"Clang, clang!"
Their figures clashed in an instant, blinding golden light erupting as shockwaves sent dirt and grass flying.
Dong Haodong and the others watched anxiously, but the two moved too fast—their collision exploding like fireworks, making it hard to tell who held the advantage.
Zhao Xunan flicked his blade to deflect the spear tip, then followed with a downward slash, aiming directly for Yuwen Zhenyan's skull. In close combat, the longer Tianji blade had the edge—Yuwen's unwieldy spear, over ten zhang long, left him slow to adapt.
But Yuwen was no novice. Instead of retreating, he drove the spear butt into Zhao's chest, betting on mutual destruction.
Zzzt!
Zhao parried with his blade, the edge carving a long gash into the spear shaft. Sparks cascaded like falling water.
"By the order of Marshal Wen—demons, retreat!"
As both shifted tactics, Zhao slammed a palm toward Yuwen's forehead. Yuwen raised his elbow to block, but golden light still burst through, piercing his mind like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Ah—!"
The light seared his soul. Yuwen roared in agony, but Zhao's blade halted mid-strike, flipping to slam him to the ground with the hilt.
Exhaling deeply, Zhao felt refreshed. This battle had been evenly matched—if not for the Celestial Decree, it might've taken a hundred moves to win.
Yuwen's skill and experience rivaled his own; the only gap was in his energy recovery. Short battles were fine, but over time, that weakness would tell.
"...Thank you for sparing my life."
Yuwen sat up, his voice hoarse. Defeat seemed to drain him—his once-smooth face creased with age, making him look decades older.
Zhao bent to pluck an eagle feather from his collar, speaking gravely: "Your spiritual root isn't strong. You've already entered the immortal path—why meddle in mortal affairs?"
Yuwen shook his head, rising with a bitter smile. "An old saying goes: 'A strong nation has valiant warriors; a declining one has sick men.' The ancients weren't wrong."
"With someone like you emerging, Great Qin is close to greatness. Unlike my khanate—we're in decline."
He turned, stumbling toward his mount.
Zhao frowned, realizing his earlier assumption was wrong. Yuwen's unstable cultivation wasn't due to a weak root—it stemmed from his obsession with his homeland, tying his fate to the grasslands.
Immortals sought to transcend the mortal world; the more detached, the better. Yuwen, a transcendent, defied this—his unbroken Dao heart was a miracle, but his instability was inevitable.
Yuwen returned to West Pass, and soon a group of women in white robes emerged, presenting a Dragon-Tendon Tiger-Tooth Pendant and a White Spear inscribed with talismans.
The leader knelt, bowing deeply. "The Dragon-Tendon Tiger-Tooth Pendant lets you display the eagle feather—marking you as an outsider chieftain. The White Spear is the mark of the Heavenly Attendant, originally the chief's. Our chief heard your 'Heavenly Voice' in battle and bade us present it."
As the women withdrew and West Pass's gates rumbled shut, Zhao inserted the feathers into the pendant, securing it to his chest beside his Beauty-Finger ring. He hefted the ten-zhang White Spear—it felt balanced—and turned back toward his army.
Zhao's victory at West Pass spread quickly. Three days later, he led 3,000 cavalry east to raid grasslands, targeting the tribe where Ma Lan had once been held.
After nine days of forced march, Zhao met with Dong Haodong at dawn. "This will take months. See how many slaves we take—and how much silver we earn."
Colonel Helian Yi, leader of the 1st Regiment, frowned at the smoke-shrouded tents. "A tribe this size—2,000 to 3,000 people—is one of the largest in the northwest. Our 3,000 men might not be enough."
"No rules," Zhao said, hoisting the White Spear with a grin. "3,000 cavalry vs. a tribe of mostly women, children, and elders? This isn't a battle—it's a massacre."
"Charge, burn, and kill everyone who kneels. No exceptions."
Zahua snorted, leading the charge. 3,000 cavalry roared, spears raised.
Half an hour later, the largest tribe in the northwest—Hailan—fell. Chiefs and nobles were beheaded, their heads impaled on poles. Ma Lan, in half-armor, watched the poles, tears streaming.
Of Hailan's 2,000+ captives, 600 were young men killed in battle; the rest—women, children, elders—were roped together with cattle and sheep, guarded by the 1st Regiment en route to Jiaojiao City.
They traveled slowly, taking three days. Though scouts had reported, the Jiaojiao City garrison hesitated to let so many in—only allowing Zhao and his officers entry.
After all, Jiaojiao was Great Qin's last defense. Falling would leave the empire defenseless.
"General Zhao—are you selling all these grasslanders as slaves?" the garrison commander asked, having known Zhao's identity since his arrival. The idea of 2,000+ slaves made his scalp tingle. Where would they sell them? Who would buy?
