Five days later, the wind died down. Frost cut through the camp like a blade.
At first light, the scent of burning pine resin filled the war council hall in the southeastern corner of the Green Banner camp. Only recorded commanders from the frontier were allowed inside. No outsiders. No exceptions.
Tu Lu stood in the center, armored, silent. Khalid presided, calm and cold.
"The talks at Belen Well have failed. Raymond ambushed our envoy team. They're all dead."
Murmurs turned to outrage. One officer slammed a fist on the table.
"They butchered our deputy and our interpreter. How can we hold the line without answering that blood?"
Harith raised a hand.
"We all want vengeance. But charge without planning, and we bleed twice for the same wound."
Another growled, "Or we dig in and wait to be slaughtered? Raymond isn't stupid—he's likely baiting us into chaos."
The room descended into shouting—until Tu Lu spoke.
"If we march, I'll lead the vanguard."
Heads turned. Tu Lu's voice held weight—so did the scars on his face. Khalid didn't answer. Instead, he turned to the guard at his side.
"Is Li Song present?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Bring him in."
Li Song entered, still wearing standard gear, swordless.
"Tell them what happened," Khalid ordered.
Li Song bowed, then spoke clearly, walking through the events at Belen Well—formations, timing, the slaughter. Calm. Direct.
At first, the generals were skeptical—until he mentioned the enemy's signals: four stones in the southwest, the bow-shaped cliff, white robes moving just before the ambush. Faces hardened. Tu Lu nodded.
Someone asked, "How did you escape?"
"Before he died, Aisha threw me a shield. I slipped through the western crevice, under dead camels."
Another voice, cold: "Can that be proven?"
"The arrow I fired. The fletching is mine. The enemy it struck should still bear it."
Silence followed.
Khalid finally spoke:
"In three days, we relocate southeast. Stone barriers, training, stockpiling supplies. Be ready for a strike."
He turned to Li Song.
"From today, you serve under Tu Lu. You've earned a place among the war elite."
Later, in a weathered tent, Tu Lu stood over Li Song, who knelt before a laid-out sword and bow.
"Ready to fight?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I've already died once."
Tu Lu stared at him a long while.
"A dog isn't a sword. It's a dog—you train it to bite.An eagle isn't a bow. It's a hunter—you teach it to strike, not aim."
He didn't wait. His blade flashed.
Bone-Shaking Slash.
Li Song barely blocked. His grip faltered.
Again.
Tu Lu unleashed move after move: Throat-Licking Flip, Waist-Splitting Cut. Each one precise. Brutal.
Li Song staggered, fell. His shoulder plate cracked.
Tu Lu sheathed his blade.
"Block these, and maybe you live."
Li Song rose, blood on his lip, silent.
"Starting tonight, draw your bow 100 times at the west barracks. If you miss the mark, you lose your head. If you slack off, you're out.This isn't glory. It's survival. You've died once. Fail again, and you're firewood."
"Yes, sir."
That night, Li Song went to the west barracks alone. Wind howled across the empty field. He struck the woodpile—once, twice, fifty times. Skin split. He wrapped his hands in cloth and kept swinging.
Then the bow—drawn a hundred times, string to jaw, arms trembling.
"Don't aim at eagles," Tu Lu had said. "They strike when they're hungry."
So he didn't aim. He remembered. Muscle. Breath. Instinct.
When his arms gave out, he collapsed beneath a torn tarp and didn't sleep.
At dawn, Tu Lu appeared, glanced at the splintered wood and bloodstained bowstring.
"Continue."
By the third day, Li Song learned he wasn't alone—over twenty others trained under the same brutal regimen.
But only he had crawled back from a grave.
Snow began to fall. Li Song returned from a scout mission, wounds half-healed, riding a blue mule. Dog hung from his side. Eagle was slung across his back.
Tu Lu stood by the fire.
"How many men can that canyon hide?"
"Eastern cliff is steep. Dig three trenches—we can station a hundred men. Enough to stop 70% of a cavalry rush."
"Good," Tu Lu turned. "Nazhar—get the engineers. Stakes in by nightfall, before snow buries the ridge."
Nearby, men pored over a map. Red ink bled across it. Arrows pointed southeast.
Tu Lu tapped the map with a bone arrow shaft.
"They're after our supply route."
Khalid entered.
"Convoy's en route from Guhan. Three days out."
"If Raymond takes the ridge," Tu Lu said, "we starve."
"Then we move tonight."
"Scouts forward. We cut them off."
The warriors assembled—twenty strong, armor gleaming, bows strung.
Tu Lu rode to the front.
"This isn't for glory. This is for blood. Raymond broke the truce. He butchered our own.Tonight, we take his breath."
He slashed his sword through the torchlight.
Li Song followed, sword heavy, breath steady.
Outside the camp, the warriors split—three units, three slopes. Li Song and Nazhar took the west ridge.
Snow fell hard. Visibility dropped.
"How'd you kill that last knight?" Nazhar asked.
"Shoulder thrust."
"No good at night. You need silence."
They crouched by the cliff. Snow blanketed the earth. Hoofprints led nowhere. Too clean.
Li Song traced the ground, marking ambush points with his fingers.
"There," he whispered.
Nazhar tossed a firestone uphill—no response.
"Real enemies don't hide where you look."
Suddenly, a rider burst from the trees—covered in blood.
"They're behind us—attacking the supply convoy—!"
He collapsed.
Tu Lu arrived seconds later. He saw the blood trail. The broken scout. The wrong direction.
"They're betting we'll guard the main road."
He flung off his cloak.
"Turn the army. Now. We take the high ridge."
Li Song's heart sank. The high ridge was the only path to Guhan Valley. If they lost it, the convoy was done.
The order was given.
And into the storm, steel-clad warriors turned back—racing against the wind, against time, and against death.