Zhao Feng stood at the camp gate, watching her receding figure before his gaze shifted to the distant horizon, gradually brightening in the morning light over the grasslands. Commands rang out throughout the camp, mingling with the clatter of hooves.
Zhao Feng returned to his desk and spread out the grassland map again, its surface covered in countless charcoal markings. Starting at White Spring Pass, his finger slowly traced the empty corridor ahead, passing over the Gobi wastes, several oases marked as water sources, and a valley suitable for an ambush. Finally, he tapped the map twice and withdrew his hand.
"I can afford to wait," he murmured, so softly that only he could hear. "Supplies, endurance, whose soldiers can wait longer-whatever the contest, I'll wear you down to the bitter end."
A horn sounded outside the tent, long and desolate, like some ancient call from the depths of the grasslands. It was the signal for the army to depart.
Zhao Feng rose, straightened his armor and cloak, and strode toward the tent entrance.
The army marched out through the pass, its sword pointed at the vast grasslands of the Northern Barbarians' eastern territory.
After leaving White Spring Pass, the army advanced westward.
The grassland wind blew from morning to night, sometimes as gentle as a woman's hand brushing a cheek, sometimes as fierce as something roaring between heaven and earth.
The great banners bearing the characters for Yan and Zhao snapped in the wind. The Hundred-Thousand Army stretched for miles, like a steel behemoth moving slowly across the grasslands. Hooves, footsteps, and wagon wheels intertwined into a deep, drawn-out war song, sung from sunrise to sunset, then from sunset until stars filled the sky.
Before their departure, Ba Tu had spread a map drawn on sheepskin in charcoal inside