The White Sheep Tribe's territory was a vast plain, flat as far as a horse could run.
Thirty thousand Blood-Clad Army soldiers raced close over the grass tips like a black, raging dragon.
The thunder of hooves rolled on without end, yet it was so orderly that it sounded like a single horse galloping.
Thirty thousand warhorses, like thirty thousand hearts, beat in the same rhythm.
Meng Tian reined his horse at the very front, his cloak stretched into a straight line behind him, snapping in the wind.
The wind howled past his ears, slicing his face with pain.
He did not slow down.
According to Zhao Cheng's military orders, there was still plenty of time.
Even if the White Sheep Tribe discovered them now and came out to stop them, there would still be time.
Setting out from Canhe Slope in Dai Commandery, smashing through the Xubu Tribe, the Jizhou Tribe, and the Gaolin Tribe in succession, cutting all the way through the Xiongnu heartland—he had not delayed for a single day, not a single hour.
Yet he was still anxious.
Anxious as though a fire were burning in his chest.
For no other reason.
On the main battlefield, the one leading ninety thousand motley troops against two hundred thousand elite Xiongnu soldiers was his father.
Meng Tian pressed his lips into a line, his jaw clenched tight.
He knew the power of those cannons.
Shells were not arrows, not catapult stones, nor any other weapon of this era.
Those things knew no reason. One blast, and elite or not, flesh was flesh—everything could be blown to a bloody pulp.
But the enemy had two hundred thousand men.
Meng Tian ran the numbers through his mind again and again.
Two hundred thousand men—even if they stood still and let