Three days after the Battle of Yangling, the remnants of the border army withdrew to the crumbling stronghold of Wuzui Fortress. Built during the previous dynasty, its stone walls were fractured, with wind howling through every crack like ghostly arrows. Inside, they had only 48 arrows, 130 pounds of rough grain, fewer than 20 battle-ready horses, and scores of wounded. Of them, just 36 soldiers could still stand and fight.
General Tu Lu sat in full armor within the fortress hall, his expression grim. Beside him stood Bai, her left arm tightly bound in blood-stained cloth. Li Song sat on a bench near the wall, one hand on his wounded leg, the other gripping the hilt of his blade.
"There are 108 wounded, and only 36 fit for duty," the medic reported.
Tu Lu spoke in a low voice, "Beyond Wuzui, there's nothing left to defend. If Raymond attacks again, we make our final stand."
Bai bowed slightly. "We could send riders to Xixian Fortress. They might reach us in five days."
Li Song shook his head. "Too late. Xixian has its own border troubles with Raymond. They won't send their full force."
Tu Lu fell silent. Then he spoke slowly. "Bai, you will remain here and hold Wuzui. I'll lead our last soldiers to prepare a forward ambush. If no help comes in five days... send our sons off with honor."
Li Song met his gaze and nodded.
That night, snow fell. Li Song stood alone on the wall, wind cutting across the southern plain. In his hand, he still held the bloodied Dog blade. He thought of the fallen—Tali, Halna, Turan—and how, not long ago, he was just another nameless soldier. In one month, war had carved him into something else. Flashes of battle replayed in his mind: fire in the eyes, the ring of steel, the cries of dying horses.
Bai approached quietly, a weathered cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She handed him a flask. "How many more days can we last?"
Li Song took a swig. "As long as we can lift a blade, it's not over."
She looked at him. "Ever think of what happens if we lose? What becomes of this land?"
"The sand buries bones," Li Song murmured. "But not names. We passed through. They won't forget."
He paused. "Tali died clutching the Horned Sparrow bow. His arrow hit Tulan's throat. When Tulan fled, he looked terrified. We're not weak—just outnumbered."
Bai placed the flask beside him. "If there's a next life, I don't want to be born in the heartland."
By morning, scouts brought news: the enemy wasn't advancing. Turan's forces were retreating toward Eastern Ridge.
"Is it a trick?" Tu Lu asked.
Li Song and Bai exchanged a glance. "Let us scout it ourselves."
Tu Lu agreed.
At midday, they followed the old trail past the dry well. The dunes were quiet, scattered with bones and broken gear. In the ruins of a Southern Liang village, Li Song found hoofprints—unfamiliar.
"They've changed mounts," he muttered, brushing sand aside. "Could be a trap."
"We attack tonight," Bai said. "Draw them out with fire, strike hard."
He nodded. "Let's finish it."
That night, they disguised a squad as wounded stragglers. Stumbling into the valley, they scattered on purpose, exposing their trail. Raymond's elite cavalry took the bait. At a narrow cliff path, signal fires erupted. Bai fired thirteen arrows in rapid succession—each finding its mark.
A small skirmish, but a decisive one. The enemy had indeed pulled back. For now, the border was still.
On the fifth dawn, dark cavalry arrived from the north. Their hooves thundered over snow, bearing Xixian's crest.
Li Song stood atop the Wuzui gate, bloodied armor creaking, blade still drawn. The flag above him bore a tear, but it flew.
The lead rider, young with sharp eyes and snow-dusted stubble, halted. "Yang Du. Reinforcements from Xixian."
Tu Lu narrowed his eyes. "Three days late. But we're still breathing."
Yang Du bowed. "We were ambushed. Lost fifty men before breaking through."
Li Song grasped his hand. "You've come in time. We're not done yet."
The snow stopped. Fires burned low. Blood still stained every stone.
That night, Tu Lu gathered the remaining 27 able soldiers and recited the names of the fallen. Li Song and Bai stood nearby.
"We lost five officers. 153 dead. Forty severely wounded. Eighty with light injuries," Tu Lu announced.
Li Song spoke next. "The Eagle unit took down 33. The Dog unit killed 11. We cut supply lines, downed three cavalry, killed a deputy commander."
No one spoke.
Bai finally added, "It was no defeat. They lost their commander and fled a hundred miles."
Tu Lu nodded. "History will remember this."
Old General Han sighed. "Our weapons are aged. Armor cracked. Arrows thin. If not for Li's blade and Bai's fire, we'd be dead."
Li Song said softly, "Give us new bows, real armor, a supply line—Raymond would be nothing but bones."
Tu Lu scanned the hall. "Three months. A new battle. Will you return?"
No one blinked.
Beyond the walls, hoofbeats echoed in the distance.
Appendix: Shadows Over the Snow (Eastern Expedition Perspective)
That same winter.
West of the Shattered Ice Plains, near the edge of the frontier, the Eastern Expeditionary Army encamped in a dry valley. General Heroman stood atop the ridge, watching smoke rise from the east.
"Are they fleeing?" asked his aide, Astar.
Heroman rubbed a black obsidian ring. "No. Just looking for a place to die."
Below, soldiers moved with mechanical precision. The army was divided into five banners: main cavalry, axe riders, crossbowmen, infantry, and scouts. The nobles rode tall western horses with double-lanced saddles. The crossbowmen carried mechanical bows designed by scholars—deadly, fast, precise. The infantry were siege experts, trained to breach and burn.
Raymond, clad in black iron and wielding the Snow Oath blade, was one of the few Holy Grail Knights still serving. He once executed three traitors in Jerusalem. They called him the "Son of the Main Seat."
In the command tent, strategist Seraph bent over maps. "The border remnants are few, but they have elite commanders. One named Li—his arrows once repelled 30 riders in a mountain pass."
Heroman snorted. "Even eagles fall when the storm comes."
He pointed to a spot. "Wuzui Fortress?"
"Yes."
"Leave one banner at Dongling. The rest will circle west, cut their water. Send the Fire Flag Regiment as fake reinforcements—create chaos. If they move, kill them. If they stay, let thirst finish it."
Astar hesitated. "Should we request formal orders?"
"No." Heroman's voice was cold. "This will be the cleanest strike we've made. Let the heartlands see the border is forever out of reach."
As the horn sounded, five banners slipped into the night like wolves.
——
That same night, news came: Halna's force at Yangling Ridge had been annihilated. The commander beheaded.
Heroman stood still in the dark. "A foolish general misled his men. Let him rot."
Seraph whispered, "They say the ones who killed him fought like beasts. One moved like wind, the other's arrows struck like lightning."
Heroman stared into the mountains. "Good. I'll remember them."
Nearby, Raymond clutched the Snow Oath in silence.
He knew the time had come to awaken an old power.