Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 15th Day of the 3rd Month. North of the Yin Mountains, Xiongnu Heartland.
Liu Che stood on a high slope, looking down at the battlefield. Corpses covered the ground—Han soldiers and Xiongnu alike. Flags lay fallen in the mud, soaked in blood, indistinguishable between red and black. Vultures circled overhead, waiting for a bite of flesh. The wind blew from the north, carrying the stench of blood, burning, and the pungent mix of rotting meat and horse dung, seeping into the armor—cold, like a knife scraping bone. There was blood on his face, not his own, but his bodyguard's. That arrow earlier, the bodyguard had blocked it for him. The man was gone, didn't even have time to leave his name. His hand clenched the sword hilt, knuckles white, fingernails embedded with dried mud and blood, forming a hard, dark brown crust.
Li Guang stood behind him, voice hoarse like stones grinding. Sweat stains covered his saddle; a streak of mud ran down his cheek from cheekbone to chin, left by a grazing arrow. "Your Majesty, retreat. If we continue, the vanguard will be wiped out."
Liu Che said nothing. He looked at the battlefield below. Three days ago, he led the army out of Yunzhong, crossed the Great Wall, deep into the steppe. Scouts reported the main Xiongnu force was at the northern foot of the Yin Mountains, only twenty thousand men. He brought fifty thousand. Fifty thousand against twenty thousand, he thought it was enough. But he forgot—this was the steppe. The Xiongnu didn't need walls, supply lines, or a rear guard. Their rear was the horseback, their wall was the wind. They ran, you couldn't catch them. They stopped, you couldn't escape. Three days, he fought three battles. The first, won. The second, lost. The third, not yet finished, but he already knew the result. He thought of Chang'an. Thought of Xingye. Thought of her saying "give me three years." He hadn't waited three years. He waited three months. He thought it was enough. Now he knew, it wasn't.
"Your Majesty." Li Guang called again, his voice carrying a plea, like a string about to snap.
"Scout again." Liu Che's voice was flat, like a frozen river. His eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where there was nothing, only gray sky and withered yellow grass. "Find out where the main Xiongnu force is. How many, who commands, where the grain is."
"Your Majesty, three scout teams have already been lost—"
"Scout again."
Li Guang said no more. He turned and walked away. Boots crunched on the gravel, sound fading into the distance. Liu Che stood on the slope, looking at the distant sky. The sky was blue, blue like a fake. Clouds hung low over the horizon, like a wall. Behind the wall were the Xiongnu cavalry. He thought of what Xingye had said—"The Xiongnu are testing. Testing if we have the strength to fight. Testing if we dare to fight." He had fallen for a trap. Not the Xiongnu's trap, but his own. He wanted to win too much. Wanted to prove himself too much. Wanted to let her know he could.
That night, the scout returned. Only one man, hit by two arrows—one in the shoulder, one in the ribs. When he fell from the horse, his leg broke, white bone shards protruding, making one's heart tighten. He was carried before Liu Che, face covered in blood, lips bitten through, blood filling the gaps between his teeth, but eyes bright. Biting his lip, forehead covered in cold sweat, body trembling from pain, but his eyes always fixed on Liu Che.
"Your Majesty—the main Xiongnu force is not at the northern foot of the Yin Mountains. Further north—two hundred li north. This is only an outpost. The twenty thousand are fake—they deliberately let us see—to lure us deeper—"
He finished, closing his eyes. Chest still rising, but could no longer speak. Liu Che stood there, watching the scout carried away. A bloodstain remained on the stretcher, black under the candlelight. Outside the tent, the wind was strong, whipping the tent walls, making them bulge like a person gasping. He thought of Xingye. Thought of her saying "You are not the Empress Dowager's emperor." He wasn't the Empress Dowager's, but he wasn't his own either. He belonged to the world. The world's emperor could not lose.
"Your Majesty." Li Guang entered, face grim. Fresh sword marks on his armor, uncleaned blood reflecting dim light under the candle. "If the scout's report is true, the main Xiongnu force is two hundred li north of us. Our current grain supplies will last only ten more days. If the Xiongnu cut the supply route—"
"I know."
"Then Your Majesty—"
"No retreat." Liu Che's voice was flat. He stood up, walking to the map. The map had been unfolded many times, edges curled, creases worn white. His finger pressed on the Yin Mountain position, blood still under his fingernails. "The main Xiongnu force is here. We are south. They think we will retreat. Retreat, and we lose. No retreat, and there is a chance."
"But the grain—"
"Forage locally. There is grass, rivers, cattle and sheep here. What the Xiongnu eat, we can eat." He paused, raising his head, looking at Li Guang. "I am not here to discuss. I am here to decide."
Li Guang looked at him for a long time. Then he knelt, kowtowing. "Your servant obeys."
Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 18th Day of the 3rd Month. Two Hundred Li North of Yin Mountains.
The Han army marched for three consecutive days, deep into the steppe. The sound of grass snapping under boots was crisp, ka-cha ka-cha, like bones breaking. Dew drops hit the armor, one by one, icy cold like needles. Soldiers' lips were cracked, faces covered in dust, armor caked in mud. But no one fell behind. Not because they weren't afraid, but because the Emperor was in front. Liu Che walked at the very front, not on horseback, walking with the soldiers. Boots worn through, soles covered in blisters, every step like stepping on knife points, he didn't say. Rations finished, he chewed raw meat with the soldiers, meat was bloody, tough to chew, he didn't say. Water finished, he drank horse urine with the soldiers, bitter and astringent, he didn't say. His face was cracked by the wind, lips covered in bloody cracks, but he walked at the very front. Walking before everyone.
"Your Majesty." Li Guang rode up, voice kept low, as if afraid the wind would carry it away. His horse was thinner too, ribs protruding one by one. "Scouts found them. Main Xiongnu force is thirty li ahead. At least thirty thousand. And their horses are steppe horses, good endurance, fast. Our horses are from the Central Plains, can't outrun them on the steppe."
Thirty thousand. Ten thousand more than them. And they were rested while the Han army was tired. Liu Che squatted down, grabbing a handful of soil. The soil was black, wet, squeezing water when clenched. Steppe soil was different from Central Plains soil. Central Plains soil was yellow, dry, couldn't be held. Steppe soil was black, wet, heavy in the hand, like holding a life.
"Li Guang."
"Here."
"How many cavalry do we have?"
"Eight thousand. The rest are infantry."
"Eight thousand against thirty thousand, can we fight?"
"No. Unless—"
"Unless what?"
"Unless we split forces. Part of the force engages from the front, another part flanks the rear to attack their grain. The Xiongnu have no granaries, their grain is cattle and sheep. The livestock follows the army, in the rear. If we can scatter the cattle and sheep, the Xiongnu won't last a few days."
Liu Che stood up, looking at the distant horizon. The sky was blue, clouds white, grass green. Like a painting. But the painting hid blades.
"Split forces. You take five thousand cavalry, flank the rear. I take three thousand cavalry, engage from the front."
"Your Majesty, three thousand against thirty thousand—"
"Not to fight. To delay. Delay them until you succeed."
"But—"
"No buts." Liu Che looked at him, gaze calm. Beneath that calm was fire. "I am not here to discuss. I am here to decide."
Li Guang looked at him for a long time. His lips moved, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. He knelt, kowtowing. Forehead striking the grass with a dull thud. "Your servant obeys."
Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 20th Day of the 3rd Month. North of Yin Mountains, Xiongnu Camp.
The sky hadn't lightened yet when Liu Che woke. Dew had wet the armor, sticking to the body, cold, making one shiver. He sat up, looking at the distant Xiongnu camp. Tents stretched endlessly, gray-white tops reflecting cold light in the morning glow. Cooking smoke rose, gray-white, dispersing in the morning wind, mixing with fog, indistinguishable. He thought of Chang'an. Thought of Xingye. Thought of her saying "You will win." He didn't know if he would win. But he knew he couldn't lose.
Mao Hour. The drums sounded. Drumsticks struck the hide surface with a thunderous boom, shaking dew drops from the grass tips. Three thousand cavalry followed him, charging toward the Xiongnu camp. Hooves struck the steppe, thunderous rumble, earth trembling, grass roots torn up, mud splashing. The Xiongnu woke, rushing from tents, mounting horses, drawing bows. Arrows fell like rain, dense, blocking the sky. Liu Che held his shield, charging at the front. Arrows grazed his helmet, ding, vibrating the eardrum, buzzing echo. Arrows stuck in his shield, one, two, three, shield getting heavier, like holding a door. He didn't stop. The horse ran faster, wind seeping into the armor, cold, but he wasn't afraid of the cold.
He thought of the sixteen-year-old soldier. The one who said "I want to fight back." He was in the column too. Right behind him. He didn't know his name. But he knew he followed him. Always followed him.
The first charge, the Han army broke into the Xiongnu camp. Sound of swords clashing, shouts, horse whinnies, mixed together, deafening, like millions of drums beating simultaneously. Liu Che's sword struck a shield, numbing the tiger's mouth, blood seeping from finger gaps, dripping down the hilt. His horse stumbled, he fell, rolled on the ground, mud caking his face. He got up, continued cutting. Blood on his face, his own and the enemy's. Sword marks on his armor, one, two, three—the deepest on the chest, armor plates cracked, revealing cotton padding, almost penetrated. He didn't retreat. He couldn't. He was delaying. Delaying until Li Guang succeeded.
