Chen Xuan rode out at the head of his men in full armor, the city gates thrown wide as the two armies collided in a sudden, brutal crush.
From the other gate, Jin Yuanzhou slipped out with a small band of trusted riders. Chaos was the perfect cover to root out spies — this time he took only those he absolutely trusted back to the capital.
Beneath an old tree, a black-clad figure landed soundlessly. A voice from the shadowed canopy ordered, “Down.”
A rustle, and Qian Tong dropped from the branches to the ground, eyes cold. “The heir told you to find a way to reach Hua Jing,” he said. “And to kill Helian Zhen.”
The man in the mask barked a short, angry laugh, chest heaving. “She’s inside the Xiongnu camp. How am I supposed to get to her? If I go near them I’ll be ripped apart by arrows.”
“That’s your problem,” Qian Tong replied without emotion. “If you haven’t contacted her before the heir returns to the north, you won’t get this month’s antidote.”
A bitter “ha” escaped the masked man — the Third Prince, Xie Wuyin. “You don’t think I’ll turn on you?”
Qian Tong’s smile was thin and cold. “The only one in the world with room for you is the heir. If you mean to rebel, you can do it any time.”
Xie Wuyin tightened his fist. He had no choice; that was how he’d been forced into this corner, used and humiliated by Chen Tingfeng like a servant. He drew in a ragged breath and forced the anger down. “Listen,” he said through clenched teeth, “I can try to reach her. But I can’t promise I can kill Helian Zhen.”
That was enough. Qian Tong nodded, the motion stiff. “Fine. I’ll tell the heir.”
Jin Yuanzhou’s riders were vanishing into the distance. Qian Tong wasted no more words — he turned, drew on his light-step training, and vanished in a few springing leaps.
Xie Wuyin smashed his fist into the tree trunk. His face went pale and tight with frustration.
On the battlefield, the fighting had turned savage. Helian Yu lived up to his nickname — “Mad Dog” — driving himself at Chen Xuan like a rabid beast. He baited and pressed so fiercely that Chen Xuan was forced into an isolated duel.
Chen Xuan planted his left hand on his spear and met the sweep of Helian Yu’s blade. Metal rang as the two weapons clashed. Helian Yu fought with terrifying force; even a veteran like Chen Xuan felt his muscles twinge from the impact.
He pulled back, gave a feint with the spear and lunged for the enemy’s waist. Helian Yu ducked low with a practiced twist, his foot snapping the spearpoint away. Then, coiling like a spring, he shot forward — already at Chen Xuan’s face, his long knife streaking for the man’s brow.
Chen Xuan anticipated it. He planted the spear butt into the ground, used the rebound to vault back and spin, and drove his foot into Helian Yu’s jaw with a force that was as much insult as blow.
Helian Yu was flung clear, landing with a print of a boot across his dark cheek. Rage contorted his features into a mask of hatred. “You’ll die!” he roared, clutching his blade and charging with a frantic, reckless fury.
Chen Xuan’s hand trembled, but his mouth wore a sarcastic curl. “So they call you Mad Dog?” he said. “Not so fearsome.”
Blood burned at Helian Yu’s eyes. They clashed again, and Helian Yu fought as if he had no fear of death. Even when the spear found purchase in his body, he didn’t scream; he surged on, blade swinging, indomitable.
Chen Xuan’s skin prickled with real alarm. People like this were like a wild ox — unless you killed them outright, they would cling and not let go. Around them, the Xiongnu pressed in hard. Their men were larger, their weapons crueler and sharper; with Xie Guangyan’s iron at their back they were a frightening, well-equipped force.
Seeing his line flag and his men grow weary, Chen Xuan made a hard decision. He offered a flaw — took Helian Yu’s blade on his shoulder, grinding his teeth against the pain — and, in the same motion, drove the spear up into his enemy’s belly with the violent precision of a hunter.
Helian Yu’s eyes shot wide. He spat a spray of blood and mist. Chen Xuan twisted the spear inside, a savage, intimate motion that shredded flesh and turned organs into a bloody paste. Then he drew back, knocked the blade from the man’s hand, and kicked him face-first into the dirt. Helian Yu coughed raggedly — “hoh, hoh” — sounding like a man who had more air leaving than entering.
“Xián Wáng!” The Xiongnu shouted, swarming forward.
Chen Xuan backed until his spear flashed and cut arcs through the mass of attackers. He drew back toward his adjutant, bellowing, “Helian Yu is dead! Surrender now!”
That shout landed like thunder on his side. Morale surged; on the enemy side it rippled into disarray. Their commander dead — the battle could collapse.
But just as Chen Xuan prepared to press the advantage, a flare bloomed above the distant dunes. Sand rolled in a sudden, roiling wave, and out of it came another charge of cavalry — faster, better organized.
Chen Xuan’s eyes caught the man at their head. Helian Zhen.
He swore under his breath and grabbed his adjutant by the sleeve. “Pull back! Withdraw!”
The adjutant looked at him, at the hard set of his face, and without question sounded the retreat.
The sun rode high when the clash ended. Chen Xuan’s men filed back inside the gate; the Xiongnu withdrew their weapons and fell back as well.
Chen Xuan sat where the general would sit after a battle, his face drawn. The adjutant stepped forward, concern overtaking protocol. “General, your arm—”
Chen Xuan glanced down. “Don’t fetch a physician,” he said in a voice like gravel. “Get medicinal poultice. Now.”
The adjutant hurried off. Chen Xuan stripped his armor, revealing a jagged wound where the blade had found the seam of his cuirass. Helian Yu had cut in at an angle; the place had bled freely while he’d been fighting. He pressed his jaw, felt the hot spike of pain, and without flinching poured the bitter-scented salve over the raw flesh. He wrapped the strips of cloth tight until the ache dimmed from roar to throb.
When the bleeding slowed he breathed out and bound it more securely, then issued orders, voice low and cracked. “Send the surgeons to tend the wounded. Make a pot of stew big enough to feed every man — they need to eat and rest. Give no one leave until they’re tended and fed.”
He sounded old and exhausted, but the commands were steady; he forced each task out, one by one.
The adjutant obeyed, worry in his eyes, and moved to carry them out.
The Xiongnu had fought ferociously. The handful of men Chen Xuan still had could not hold indefinitely. His gaze darkened; the map of their situation spread sharp and bleak before him.
He was deep in a corner now — exhausted, outnumbered, and with an enemy at his gates.