The soil of the northern frontier trembled with every gallop, each hoofbeat echoing like distant thunder across the frozen earth. But the silence that followed—deep, sudden, unnatural—was far more terrifying.
For days on end, Shen Ruolin's forces had harassed the retreating barbarians with relentless precision, striking like a surgeon's scalpel rather than a soldier's sword. Reports came in with growing frequency and confidence: enemy columns shattered, supply caravans in flames, clans scattered and fading into the valley mists. Everything pointed to victory. Everything followed the plan.
The Khan was running.The Empire was hunting.
But as Shen Ruolin would come to realize—too late—a hunt can turn deadly for the hunter who runs faster than his own caution.
It happened in the forests of Kaoshui Pass, a narrow gorge where the trees grew gnarled and tight, their limbs twisted like the fingers of the dead. The paths were scarcely visible, shrouded in frost and cloaked in the illusion of emptiness. It was here, among these shadowed woods, that Ruolin's vanguard advanced—his finest men, handpicked from Baiyuan, hardened by months of battle and bloodshed. They were light cavalry, swift and sharp, the very edge of the imperial spear.
No signs of the enemy had been reported. Scouts found nothing. The remnants of nearby clans appeared to be retreating in scattered disorder.
And then, everything changed in the blink of an eye.
From the trees rose a roar—raw, guttural, inhuman. It was not the sound of flight, but of fangs bared. Barbarians poured from the shadows, not in chaos but in deadly formation. They were not the ragged survivors of recent skirmishes. They were disciplined warbands, archers hidden in the treetops, fire-throwers on the cliffs above, and cavalry units charging from both sides.
An entire wing of the Khan's army had lain in wait—silent, patient, deadly.
The trap had been perfectly laid.And the punishment… absolute.
Arrows rained from three angles at once. The front ranks of Ruolin's cavalry were torn apart before they could even raise their shields. When they tried to pull back, they found their exit blocked by felled trees. The forest itself had become their coffin. From the flanks came a storm of mounted lancers and heavy infantry, the barbarians crashing into the imperials with all the fury of the north.
They fought like demons, say the few who survived.But even demons can bleed.
The imperial vanguard was wiped out—cut down to the last rider.
The news reached Shen Ruolin at dusk. Two blood-soaked riders stumbled into camp, barely conscious, their eyes hollow and unfocused. They had escaped only by pure luck and a forgotten game trail.
Ruolin listened in silence. Not a word. Not a question.
When the tale was finished, he lowered his head—not in grief, not in surrender, but in calculation.
He understood immediately.He had lost his sharpest weapon. His blade's tip.And what remained was a handle without steel: garrison troops, fresh recruits, loyal but untrained militias. Brave men, yes—but men built to defend walls, not chase wolves.
And worse still, he knew…The Khan had understood it too.
Until now, the barbarian leader had seemed desperate to flee, to reach the open plains of the far north, to regroup and prepare for a final stand.But now—now he wasn't running anymore.He didn't have to.
With the imperial vanguard destroyed, the delicate balance of the campaign had shifted. The predator had misjudged its prey.
That night, under a sky of black clouds and no stars, Shen Ruolin called his captains. Faces pale. Hands clenched. They all knew what had to be said.
To continue the chase now, with only untested troops, would be madness—suicidal madness. If the barbarians turned, if they counterattacked here and now, the imperial militias would break like brittle reeds in a winter gale. No walls. No fallback lines. No veteran core.
No shield.Only the sword… gone.
—They struck us —Ruolin finally said— not with brute force… but with precision.This isn't a retreat.It's a serpent pulling back, only to bite.
He gave the only order that made sense: a tactical withdrawal to a defensible position—south of the Helin River, where the land narrowed and trenches could be dug. There, and only there, would they make their stand… or wait.
Wait for Luo Wen.Or, if he did not come, find a new plan—one without illusions.
The pursuit had ended.For now.
But within Shen Ruolin, there was no shame.Only anger.Not because he had been ambushed…But because he had seen something deeper in the smoke and blood.
The Khan was no longer a fugitive.He was now a shadow… lurking… waiting.
And this war—this long, blood-soaked war—was far from over.