One hour. Two hours. Three hours. The sun moved from east to zenith, then to west. Three thousand men, only fifteen hundred left. Horses couldn't run, foaming at the mouth, legs trembling. Swords blunted, edges notched, like saws. Shields shattered, fragments scattered, crunching underfoot. But the Xiongnu didn't retreat either. They were waiting. Waiting for the Han army to exhaust.
Near sunset, the Xiongnu rear fell into chaos. Cattle and sheep panicked, running everywhere, overturning tents, trampling people. Thick smoke rose from the rear, dark gray, blocking half the sky, firelight flashing in the smoke like subterranean magma. Li Guang succeeded. Liu Che stood on a pile of corpses, looking into the distance. His legs trembled, not from fear, but exhaustion. Below the knees, everything was numb, like not his own. But he smiled. Corners of mouth lifted, pulling at facial wounds, blood seeping out again.
"Issue the order. Full army assault."
His voice wasn't loud, hoarse, like sanded. But everyone heard. The remaining fifteen hundred men followed him, charging toward the Xiongnu center. They held blunted swords, shattered shields, picked-up Xiongnu bows. The Xiongnu panicked. Rear burning, front charging, enemies on all sides. They didn't know how many Han soldiers there were, only knowing shouts from all directions, firelight rising from all sides, like a burning rope tightening inward. They retreated. First a squad, then a battalion, then the entire army. On the steppe, once cavalry ran, no one could stop them. But this time, it was the Xiongnu running. Hoofbeats grew distant, lighter, finally inaudible. Only wind sound, and grass rustling in the wind.
Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 21st Day of the 3rd Month. North of Yin Mountains, Steppe Depths.
Liu Che rode a horse, standing on a high slope. Below were the Xiongnu's abandoned tents, cattle and sheep, flags. Tents still smoking, gray-white smoke rising, dispersing in the wind. Cattle and sheep grazed in the distance, heads down, chewing bite by bite, as if nothing happened. Flags lay in the mud, "Xiongnu" characters obscured by mud, unclear. Wind blew from the north, carrying burnt grass smell and blood scent, with a faint milky aroma. His armor had seven or eight sword marks, the deepest on the chest, plates cracked, revealing cotton padding soaked in blood, hardened. Blood, dust, sweat on his face. But his eyes were bright. Brighter than ever.
Li Guang rode over, covered in blood, but eyes also bright. His horse was thinner, ribs protruding, but standing, not fallen.
"Your Majesty, the Xiongnu Chanyu fled. North. Pursue?"
Liu Che looked into the distance. Sky blue, clouds white, grass green. Horizon far away, endless. Nothing there, only sky, grass, and wind.
"No pursuit."
"Your Majesty—"
"No more pursuit." He dismounted. Boots stepped on grass, soft, like cotton. His legs weakened, almost kneeling, steadied by hand on ground. He squatted, grabbing a handful of grass. Grass green, wet, clear scent, mixed with blood smell, indescribable. He clenched the grass for a long time. Grass juice seeped from finger gaps, green like blood.
"Li Guang."
"Here."
"We won."
Li Guang paused. Then knelt, kowtowing. Forehead striking grass with a dull thud. Shoulders trembling. "Long live the Emperor."
Behind, soldiers knelt, shouting "Long live!" Sound echoing on the steppe, wave upon wave, like tide hitting an invisible shore. Liu Che stood there, looking into the distance. He didn't smile. Face expressionless. But his hand hanging by his side trembled. Not from fear, not from exhaustion, but—he finally knew.
Knew war wasn't about who was braver, but who could endure more. Knew the emperor wasn't someone sitting on the Dragon Throne giving orders, but someone walking at the front, blocking blades for everyone. Knew what she meant by "three years" wasn't fear, but waiting. Waiting for the blade to sharpen, for grain to prepare, for a winnable moment. He was too impatient. He lost the first battle. But he won the last.
That night, he sat in the tent, a silk scroll spread before him. Candle flame danced, casting wavering shadows on the tent walls. He wanted to write to Chang'an. Brush in hand, ink dipped, but couldn't write. He wanted to write "I won." But the brush landed on the silk, writing—"Xingye, I miss you." He looked at those characters for a long time. Handwriting trembling, not hard like his usual writing. He crumpled the scroll, threw it aside. Took a new scroll, dipped ink, wrote.
"Yin Mountain Great Victory, Xiongnu fled north. Returning soon."
He gave the scroll to the scout. The scout mounted, disappearing into the night. Hoofbeats grew distant, finally swallowed by wind. He stood outside the tent, looking at the northern sky. Stars bright, like Chang'an city lights. Distant steppe reflected silver-white under moonlight, grass tips swaying gently, like a sea. He thought of her last words—"You will come back."
He would. Definitely.
[End of Chapter 38]