Night Raid Begins, Foreign Races Ambush the Camp

The wind on the northern slope suddenly died.

Bai Zhi halted. The instant her fingers touched her sword hilt, Chen Wuya had already raised a hand and pressed down the dying embers of the campfire. The wind from his palm snuffed out the sparks, and the last thread of light sank into darkness. At once, only blurred outlines remained before the camp. He held his left hand level, three fingers slightly spread—among the archers' formation, three groups of figures simultaneously crouched low and nocked their arrows.

That "click" did not come again, but both of them knew that the faint mechanism's sound from that moment had been no illusion. The enemy had arrived.

Bai Zhi no longer headed toward the main camp. Instead, she raced along the edge of the high slope, her toes barely touching the ground, making almost no sound. She circled toward the western hollow, where fifty saber fighters lay in ambush—the first line of close-combat defense. As she ran, she lightly patted her waist three times with her left hand—an agreed signal warning the ambushers that the enemy was coming and to prepare for battle.

Chen Wuya stood at the center of the high slope, holding the Armor-Piercing Awl horizontally before him, his gaze fixed on the foot of the northern slope. The night was so thick that even the outlines of grass blades could not be seen, but he knew the enemy was slowly advancing beneath the cover of the rolling terrain. They moved with extreme care, deliberately avoiding soft soil and treading only on the packed old path, even suppressing their breathing to the faintest whisper.

But no matter how careful they were, they could not deceive ears that had long been on guard.

When the first shadow crested the foot of the slope,