Zhao smiled. "Just spread the word in the merchant district—500 meters outside the city. Buy individually or in bulk. We've got branding irons ready—brand them on the spot!"
The commander hesitated. Selling slaves in bulk was unheard of in Great Qin. Scholars and officials would protest. But outside the city… plausible deniability.
Zhao had heard of slave trading in his past life, though details were fuzzy. It had surged in recent decades, even involving cultivation sects, until a Kunlun cultivator destroyed three sects and banned it. Now, it was small-scale—like Zhao Ping'er's business.
"Will anyone buy?" Helian Yi asked, eyeing the 2,000 captives. Feeding them daily would cost a fortune—if unsold, it'd be a loss.
"Wait," Zhao said. "If no buyers, we'll make jerky. The 1st Regiment boys will eat well for months!"
Helian Yi paled, imagining a diet of human jerky. He retched, and two other colonels followed. Zhao laughed—these men were too soft.
But as he wondered how they saw him, Jiaojiao's gates swung open. Hundreds rushed out, eager to buy.
Zhao, stunned, grabbed a wealthy merchant who'd bought 200+ youths. "Why the demand?"
The merchant grinned. "The Imperial Court ordered the Great Thousand to settle the North Sea. Claim land for ten years, and it's yours. Any territory, regardless of birth—title and statehood guaranteed!"
Zhao understood. The Great Thousand was vast, but true "nations" were rare—only those with Imperial decrees. Ambitious factions craved legitimacy. The North Sea, vast and wild, needed settlers.
Young men were best, but women and children were needed too—to build a nation.
After thanking the merchant, Zhao marveled. He'd lived in ignorance of such world events—his past life had been a blur.
Slave sales boomed. Branding irons glowed, screams echoed. But children under wheel height were spared—they had potential.
By dusk, all 2,000+ captives and livestock were sold. The 1st Regiment's accountants trembled—23,214 taels of silver, plus cattle and horses, totaling over 50,000 taels.
Helian Yi and the colonels cheered, punching the air. Such profit was unimaginable.
"Give 5 taels to every soldier, 20 taels to officers. Celebrate tonight—slaughter cattle and sheep. Tomorrow, march back to Jiaojiao!"
Zhao's order spread, and the camp erupted in cheers.
The moon rose, fires blazed, and roasted meat filled the air. Laughter echoed in the temporary camp. Zhao sat alone on a supply wagon, drinking wine, watching the moon.
"You have worries, Master?"
Ma Lan climbed up, carrying a basin of fresh-roasted meat. His usual confidence was gone—she'd never seen him like this.
In her eyes, Zhao was a rare hero. Today, learning his true identity from the Jiaojiao commander, her reverence had deepened. How could such a man look so forlorn?
"Not worry," Zhao said, taking a bite of mutton. "Just… dislike myself."
"Dislike yourself?" Ma Lan's eyes widened. "Why?"
He stuffed a piece of mutton into her mouth. "I was a scholar, steeped in classics. Now I do such evil deeds. I hate this version of myself."
Ma Lan chewed, her heart aching. She tugged his sleeve. "Master, I'm unlearned, but my father said: 'Others' heroes are our enemies.' The world is chaotic—you can't fix everything. Stay true to yourself, and that's enough."
Zhao smiled, seeing her concern. "I wasn't being profound. Just rambling. Don't fret—I was bored."
Ma Lan relaxed, resuming her task. "Master, why not settle in the pass with your acquaintances?"
Zhao bit into beef, chewing. "We met briefly. In this world, besides you, I have no family. Following them would be no different than being alone."
Ma Lan's face flushed. She knelt, focusing on his words.
"I have a cultivation manual: Two Instruments harmonizing Records. Only those with great will can practice it. Since you're my family, you may have it. But cultivation depends on karma—tell me three times, and whatever you remember is your fate."
Ma Lan's face pinkened. She memorized every word, reciting perfectly on the third try. Zhao sighed—she'd captured every nuance, even his pauses.
He gave her red-clay ridge herbs to aid cultivation, teaching her to guide energy. As she sank into meditation, Zhao looked up, murmuring: "Heaven above—why send so many geniuses to me?"
The next morning, the army marched back, shedding excess baggage. By February 8, they returned to Jiaojiao.
Dozens of bamboo baskets brimmed with silver ingots—the 1st Regiment and Longcheng Garrison had swept the northwest.
Tribes fled to West Pass, but guards blocked their exit, keeping them at bay.
"The northwest is settled. End the slave raids," Zhao said, leaning on the city wall, watching distant smoke.
Some military regiments had grown corrupt. It was time to stop.