On a winter night, the cold northern winds carried the sound of watchmen’s clappers, while the frigid moonlight illuminated armor and weapons.

Outside Xinzhou City’s military encampment, soldiers of all ranks had already formed their battle formations.

Infantry held the center, cavalry divided into both flanks, and archers concealed themselves behind the front line of foot soldiers. Among the infantry, a small portion were heavy infantry—one hand holding shields, the other wielding swords—specifically designed to counter the Tartar nomads’ skilled archery. They could both attack and defend against enemy arrows. However, the majority consisted of light infantry and light cavalry, carrying less weight and moving quickly, easily adjusting their positions. If commanded properly, in this dim nighttime setting, they could move like a single feather, completing a bloody assault raid in complete silence!

On the city tower, the war drums gradually intensified.

Torches lit in the black night danced and fluttered together with banners whipping in the wind.

The faces of thirty thousand soldiers were all blurred into similar forms by light and shadow.

On the general’s platform, the bloodstains of days past had been thoroughly cleaned, leaving only traces of dried, mottled remnants in the iron seams and wood crevices. Yet Yan Lin’s face, with its sharp contours and resolute features, appeared incomparably bright standing at that height.

Before the red sun rose, he was the sun in the darkness.

Blazing firelight burned in the depths of his pupils, causing the ambitions suppressed over these two years, the desires for vengeance, to all surge upward with his boiling heart at this moment, transforming into a sweeping momentum that filled the sky. He drew his sword from its scabbard and raised the three-foot blue blade high!

In that instant, all four directions erupted in earth-shaking roars!

“Cross the Yan Gate, defend our homeland!”

“Annihilate the Tartars, rescue the Princess!”

“Cast aside life and death, let us not fail each other!”

…

The troops stationed at Xinzhou originally numbered a hundred thousand, but having fallen under Xiao family rule—with military affairs in chaos and training neglected—less than half could actually be selected for the battlefield in such short time. Attacking the Tartars in winter was not a conventional winning strategy, so victory would depend on surprise, speed, and risk. Though the Tartars claimed to be a nation, compared to Great Qian they occupied only the land of three provinces. Thirty thousand soldiers were enough to catch them completely off guard and make them suffer humiliating defeat.

“The young lord does have something of a young hero about him now…”

On the high city tower, Lu Xian stood beside a burning torch, feeling the biting cold wind against his face. Watching the distant scene of the great army’s advance, he couldn’t help but sigh deeply. Yet immediately after, he fell somewhat silent.

“Whether the nation thrives or falls, the common people suffer. How many will die in this battle?”

Xie Wei stood not far away.

On this flat area of the city tower stood an archery target.

His pale blue Daoist robe billowed in the fierce cold wind, yet his icy fingers, soaked through with chill, still rested upon a longbow. Drawing a carved-feather arrow and aiming at the target’s center, he merely said: “So what?”

Lu Xian fell silent.

Though he had never been a saint who pitied all living beings, witnessing the suffering of the masses and the calamities befalling the world, he inevitably felt some sympathetic sorrow. But Xie Ju’an—seemingly modest and yielding, with a benevolent heart—when it truly came to such scenes of blood staining thousands of miles and the disasters of war, revealed a shocking coldness.

Human lives like grass and weeds, all living beings as chess pieces.

Yet undeniably, within this shocking coldness lay an almost transcendently independent illumination and penetrating insight.

“Heaven itself has no dao; humans rule over it. Yet the world is mediocre, the people lack wisdom. Without destruction, how can there be establishment? Without death, how can there be life? In this world, aside from the word ‘death,’ there is fundamentally no reason to speak of. If one doesn’t understand death, how can one understand life?”

With a sharp “swoosh,” a thunderous sound rang out.

The carved-feather arrow left the bowstring and crashed into the target with such fierce force that it actually split the wooden target. With a “crack,” it toppled backward, issuing a tremendous boom in the cold, solemn night.

Xie Wei’s expressionless face remained calm as deep waters.

“I let them know they’re still alive. They should thank me.”

Lu Xian held his breath, and only after a long while did he slowly exhale. He became more certain than he had been two days ago: Xie Ju’an was truly in a very bad mood.

The further north one went, the later dawn broke.

At the third quarter of the mao hour approaching its end, the Tartar border encampment remained shrouded in dim indigo darkness, utterly quiet. The patrolling soldiers were in the midst of changing shifts—either having stayed up all night or just awakening, most were somewhat drowsy, at their lowest state of vigilance.

But just at this moment, a sharp whistle shattered the silence!

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack! Great Qian’s army is coming, enemy attack—”

Some didn’t even hear clearly at first, thinking themselves still dreaming. Only after walking several steps did they react, dumbstruck and horrified.

All the tents immediately erupted in tumultuous noise.

Soldiers roused from sleep hastily donned their armor and rushed to battle stations, while messenger scouts quickly leaped onto horseback and galloped toward the royal court!

Who could have anticipated such an extraordinary surprise attack?

Not during the spring when flowers bloomed, nor during the daylight hours under bright sunshine, but precisely during winter—which they deemed absolutely impossible—and during the cold night—which they considered completely improbable!

Striking when unprepared, attacking the unprepared with the prepared.

As the saying goes: “In warfare, deception is the way.”

Tartar King Yanda was in his prime years. Last night’s vigorous battle with several concubines had actually concluded not long ago, and suddenly hearing the alarm from outside, he felt his head splitting with pain. After summoning the messenger into his tent for questioning, he flew into a rage, kicking over the low table placed on the sheepskin rug.

“How could Great Qian suddenly attack? Could the secret have leaked?”

His face covered in whiskers, his features quite martial though marred by a sinister quality.

“That woman, where is that woman?!”

The serving maidens all trembled in fear, prostrating themselves on the ground. Over these two years they had long since learned clearly that the “woman” in the Great King’s mouth was the princess who had come to the Tartars for a marriage alliance years ago. They hastily replied in quavering voices: “Following Your Majesty’s instructions, she’s confined in her tent. These past days, we haven’t let her go out.”

Yanda’s chest heaved. Gripping his blade, he strode out of the royal tent.

All along the way he immediately arranged responses to the surprise attack, yet his feet never stopped, walking straight to a tent about ten zhang in circumference at the eastern edge of the royal court.

By this time, the sky had grown faintly light.

Lamplight glowed within the tent.

A graceful, slender silhouette fell upon the snow-white tent curtain. Shen Zhiyi had already heard the chaotic commotion outside and had risen.

When Yanda roughly pushed aside the tent flap and entered, she stood with her back to the entrance, her hair coiled high in a topknot, exposing a stretch of her long, pale neck. At some point she had changed out of the Tartars’ colorful garments, wearing only her old clothes from years past, having opened a long-sealed chest.

Inside lay the ceremonial robes of an imperial princess.

The palace gown woven from the finest silk, even in the insufficiently bright light, flowed with shimmering radiance. Gold and silver embroidered threads formed flying cranes and turning phoenixes, still appearing pristine, cold and magnificent.

Yanda strode forward directly, pressing his blade against her neck, asking through gritted teeth with cruel severity: “Was it you?!”

Shen Zhiyi turned her face to look at him.

The faint scar beneath the corner of her eye, like a trace of rouge-colored old wound, branded her with her origins and experiences. It also made her completely indifferent to the blade pressed against her neck. She merely curved her lips slightly, calm and coldly: “Kill me, and you’ll all die.”