Ten Thousand Felt Tents Roll Up Wind and Sand, Vanguard's Broken Halberd Holds Endless Regret

The frigid wind of the northern desert grasslands swept up fine yellow sand, like countless sharp little knives scraping across a hastily erected Xiongnu camp.

The wind howled as the whirling grit pattered against the black felt tents with soft crackles, mingling with the distant neighing of warhorses and the clamor of soldiers to weave a picture of a rugged, murderous steppe army.

Tens of thousands of black felt tents spread densely across the land, like a colony of black ants lying dormant in the wilderness, stretching unbroken for dozens of miles.

In the open spaces beyond the tents, tens of thousands of warhorses lowered their heads to chew dry fodder, the white vapor from their nostrils vanishing instantly in the cold wind.

The Xiongnu riders wore heavy leather armor and curved sabers set with wolf fangs at their waists. In twos and threes, they sat around bonfires, raising wineskins brimming with strong liquor and shouting boisterously. Drink ran from the corners of their mouths, soaking the leather armor over their chests.

Other riders squatted on the ground, wiping down their weapons with coarse hemp cloth. The blades glinted with a grim, icy light in the dimness.

The air was thick with the rank stench of horse dung, the rich fragrance of strong liquor, and the raw, gritty scent unique to the grasslands, blending into an intense smell that belonged to the Xiongnu army alone.

This force, one hundred thousand strong, came from the Xiutu Tribe under the Xiongnu Right Worthy King.

It was one of the more powerful tribes on the northern desert grasslands. Its riders were all fierce and battle-hardened, living year-round by plundering neighboring tribes and the Central Plains borderlands. Their savage reputation had spread far and wide.

At the center of the camp stood an especially