A Night's Hanging Corpse, Blood Still Wet; Thunder Gathered in Secret, Awaiting the Break

In the dead of night, three thousand Xiongnu cavalrymen poured from the main camp like ghosts.

They carried no torches and made no sound. Even their horses' hooves were wrapped in cloth, producing only dull, muffled thumps against the grass.

Their curved blades were already drawn, glinting with a cold, ghostly sheen in the darkness.

Leading them was a battle-hardened veteran, a saber scar slashing diagonally from his brow bone to his jaw. It looked especially savage beneath the night sky.

He rode at the very front, his gaze fixed firmly on the distant Qin Army camp.

They had bypassed those crude fortifications. In the pitch-black night, such defenses offered little resistance against small bands of roaming cavalry—far less than a camp patrolled by torch-bearing sentries.

Thus, the Xiongnu cavalry easily slipped through.

Closer.

Closer still.

The veteran leader signaled for them to slow their horses, reducing the noise to the utmost and leaving the enemy less time to react.

Until the Qin Army camp lay right before them, its lights sparse. Patrols wandered lazily back and forth; some yawned, while others leaned against the camp gates and dozed.

The scar-faced man grinned, baring a mouthful of yellow teeth.

"Charge!"

The three thousand riders abruptly accelerated. The thunderous pounding of hooves exploded through the night, piercingly loud.

Waving their curved blades, they let out earth-shaking battle cries and charged fiercely at the Qin Army camp's flank.

Those lax patrols were like startled rabbits, each one springing up in panic, unsure whether to grab a bow or draw a sword. The soldiers resting inside the tents fell into complete chaos the moment they heard the hoofbeats.

One look was enough to tell—there was no resistance here at all. They could slaughter them at will.

The scar twisted along with the smile