"Boom, boom!"
Zhao Xunan's palm sliced through the wax-pole spear like a blade, then chopped downward at the opponent's neck. The steadfast captain didn't even grunt before collapsing unconscious.
Zhao kicked him toward Helian Yi, grinning before Dong Haodong could declare a winner. "Next."
...
Within a quarter-hour, the training field was a scene of chaos. Seven or eight soldiers lay in a pile, all defeated in a single move—none had lasted more than a round.
"General," Gongyang Junhe whispered, "how many moves do you think you'd last against Mr. Shanhe?"
Dong Haodong, commander of Yinshan Garrison and a peak eighth-rank grand master (a rare title in the northwest), scoffed. "Last? Against someone who's transcended mortality? He'd treat me like a child."
"A baby? How much stronger could an eight-month-old be than a two-month-old?"
"The gap is that vast," Dong said with a bitter smile. "Else why call it 'transcending mortality'?"
As they spoke, another challenger stepped forward: Miao Wenqing, a master archer with a divine arm bow. "Lieutenant General Zhao—shall we fight at fifty zhang?"
"Fifty, a hundred—whatever you like."
Zhao smiled, but Gongyang Junhe scoffed. "Using a divine arm bow at fifty zhang? That's target practice!"
"Fight at five zhang if you've got the guts—see if he doesn't slap you dead!"
Miao ignored them, strapping a bundle of lime-packed bamboo arrows to his back. If I win, I'll jump six or seven ranks, he thought. Victory means everything here.
Zhao watched, unimpressed. A divine arm bow was powerful at range, but slow—five breaths per shot. A top archer with a horn bow could loose three arrows in one breath; prodigies might manage five. Speed was everything.
"Begin!"
Miao nocked an arrow, drew, and loosed. Zhao strolled forward, sidestepping the shaft as it whizzed past. His pace quickened.
Thwip, thwip, thwip!
Miao fumbled, loosing shot after shot, but Zhao dodged each with ease. By the fifth arrow, Zhao was upon him. He snatched the flying shaft, spun, and stabbed it into Miao's forehead.
"You're dead."
The field erupted. Yinshan soldiers cheered—this new lieutenant general was legendary.
By moonlight, Zhao and Dong paced a massive sand table of the northwest.
"So, aside from Jiaojiao City and Longcheng, only seven or eight counties cling on? The rest are lost to the grasslands?"
"Correct. Since Kaiyuan, tens of thousands of herders have poured through West Pass. Nine-tenths of the northwest is now under the khanate."
"Permanent settlements. Even in spring, they don't leave. Their numbers? Sixty or seventy thousand. And the garrison at West Pass has doubled—over 200,000 men."
Dong scratched his head. "The grasslands are arid, worse than the frontier. Why would the khanate move so many people here?"
Zhao frowned. That outsider uncle mentioned outer tribes hiring mercenaries… Could the khanate be in chaos?
He pushed the thought aside. First, he needed to drive the herders out.
"How? Hundreds of tribes, tens of thousands of archers. We've only 200,000 troops—we can't afford a protracted fight."
Dong sighed. Zhao grinned, coldly. "Remember that slave girl with the brand on her neck?"
"Grasslanders raid our villages—why can't we raid theirs?"
"Hundreds of tribes, scattered like sand. Capture them all, sell to Liangxi or other provinces. Do you know the profit?"
Dong's hair stood on end. This is the "Mr. Shanhe" of legend—so ruthless? Capturing civilians had always been taboo for Great Qin. But Zhao was right: the northwest was bleeding.
"What's the alternative? Let the khanate keep spilling our blood?" Zhao's fist punched through the sand table. "We take back West Pass first—then we'll talk reputation."
Dong slammed his own fist into the table. "You're right. The court's let us down for years. If we can pull this off… even if we die, it's worth it!"
The next morning, Jiaojiao City's gates swung open. Ten thousand troops poured out, led by Zhao.
A shrill horn blared from West Pass. The khanate garrison—two full camps—fled in panic, abandoning their posts.
Even common soldiers found this odd. Grasslanders never backed down. Something's wrong.
"Zhao Xunan, you're right," Dong said, trembling. "If the khan's dead… we'll storm Longcheng and take West Pass, even if it costs us all!"
Zhao nodded. "But we need to confirm."
As they spoke, West Pass's gates creaked open. Thousands of armored horsemen rode out, led by a man with three eagle feathers—Yuwen Gang, a legendary warrior.
Zhao spurred his horse forward. Let's see what you've got.
Yuwen raised his spear. Tianji flashed from Zhao's sleeve, pinning the shaft mid-air. The horse reared, and rider and steed stumbled back.
Yuwen paled. His inner energy—gone, melted like ice in fire. A Qi Refiner… who's transcended mortality.
Zhao dismounted, plucking an eagle feather from Yuwen's collar. "I know your strength. Stop wasting time—send someone who's actually transcendental."
Yuwen saluted, retreating. Zhao called after him, "Hurry up. Don't make me wait."
The grasslander's retreat confused the onlookers. Even Dong and Gongyang stared. Why let him take the feather?
An hour later, a new figure emerged: Yuwen Zhenyan, younger but with eyes like weathered stone.
"Why send civilians instead of soldiers?" Zhao asked. "Has the khan fallen? Is the khanate in chaos?"
Yuwen snorted. "The khan's alive. Let's fight."
He lunged, his spear slicing the air with a whistle that warped the atmosphere.
Zhao's Tianji arced, clashing with the spear. A golden explosion erupted, blasting both riders backward.
Their horses whinnied, blood dripping from their muzzles. Zhao and Yuwen dismounted, tending to their mounts—precious as comrades at this level.