Mountain Skirmish

A long wind rolled across the vast plateau, and mountains rose and fell beneath the high, distant sky. The rainy season had already passed, and the land had returned to dryness. The dust of the marching army rose from the earth, shifting shapes in the air. A seasoned general only had to gaze from afar to know the size of an army.

Under the guard of several red-haired escorts, Chichica climbed the highest hill and looked down over the battle in the mountains.

Chichica was not yet forty, with a full brow, fierce eyes, and a sharply defined face that carried the authority of a veteran warrior. He had endured the wind and sand of the wasteland, and deep lines were carved at the corners of his eyes. Following the traditions of his tribe, red patterns were painted across his cheeks. At this moment, he wore a rough wolf pelt over his shoulders, a spiritual wolf's foot hung from his neck, and raptor feathers were tied to his arms. With one glance, anyone could tell this was a wasteland chief long tempered by slaughter and rich in experience.

The Red Dog Tribe chief looked all around, and a chain of small hills came into view. The hills were covered in undulating low trees and surrounded by great flocks of American Vultures. It was late autumn, yet the woods were still green, appearing deep and killing-cold beneath the shadow of the mountains. This was a branch range extending from the Sierra Madre Oriental, located between Pamus City and Red Fox Valley. By the time the towering mountains reached this place, they gradually eased, turning into rolling hills.

A mountain road followed the edge of the hills, stretching a hundred li east to west. The hills could also be marched across, but