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

The day after the battle, the remaining members of the Hunxie King's tribe were gathered in a sheltered mountain valley.

The tents were provided by Zhou Jun, the food was distributed by Zhou Jun, and even the firewood for boiling water was chopped by several veteran soldiers from the northern border.

The valley was sheltered by hills on all sides, preventing the north wind from getting in. However, the smell of burnt felt mixed with the stench of blood clung to everyone's nostrils and wouldn't dissipate.

The women and elderly of the Hunxie tribe squatted in front of the tent, setting up several broken pots they had dug out of the ruins on stones to cook porridge.

The porridge was so thin you could see your reflection in it, but they still ladled out the first bowl and handed it to the wounded Zhou soldier next to them.

The soldier paused for a moment, waved his hand, and said in broken grassland dialect, "Give it to your own people first."

But the old woman still shoved the bowl into his hands, muttering something under her breath. The young man from the Hunxie tribe beside her translated for him: "She said you've been through a battle and are tired."

Baridang sat in an old tent that had been temporarily erected.

That tent originally belonged to the Hunxie tribe's supply train. There was a slit in the curtain with a knife, and it was haphazardly tied with leather ropes. The wind blew in through the gaps, making the charcoal fire inside flicker.

He was wrapped in a thick felt blanket given to him by the army doctor of Zhou Jun. The blanket was military green, and when it was paired with his old leather robe, the colors clashed so badly that they looked like two clothes from different seasons.

In front of him was a bowl of broth that had gone cold, with a thin layer of oil condensing on the surface, forming a translucent film.

His face was expressionless, and his eye sockets were even deeper than yesterday, like two wells that had been drained of water. Yet his eyes were still bright, a dry, bright light, like a lamp that was about to burn out and was still barely holding on to its last breath.

He gazed at the trampled snow outside the tent flap. Occasionally, remnants of the Hunxie tribe would walk past the tent, all with their heads down, not daring to look at him.

A young cavalryman paused as he passed by, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he ultimately lowered his head and walked on.

Baridan saw him, but didn't call out to him.

The curtain was lifted from the outside.

A gust of cold wind blew in first, causing the charcoal fire in the tent to burn half an inch lower.

Huo Qubing entered, bowing low, followed by Li Wenzhong.

Baridang raised his eyes and saw the young man who had cleaved corpses on the battlefield like cutting grass yesterday.

Huo Qubing was thinner than he had expected. His face was red from the north wind, and there was a newly formed scab on his cheekbone, which he didn't know when he had gotten it.

His wristbands still bore traces of yesterday's battle grime, which hadn't been wiped clean.

Only one pair of eyes was very bright, as bright as the edge of a knife washed with cold water.

He sat cross-legged opposite Baridang, his movements as casual as if he were sitting in his own military tent.

Li Wenzhong stood behind him without saying a word, simply pulling the curtain behind him to block the wind.

Baridang was silent for a moment, then spoke in a hoarse voice, as if there was still dust from yesterday's battlefield stuck in his throat: "You've come."

Huo Qubing nodded, without exchanging pleasantries, and simply asked, "How is your injury?"

Baridang looked down at the strip of cloth wrapped around his shoulder.

Underneath the strip of cloth were the wounds left yesterday when that corpse grabbed him from behind. There were three cuts, with the flesh torn open. The army doctor stitched them up with more than a dozen stitches, without making a sound.

He touched the dark red stain seeping through the cloth strip and said, "I won't die, but my sons... Hultai and Hanmu, are both dead."

He spoke in a very flat voice, as if he were talking about someone else, but Huo Qubing noticed that the hand he was resting on his knee was trembling slightly.

It's not because of the cold.

Although it was cold inside the tent, the charcoal fire was still burning. His hands were sticking out from under the thick felt, his knuckles were purple from the cold, but the shivering came from a deeper part of his body.

Huo Qubing did not respond.

He took a leather pouch from his waist, uncorked it, and poured a bowl of wine.

The liquor was a strong drink used by the Northern army, brewed from coarse grains. It had a pungent taste, but it was good for warming the body.

He handed the bowl over.

Baridang accepted it, but didn't drink it; he just held it in his hands.

The heat from the bowl seeped into his palm as he looked down at the swaying liquid inside. The surface of the wine reflected the glow of the charcoal fire, breaking into tiny golden flakes.

After a while, Baridang looked up at Huo Qubing and suddenly laughed.

