Surrender Is Spared Only Because You Still Have Value

Despair instantly froze the blood of every Oirat Soldier.

"It's them... those demons..."

"Eternal Heaven! Why won't you let us go?!"

The moment they saw that black cavalry force bearing down from the horizon, the mental defenses of the three thousand-plus surviving Oirat troops instantly collapsed.

They did not even have the courage to draw their Weapons and fight back.

The one-sided massacre at Gourd Pass had already left an indelible shadow in their hearts.

They knew perfectly well that before these monsters, impervious to blades and Spears and possessed of boundless strength, any resistance was futile.

"Run! Scatter and run!"

Bayan let out a hoarse, heart-rending roar. He wheeled his Horse Head and became the first to break away from the main force, galloping madly in another direction.

He knew that staying together meant certain death.

Scattering in flight might yet leave them a sliver of hope.

Yet once again, he had underestimated Zhu Zhanjun's ruthlessness and the terror of that army.

Watching the fleeing Oirat rout scatter in every direction, Zhu Zhanjun sat upright atop his Wuzhui Horse, his expression utterly unmoved.

He did not even have the interest to pursue them personally. He merely lazily raised a hand.

"Shenbi Crossbows, fire at will."

"Mo Dao troops, clear the battlefield."

"Leave none alive."

With the icy command issued, three thousand Great Snow Dragon Riders spread into a black net, sweeping across all directions to the west.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Dense Armor-piercing Heavy Arrows carried the howl of death, streaking countless deadly lines across the sky above the Snowfield.

The Oirat Soldiers fleeing for their lives were picked off with precision one after another, tumbling from their horses and leaving shocking trails of blood across the snow.

Their flight only turned them into more conspicuous living targets.

The Mo Dao troops following close behind carried out their orders with brutal efficiency.

They galloped past those Oirat Soldiers who had fallen or knelt to beg for mercy, their Mo Dao merely sweeping lightly through the air.

Heads flew skyward one after another.

The entire process was silent, swift, and saturated with ultimate violence.

There were no screams, no wails—only the wet splat of blades entering flesh and the crunch of hooves treading through snow.

Under the desperate protection of his Guards, Bayan narrowly avoided the first wave of arrows.

When he looked back, his soul nearly fled his body.

He saw that black net of death rapidly tightening at a pace visible to the naked eye.

His tribesmen were being harvested in swathes, utterly unable to resist.

"Zhu Zhanjun!"

Bayan's eyes turned bloodshot. He reined in his horse, stared at the chief culprit in the distance, guarded at the center like the moon among stars, and let out a despairing, venomous roar.

He knew he could not escape.

"I'll fight you to the death!"

Bayan turned his Horse Head, raised his curved saber, and launched a suicidal charge toward Zhu Zhanjun.

Yet he had not even charged a hundred paces.

Whoosh!

A crossbow bolt from nowhere pierced straight through his warhorse's neck.

The warhorse gave a mournful cry and crashed to the ground.

Bayan was hurled away by the tremendous momentum, rolling several times across the snow and left dazed and battered.

He struggled to his feet, but before he could steady himself, more than a dozen gleaming Mo Dao were already pressed to his throat.

The icy touch made his entire body stiffen. He did not dare move another inch.

Zhu Zhanjun slowly rode up before him and looked down at him, his gaze calm.

"You want to fight me to the death?"

Zhu Zhanjun smiled.

"Are you worthy?"

Bayan's face instantly flushed the color of pig's liver.

That humiliation hurt worse than being killed.

"The victor becomes king, the loser a bandit. Kill me or flay me, do as you please!"

Bayan craned his neck and closed his eyes, wearing the air of a man stretching out his throat to await the blade.

"Kill you?"

Zhu Zhanjun shook his head.

"No. Right now, you're an important 'strategic resource.' Killing you would be too wasteful."

He turned to the Commander of a Hundred beside him.

"Bind him tight and take him back."

"My mines happen to be short a supervisor."

"Yes!"

In less than half an hour, the battle—or rather, the slaughter—was already over.

Of the three thousand-plus surviving Oirat troops, aside from Bayan, who was captured alive, every last one was slain. Not a single survivor remained.

Not one of the three thousand Great Snow Dragon Riders suffered a Casualty.

"Your Highness, shall we return to the capital next, or...?"

The Commander of a Hundred came forward to ask for instructions.

Zhu Zhanjun opened the system map. Looking at the region representing the Oirat Royal Court, as well as the densely packed red dots around it representing other small and medium tribes, a faint smile appeared on his face.

"Return to the capital? No rush."

"Since we're already here, we should at least collect some 'toll money.'"

Using his Horse Spear, he drew a massive circle on the map, enclosing more than a dozen Mongolian tribes within it.

"Pass down my order. The whole army is to change direction. Our target is the Kherlen River!"

"Tell the leaders of those tribes that they have two paths to choose from."

"Either offer half their tribe's Cattle and Sheep, warhorses, and all their able-bodied young men, then join Great Ming's 'Northern Construction Corps.'"

"Or I'll personally bring men over and help them choose."