"Enemy raid! Enemy raid!"
The screams of Barbarian sentries shattered the silence of the camp.
A sentry captain spotted a thin red line on the southern horizon growing thicker by the second. He barked orders desperately. "Blow the horn! The rest of you, wake the camp! Night raid!"
A soldier raised the copper crescent horn to his lips. But before a sound could emerge, a cold arrow whistled from the west.
THWACK!
The arrow pierced the sentry's throat, pinning both his neck and the copper horn firmly against the wooden camp gate. The shaft of the arrow vibrated with a low, ominous hum.
The captain froze. He had fought on the frontier for years and knew every piece of equipment the Youzhou Army used. This thick black shaft... these black feathers...
Memories of his first battle flooded back. Years ago, his uncle's unit had captured a few Han fur traders. In retaliation, fifty riders had come. Just fifty.
At the time, he thought they were lambs to the slaughter. Then he saw their black arrows pierce thick wooden planks and punch through chainmail. They were the Iron Pagoda. That day, out of a hundred warriors, only ten survived—and only because the enemy commander ordered them to stop wasting expensive arrows on "worthless Barbarians."
"Why are the arrows coming from the west?" the captain muttered, collapsing to the ground, his mind broken. "The Red Rust Army is to the south... why are the Black Feathers here?"
While he descended into madness, hundreds of black arrows rained down, silencing him and the other sentries forever.
Inside the main tent, chaos reigned.
"A night raid? How?!" The young Fourth Prince roared. "We moved here less than a month ago! The Eagle & Leopard Scouts haven't been active! How did they find us?"
Grand Preceptor Wu felt a heavy weight in his chest. Outside, the sky was ablaze, and the screams were getting closer.
"We must escort the Grand Preceptor back to the Northern Desert through the pass!" the Fourth Prince shouted. "The rest of us will break out and regroup with the five thousand elites in the valley!"
Old Preceptor Wu shook his head grimly. "Too late. If we run now, we are just moving targets."
"Report!" A scout rushed in. "Cavalry from the south and west! They are less than five hundred paces from the central tent!"
Wu slumped onto his stool. "How many? What unit?"
"At least two thousand!" the teenage scout stammered. "Half are in red armor... the others... they are wearing black armor and black iron masks."
A glimmer of hope appeared in a noble's eyes. "If it's the Silver Army, we can fight! Their elites are in the capital; the ones here are just raw recruits."
"No," the scout whispered, crushing that hope. "Black armor. Black masks."
Silence fell over the tent.
"The Iron Pagoda..." someone murmured.
Even the bravest nobles sheathed their swords. Why fight? The Silver Army offered a chance of survival. The Iron Pagoda offered only death.
"It doesn't matter," Grand Preceptor Wu broke the silence, his voice steady. "We have the Heir. We can turn this around. Notice how they are using lances and swords but have stopped firing arrows? They are afraid of hurting the hostage."
Wu regained his composure. He would use the Heir's life to force the three thousand cavalry to retreat. Then, he would take the boy to the desert and let the ambush force in the valley slaughter the pursuers.
CRASH!
A black iron javelin pierced through the tent wall, impaling a guard. The nobles shrieked.
Yan Chuanzhi, leading a hundred riders, smashed through the camp. His men slashed the tent ropes, causing the massive central tent to collapse. Yan leaped his horse over the debris, shouting, "Barbarian scum! Go nowhere!"
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the battle, Xiao Shaojin was bored.
He was currently reciting Daoist scriptures to his horse.
"The Dao that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Dao..." he droned, shaking his head in imitation of his tutor.
His horse, a magnificent black steed with four white hooves, stomped its feet and spun in circles, clearly telling the Heir to shut up.
"Flying Snow, why won't you listen?" Xiao scolded the horse. "You are already five years old. If you don't study, how will you cultivate a literary heart? How will you enter official service?"
Flying Snow stomped three times in protest.
Before Xiao could lecture the beast further, a Red Rust soldier signaled with a yellow-green flag: Objective secured.
Xiao Shaojin laughed, kicking his horse into a gallop. "Hold on, Grand Preceptor! This Prince is coming!"
The scene at the collapsed central tent was tense.
Grand Preceptor Wu had a blade pressed firmly against Lin Huaijue's neck. He watched as his warriors were slaughtered, their heads taken as trophies. His heart bled, but he held on. He was the Grand Preceptor; he had dignity.
"Hahahaha! Grand Preceptor Wu, I missed you so much!"
Lin Huaijue's heart relaxed slightly at the familiar voice.
Wu looked up, confused. A small boy on a black horse had arrived. Even stranger, the terrifying Iron Pagoda and Red Rust soldiers dismounted and knelt as the boy passed.
Who is this kid? Wu's mind raced. And who is this boy in the Python robe under my knife?
"I advise you to release my Heir Apparent immediately," Xiao Shaojin shouted playfully at the surrounded Barbarian nobles. "Let him go, and we can talk. If he loses a single hair today, you will all die without a burial site. I keep my word."
Wu's eyes narrowed. He thought he figured it out. "I don't care who you are! I only know that very few people can wear this Python robe! If you want him alive, back your army off fifty miles! No, one hundred miles!"
Xiao Shaojin exploded in mock rage. "Do you think this is a vegetable market? You think you're qualified to haggle with me? One hundred miles? Do you want to drive your grandfather all the way back to Jicheng City?"
Xiao raised his hand. "I'll count to ten. If you don't let him go, I'll order them to fire!"
"You dare kill the Prince's Heir?!" Wu screamed, gambling everything on his hostage. "If you dare shoot, then shoot!"
Lin Huaijue squeezed his eyes shut in despair. This kid has a terrible temper. He's actually going to get me killed.
Xiao Shaojin waved his hand. Hundreds of Iron Pagoda archers drew their bows, aiming at the group.
"Don't test my patience," Xiao said coldly. "The man you are holding is Master Lin, the second son of the Governor. You can't afford to offend him either. I'm starting. Ten!"
Wu was sweating profusely. "Even if he is the Governor's son and you are the Prince's son, you can't kill him! That's treason!"
"If he dies, you killed him. I'm just avenging him. Five!"
Wu roared, "You said you'd count ten numbers! How did you go from ten to five?! There are four numbers in between!"
Xiao shrugged. "I counted them in my head. Three!"
"You scoundrel! You act like a street thug! You cannot possibly be the Heir of Dongqi! I don't believe you! You are bluffing!"
Xiao sighed. "When speaking to this Prince, show some respect. Address me as 'Your Highness'. One! Fire!"
"YOU DIDN'T COUNT TWO—!"
THUD.
Grand Preceptor Wu felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck, and his world went black.