The laughter was dry and hollow, like a stone dropped into a dry well, with only a faint echo heard after a long time.

"The envoy from the Left Wise King's tribe came to visit me some time ago."

He slowly twirled the wine bowl in his palm, the wine swirling up the side of the bowl and falling back down. "He said the Xiutu tribe has a ghost army that is invulnerable to swords and spears and possesses immense strength."

"He said Agula was no longer human. He asked me to form an alliance with him. I said..." Baridang paused, the slight smile still lingering on his lips, but nothing more. "I said that when I was twenty, I single-handedly entered the Bai Di tribe and killed their priest. When I was thirty, I led eight hundred cavalrymen to break through the Tiele tribe and dragged their king on a horse's tail for seven days. In my entire life, I have only believed in the scimitar and the horse I ride."

He slowly put down the wine bowl, the bottom of which hit the old felt mat in the tent with a dull thud.

He looked down at his still slightly trembling hand, and his voice was even lower: "I thought he was just making excuses for forming an alliance. I thought the tens of thousands of archers of the Hunxie tribe were enough to crush any tribe."

"I have lived for more than fifty years and fought more battles than Agula has walked. In my life, I only believe in the scimitar and the horse. I thought I could see everything on the grassland."

He raised his head and looked at Huo Qubing.

There was something in those eyes that Huo Qubing had seen many times before.

It's not sadness; the sadness has already sunk to the bottom.

It's something heavier than sadness, like the expression on a person's face when they stand on the edge of a cliff, look down, and then look up at the sky.

"But I can't see those things that are neither human nor ghost." Baridang's voice finally cracked a little, like ice that had been frozen for too long being gently touched with a toe. "My two sons died in front of me. When Huletai was dragged away, he was still shouting for me to take Hanmu away."

"He shouted 'Go,' not 'Save me,' he shouted 'Take Hanmu away.'"

He repeated those four words, pausing for a beat on the word "Hanmu," as if his tongue had touched something very hot.

"Khanmu is dead too. He died under his own horse, his neck bitten off by those ghosts. I couldn't even find his body."

The tent was quiet for a while.

The charcoal fire crackled and popped, causing a piece of burnt charcoal to collapse, sending a few sparks flying into the ash.

Li Wenzhong stood behind Huo Qubing without saying a word.

He saw Baridan's hand, which was resting on his knee, tremble again, and then be pressed down by another hand.

Li Wenzhong asked quietly from the side.

His voice was softer than Huo Qubing's, carrying a gentleness honed from dealing with all sorts of people on the frontier: "Baridang, what do you plan to do now?"

Baridang looked up at him, then at Huo Qubing.

He didn't answer the question, but instead suddenly asked, "Did your Great Zhou generals know about these things a long time ago?"

His gaze fell on Huo Qubing's wrist guard, which still bore traces of black ash splattered from yesterday's battle. It had been washed but not completely clean, seeping into the fabric's texture like a faint black old stain.

Huo Qubing nodded: "We fought them in Yunzhou last year. Back then, there weren't many of them. They were just wandering around the outskirts of the Xiutu tribe. I killed a few of them. They weren't as tough as they are now back then."

Baridang was silent for a moment, then asked, "Then why send troops?"

His gaze was direct, not questioning, but rather filled with genuine confusion as he asked, "You've fought the grasslands for three hundred years, killing our people, and we've killed yours. Why are you sending troops to rescue the Hunxie tribe?"

Huo Qubing looked at him and said, "Because if Agula were to devour the entire grassland, our northern border would be unable to stop these things."

He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward slightly. "Your Hunxie tribe is the last major tribe on the grassland that can fight. If you fall, the entire grassland will belong to Agula."

"At that time, when the ghosts stand outside Yanmen Pass, it won't just be the grassland people who die."

He paused, his tone softening, but each word remained clear: "We're not here to save you, we're here to save ourselves."

"But if your Hunxie tribe wants to survive, we must join forces in this battle. Your people and my soldiers will fight together, otherwise no one will live to see the spring."

Baridang slowly finished the bowl of wine.

A drop of wine trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he didn't wipe it away, letting it soak into a dark spot on the thick felt.

He put the empty bowl down, upside down, on the felt surface beside his knees, and said, "I have no other choice."

Huo Qubing stood up.

He walked to the tent entrance and lifted the curtain.

The cold wind outside blew in, causing the stray hairs on his forehead to fly backward.

