper.

The corpse is getting closer.

closer.

Then they moved.

The movements suddenly became several times faster, like a taut string being suddenly released.

The first few corpses leaped several feet at a time, directly charging into the cavalry.

A corpse leaped onto a horse's back, its withered, black hand grabbing the rider's shoulder, while its other hand ripped into his chest.

The cavalryman didn't even have time to scream before he was dragged off his horse and thrown onto the snow. Blood gushed from the gash in his chest, staining the surrounding snow a deep red.

A Hunxie cavalryman swung his sword and struck the shoulder of a Yin corpse, but the blade became stuck in the bone and could not be pulled out.

He tugged twice, the hilt of the knife slipping in his palm. Before he could switch hands, the corpse ripped it apart, tearing the man and the horse apart.

A long gash was torn open in the horse's belly, and its intestines slid out and dragged on the snow. The horse was still struggling when it fell, and its four hooves pawed in the air twice before it stopped.

Blood splattered on the snow, a glaringly red color.

Hultai witnessed a centurion being grabbed by the legs by two ini and torn in two alive.

He recognized the centurion; he was one of his father's old subordinates, having served Baridan for over a decade. The centurion had two sons and a daughter.

His last shout was "Your Majesty," but he stopped halfway through.

Huletai's throat was so tight that he couldn't make a sound.

He pulled hard on the reins to try to back away, but was rammed by the fleeing soldiers behind him.

His horse circled twice before being pushed to the edge of the formation by several out-of-control horses.

The Hunxie tribe's formation was thrown into disarray.

The pride of the past deflated instantly, like a punctured shell.

Those cavalry formations trained for over a decade, those proud arrow rains, those scimitars that struck fear into the hearts of warriors on the grasslands—all seemed like thin paper before this black wall.

Under the great banner, Baridang finally could not stand any longer.

He saw his son, Hultai, being swept up in the chaos of battle, and he saw Hanmu's horse being pounced on by the Yin Corpse.

Hanmu disappeared after falling off his horse; it's unknown whether he was crushed under the horse or trampled by the crowd.

His white horse emerged alone from the chaos of battle, its saddle empty and one stirrup swaying.

Baridang saw those dark things sweep across the snow like a tide, swallowing up the Hunxie tribe's cavalry one by one.

His hand holding the golden knife began to tremble.

That golden knife was passed down to him by his father, and the cowhide wrapped around the hilt had been polished to a shine by his palms.

At that moment, he felt his palms were covered in sweat, and the hilt of the knife was as slippery as a piece of wood just pulled out of the water.

He turned and roared at the old shaman behind him, his voice so loud it hurt his throat: "What is this?!"

The old shaman stood three steps behind him, his face ashen.

His lips trembled, and after several tremors, he finally opened them, squeezing out a few words, his voice sounding as if it had been flattened by something: "It's...it's those things, what the envoy of the Left Wise King's tribe said...it's true, King Baridang, it's true, we should listen to him."

As he spoke, he was still clutching the leather pouch containing the bone armor in his hand. His knuckles were white from gripping it so tightly that the pouch was deformed from his squeezing, and the bone fragments inside made a soft, clattering sound.

Baridang shoved him away abruptly.

The old shaman staggered a couple of steps and almost fell on the snow.

Baridang mounted his horse and charged towards the front lines with his last personal guards.

He rode against the flow of the fleeing soldiers, his horse's hooves trampling over discarded bows and broken swords, rushing past several corpses.

He killed several fleeing soldiers.

He wasn't killing the enemy, he was killing his own people. He used the back of his knife to push aside the fleeing soldiers blocking his way and yelled at them to make way.

When he rushed to Hultai's side, Hultai was surrounded by three corpses.

The eldest prince's scimitar had been chipped and worn, with white streaks on the blade, like a piece of iron that had been gnawed by rats.

He was covered in blood, his left arm hanging limply as if it were broken, and his right hand still clutching the dulled blade of the knife.

He yelled at his father, his voice cracking, the words coming out like a snapped bowstring: "Go! Take Hanmu with you!"

Baridang reached out to pull him.

His hand was halfway out, his fingertips almost touching the shoulder armor of the Khuletai.

The newly forged leather armor was covered in blood and mud, and a piece of the iron plate on the shoulder had been knocked off, revealing the torn leather lining underneath.

But a corpse had already grabbed Huletai's shoulder.

The withered, dark hand reached out from behind, its five fingers digging into Huletai's shoulder sockets like five iron nails.

Huletai's body was suddenly pulled backward, and his fingers slid past Baridang's fingertips, missing by an inch.

Bardang watched as his eldest son was dragged off his horse and swallowed up by those withered, black arms.

Huletai called out "Father" halfway through, but something covered the sound, leaving only a muffled breath.

Baridang let out a roar.

The sound didn't sound like a human's; it was like the last breath of a wild beast whose lungs had been pierced, squeezed from the deepest part of its chest.

He swung his sword at the corpse.

The blade struck the corpse's neck, leaving only a white mark, but the blade chipped, and a piece of broken iron flew out, grazing his cheekbone and leaving a thin cut on his face.

The corpse turned to look at him.

Green flames flickered in his eyes.

There was no anger, no murderous intent, not even hunger in those eyes.

There was nothing there, only a ball of green fire spinning, like a lamp that had been blown askew by the wind.

Bardang was forcibly dragged away by his guards.

Two guards flanked his horse from both sides, while another grabbed one of the reins, forcibly turning the horse's head in a different direction.

He struggled, but the two guards held the reins like iron hoops.

He was dragged southwards, his horse charging and leaping through the chaos of battle, trampling over corpse after corpse.

He looked back one last time.

The camp of the Hunxie tribe has been engulfed in flames.

The felt tents collapsed after being licked by the flames, and the charred felt sheets were rolled up by the hot air currents, their black edges flipping in mid-air.

He saw his people fall like grass being cut down.

He saw the undead slowly tearing at something in the firelight, their movements steady and rhythmic, like a group of people harvesting in a field.

He saw the great banner.

That large banner embroidered with a black wolf's head.

It tilted slightly, then slowly fell to the ground, the flag covering the ground and being trampled under countless feet, its original shape no longer recognizable.

He suddenly remembered what the envoy from the Left Wise King's tribe had said before he left.

The grassland man with a scar on his face stood in the tent. His voice was not loud, but every word fell clearly into everyone's ears.

"By the time we get the letter, it will probably be too late."

When he heard this, he simply smiled, picked up the golden cup, and took a sip of wine.

He closed his eyes.

The horse was still running, and the guards were still dragging him south.

But he felt he had stopped there, stopped in front of the burning camp, stopped where his two sons had disappeared.

From this moment on, the Hunxie King's tribe was no longer the eagles of the grasslands.

Its wings were broken in half, black blood oozing from the cut, covered by snow and dried by fire.

The wind blew in from the north, carrying that indescribable, fishy smell, rolling up the charred felt and ashes and scattering them in all directions.

The ashes fell with embers, flashing briefly on the snow before going out.