The Guest Who Arrived Lightly on Ten Thousand Horses, Unaware the Blade's Edge Had Already Reached Him

"Twang—!"

The bowstrings thundered across the grasslands once more, denser and swifter than the previous volley. Tens of thousands of specially made Mohist Pavilion arrows left their bows at once, pouring down like black lightning upon the Xiongnu soldiers trapped in a hopeless plight.

They filled the sky and blanketed the earth. Wherever the rain of arrows passed, wet thuds rang without cease, blood blossoms bursting in a continuous, dense display.

The Xiongnu soldiers fell in swathes, corpses layering the grassland one atop another. Blood flowed along the lay of the land, gathering into tiny crimson streams that stained vast stretches of prairie red.

The two volleys came only a few breaths apart, so fast that the eye could scarcely follow them.

The Xiongnu soldiers had no time to react, no time to dodge—not even time to scream before they fell into pools of blood.

What awaited the surviving Xiongnu at the rear was not the slightest hope of life, only the lethal chill brought by the arrow rain and despair that seeped into their very bones. Seeing lives reaped at such a speed, they could not even form the thought of counterattacking before it was crushed.

On the high slope at the front of the battlefield, Xubu Hu—previously smug and full of disdain—had gone completely rigid. As if struck by five bolts of lightning, he stood dumbly in his stirrups while the warhorse beneath him pawed the ground in agitation, yet he noticed none of it.

From his lofty vantage point, he had watched the entire process with his own eyes: the Blood-Clad Army shedding their earlier pretense of "anxious discouragement," reorganizing their formation in an instant, and drawing their bows to unleash a unified volley. Every movement had been smooth and perfectly synchronized.

He had clearly seen the