He pointed to the wounded soldiers of the Hunxie tribe who were receiving treatment from Zhou's army doctors in the mountain valley.

The wounded soldiers lay on makeshift beds made of Zhou army marching blankets, wrapped in thick felt provided by the Zhou army.

Several young Zhou soldiers were helping an old woman from the Hunxie tribe chop firewood. When the axe fell, the Hunxie people would instinctively dodge, only to find that they didn't need to dodge at all.

Li Wenzhong personally led his men on patrol three times last night, fearing that they might be hunted down by the cavalry of the Xiutu tribe.

A fire was burning between several tents, its light casting flickering shadows on the faces of the wounded soldiers. The bewilderment and fear on their faces had not completely faded, but at least there was no despair.

A little boy from the Hunxie tribe squatted beside the fire, clutching half a dry biscuit given to him by a Zhou soldier. He was nibbling on it slowly, as if he couldn't bear to finish it.

Huo Qubing stood at the entrance of the tent, his back to Ba Ridang, and said, "Those people are treating the wounds of your men, and they have distributed grain and firewood."

"Li Wenzhong personally led his men to patrol the night three times last night, fearing that your people would be hunted down. Our Great Zhou has been fighting you for decades, but we have never killed those who surrender."

He turned his head and looked at Baridang, "If you are willing, take your men to the south and temporarily settle them outside Yanmen Pass. We can talk about the future after this battle is over."

Baridang gazed at that scene.

He saw his people wrapped in Zhou army felt, drinking Zhou army hot soup, and using Zhou army wound medicine.

He saw an old woman from the Hunxie tribe kneeling in the snow, kowtowing to a Zhou army doctor who was bandaging her son.

The army doctor quickly helped her up and said something in his broken grassland dialect. The old woman wiped her face and nodded.

He suddenly realized that his understanding of the word "Great Zhou" had never been as complex as it was at this moment.

He fought for thirty years, clashing with the Northern Border Army of the Great Zhou more than a dozen times. Both sides had lost people and burned each other's belongings.

But what he sees now is far more than what he understood after fighting for thirty years.

He slowly stood up.

He made a cracking sound as he stood up, which aggravated the wound on his shoulder. He frowned but didn't make a sound.

He cupped his hands in a respectful gesture towards Huo Qubing.

The gesture was extremely clumsy; people on the grasslands don't usually greet each other like that. His hand gestures were crooked and awkward, like he was shooing away an invisible fly, but he did it with utmost seriousness.

"Baridang has noted this down; the Hunxie tribe will repay this favor."

Huo Qubing did not return the gift.

He simply nodded, then said to Li Wenzhong, "Send someone to take him to Yanmen Pass so he can rest. In a couple of days, we'll return to Yunzhou and discuss the next steps."

Li Wenzhong responded and turned to make the arrangements.

Huo Qubing stepped outside the tent, the snow and wind hitting his face.

He stood at the tent entrance and took a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs, dispelling some of the stuffiness in his chest.

He glanced at the old site of the Hunxie tribe's defeated camp in the distance, which was now covered in snow. The new snow covered the old snow, pressing the scorched marks into a blurry gray layer.

Only a few charred flagpoles were visible, blackened and stuck in the snow like unburnt incense sticks.

He suddenly remembered what Baridan had just said.

"In my whole life, I only believe in curved swords and horses."

He silently added in his mind: But in this world, there are some things that a scimitar cannot cut down.

He stood in the snow, looking at the old camp covered in snow in the distance, at the few charred flagpoles sticking out, and at the hazy horizon in the distance.

The wind blew in from the north, carrying snow flakes and a faint, almost imperceptible, fishy smell.

He raised his hand, adjusted his cloak, and then turned to walk towards his horse.

The soles of the boots crunched on the snow, the sound carrying far through the open mountain valley.

As he mounted his horse, he saw Li Wenzhong leading several men toward Baridang's tent, presumably to arrange for him to be taken to Yanmen Pass.

Huo Qubing did not wait for them.

He pulled on the reins, turning the horse around and slowly heading south towards the Yunzhou camp.

The horse walked slowly, leaving two clear tracks on the snow with its hooves.

As he rode his horse, gazing at the snow-covered road ahead, he suddenly realized that the road seemed longer than the one he had taken to get there.

Perhaps it was because he knew there was more to come at the end of the road.

Perhaps it was because he hadn't yet figured out how to tell Li Wenzhong the sentence he had just thought about.