At Belen Well, the Green Tent camp had no walls—just camel pens and blankets stretched between wooden poles. Inside the main tent, elders and captains circled a crude yellow map, marking springs, dunes, and enemy trails.
Tu Lu sat quietly among them. He had no title, but none dared question his place. Years ago, he beheaded three enemy riders in a single night and saved the entire camp.
"Li Song may carry the message," Tu Lu said, gripping his worn blade, Bone Breaker, "but that doesn't mean he goes to talk. If things go south, he must be the first to draw, to escape, and to kill."
When someone suggested bodyguards, Tu Lu shook his head. "A true envoy walks alone. His sword is enough."
After the meeting, Tu Lu took Li Song to a sandy ridge, handed him a training blade, and drew a circle in the sand.
"You trained in border swordplay?"
"The Fire Step style."
Tu Lu nodded. "Then you only know the cut and block. That's not enough."
"You've heard of 'Shatter Armor,' 'Flip the Eagle,' and 'Throat Lock'?"
"Only in old tales," Li Song replied. "They say MidWestren 's commander invented them a century ago."
"Books lie. Swords don't."
Tu Lu stomped the ground and swept his wooden blade through the air in a whistling arc—three sudden bends mimicking an eagle's wings. Dust swirled like smoke.
"This is Flip the Eagle. You fight fast with faster. You fight heavy with light. You fight open with hidden strength."
Li Song bowed. "Teach me."
"Then fight me."
Li Song didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, stance low, blade quick. But Tu Lu twisted like a desert hawk, striking Li Song's knee, then stopping his blade just short of his throat.
"You're dead."
Li Song rose from the sand, bowed again. "Once more."
Tu Lu gave a rare nod.
"You learn like a soldier. No pride. But remember—border blades aren't for show. They're for killing."
As dusk fell, they kept training, their shadows long against the dunes.
"You know how I lived through my first ambush?" Tu Lu asked suddenly.
Li Song stayed silent.
"I cut my saddle loose, crawled under dead horses, smeared blood on my face, and played dead. That night, I slit three throats, stole their gear, and rode out on their horse—with a spear still in my leg."
He tapped his knee. "Never healed. But that night I learned—technique won't save you. Ruthlessness will."
He stared at Li Song. "Out there, your sword doesn't ask questions. It only decides who dies first."
Li Song raised the blade again. "I understand."
"Good. When you can block three of my strikes, I'll show you the real Throat Lock."
Three days later, Tu Lu called him back.
This time, it was live steel.
Li Song wore an old curved blade, etched faintly with "Gan Sanwu Camp." He called it Dog—a name from his past, where border soldiers fought like dogs: loyal, unseen, and left behind.
His bow, short and fast, was called Eagle—for the way his arrows dove from the sky.
In the mock battle with two Green Tent warriors, Li Song started slow, but then the old training took over. The Dog blade weaved and snapped, light on his feet. In the final clash, he parried close, shoulder-checked his foe, and drove the blade toward his throat.
Applause broke out.
Tu Lu only said, "Still one strike short."
Li Song looked up.
"That cut would've hurt. But not killed. A dog that doesn't kill gets bitten."
Li Song said nothing, his hand resting quietly on his sword hilt.
That night, Khalid summoned him alone.
"You know who Raymond is?"
Li Song nodded. "A western noble."
"More than that. He's heir to the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre."
Li Song's expression hardened.
"This meeting? It's both a test and a warning. They want to see if we can still resist."
"What if I die?"
"Then make them bleed for it."
"I will not retreat. And I will not shame our name."
Khalid nodded.
Outside, the wind stirred the tent flaps. The moon hung low and sharp.
The storm was coming.