Eastern Han Dynasty, not the Three Kingdoms

Ma Chao rubbed the blood clots on his spear shaft, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "In two days, Kebineng's light cavalry should have crossed the Yinshan Mountains. Even a thousand-mile horse wouldn't be able to catch up with that old fox." He suddenly turned his head to look at the piles of Xianbei military equipment, the flickering campfire reflected in his pupils. "Send the order to stop the pursuit."

Zhang Xiu bowed, wanting to speak but hesitant, before finally asking the question deep in his heart: "So, will these prisoners... be beheaded on the spot as usual?" In the past, the Western Liang army had always treated enemy prisoners with ruthless methods.

Ma Chao raised his hand to stop him, his gaze sweeping over the trembling Xianbei soldiers in the ranks, their young faces still stained with their companions' blood. "Escort them back to camp," he said in a deep, iron-like voice. "Wuwei City has been besieged for so long, and the anger of Xiliang being invaded..." At this point, he slammed his silver spear to the ground, startling a few circling crows. "Let these people vent their anger on the people in the city."

Zhang Xiu suddenly looked up, seeing a coldness he had never seen in his brother's eyes before. The setting sun lengthened their shadows, interweaving with the scattered battle flags and broken blades on the ground, creating a solemn and murderous scene. In the distance came the sound of dragging chains as Xianbei captives were herded into formation. They had no idea that what awaited them would be a nightmare longer than death—and this was exactly what Ma Chao wanted Ke Bi to see: the price of the Western Liang army's revenge.

The north wind from the Yin Mountains whipped up snow flakes, whipping them against Ke Bineng's sable fur coat, making a whistling sound. He had stood on the boulder at the mountain pass for three full days, the animal head of his bronze scepter gleaming with sweat from his palms. His gaze repeatedly swept across the snowy plains leading to Xiliang—there should have been the figure of Zuo Xian Wang returning with the remnants of his troops, but there was nothing there except the howling cold wind.

"Great Chanyu," Murong Xuepo said, his fox fur collar frosted with frost. He was tucking the last of the sheepskin map into his arms. The Murong knights behind him had already tightened their reins. "Zuo Xian Wang's wolf flag hasn't appeared on the horizon for three days. Ma Chao's silver spear can pierce our strongest armor. Those 30,000 men are the blood-forged bravery he forged from the children of Xiliang. Zuo Xian Wang...can't come back."

His voice, wrapped in the wind, carried the uniquely rough voice of a northern man, yet it made Kebi tighten his grip on the scepter. The Left Xian King was not only his right-hand man, but also a fellow brother who had followed him for twenty years and was the Xianbei court's strongest supporter. And then there were the Left and Right Guli Kings, two fierce generals capable of firing a three-stone bow from horseback. Now, even the neighing of their warhorses had faded towards Xiliang.

"Wait another half day." Ke Bineng's voice trembled in the wind as he gazed at the rolling hills in the distance, where he had once planned to conquer Xiliang. This time, they had plundered cattle and sheep, seized food and fodder, but they hadn't been able to capture Wuwei City, nor had they been able to bring Ma Chao to his knees—in the final analysis, they had lost.

Murong Xuepo shook his head, the bronze pendant around his waist clanging against the wind and snow. "If we wait any longer, Ma Chao's pursuers will follow in our footsteps. Seventeen of the Murong tribe's men have already frozen to death, and we only have enough food and fodder to get us to the northern desert. Great Chanyu, we cannot sacrifice the entire Murong tribe for one man who is destined to never return."

Ke Bineng whipped his head around, realizing that while the Murong leader's troops had suffered losses, they were far from seriously injured. The elite troops of the Left Xian King had been nearly wiped out, and the troops of the Left and Right Guli Kings had even lost their banners in Xiliang. Murong Xuepo's troops, however, remained in perfect order, even his mount's mane meticulously groomed, now paddling impatiently with its hooves.

He suddenly realized that Murong Xuepo wasn't trying to persuade him, but to force him. With the death of Zuo Xian Wang and the disappearance of Guli Wang, the remaining forces within the Xianbei court that could challenge Murong's authority had been largely destroyed. He had to return to Mobei with his people intact, while he, the Great Chanyu, could only retreat in disgrace with the remnants of his army and a sense of resignation.

"Heh..." Ke Bineng let out a short laugh, as if there were ice stuck in his throat. "If you want to leave, go ahead."

Murong Xuepo said no more. As he mounted his horse, his dark cloak swept across the snow, leaving a sharp arc. "Men of the Murong tribe, break camp! Return to Mobei!"

The crunching sound of horse hooves tumbling through snow gradually faded. Ke Bineng, gazing at Murong Xuepo's back, suddenly felt the wind and snow were colder than in previous years. He looked down at his own hand, the hand that had held countless spoils of war, and now it was trembling slightly. On the distant skyline, a faint black speck moved. It wasn't the wolf flag of Zuo Xian Wang, but rather resembled a jackdaw—one of those scavenging birds that always circled above the battlefield.

He finally turned around and said solemnly to the remaining troops: "Withdraw."

The cold wind swept away his words, along with the last vestiges of the Xianbei royal court's spirit. Ke Bineng knew this retreat wasn't the end. Ma Chao would spread the news of Zuo Xian Wang's fate across the grasslands, and the news of the captives' torture in Wuwei City would spread like the wind to the northern desert—that would be Xiliang's revenge, and also a slap in his face.

Even more chilling was the fading sound of Murong Xuepo's horse hooves, hammering down like a heavy hammer on his crumbling throne. This unwinnable war ultimately sowed deeper rifts within the Xianbei lands.

Kebineng was lost in thought as he gazed at the retreating Murong tribe when the sound of hurried horse hooves suddenly reached his ears. Aguda, his eldest son, dismounted, his dark leather armor still stained with unmelted snow. He gazed at the sudden whitening of his father's temples and said gravely, "Father, Murong Xuepo's actions are overly hasty, as if he had already calculated that the Left Wise King wouldn't return. I'm afraid there's something fishy going on."

Kebineng slowly turned, the cold wind whipping his sable coat apart, revealing a deep weariness in his eyes. This battle seemed to have drained all his strength. In just a few days, the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, as if he had aged ten years overnight. He raised his hand and placed it on Aguda's shoulder, the roughness of his palm rubbing against his son's youthful armor. "Aguda, my dear son, remember this—there are no eternal kings on the grasslands, and even less unbreakable alliances."

He gazed at the distant horizon blurred by the wind and snow, his voice chilled to the bone. "This is why we, the Xianbei, always wander around the Han border, yet can never achieve the same success as them. The Han have homes and countries, and their swords are used to protect a piece of land. But we only have tribes, only our own calculations, and the flash of our swords always hides our own little schemes."

Aguda gripped the scimitar at his waist as his father continued, "What a grand victory when the 300,000-man army set out from the grasslands? And what about now? Even with the Murong tribe, there are less than 100,000 left. Murong Xuepo commands 50,000 cavalry and could have easily challenged us. His roots on the grasslands may be shallow, but don't forget—the Left and Right Guli Kings and the Left Xian King were both killed in Xiliang, and none of their capable generals have returned."

Kebineng's bronze scepter slammed heavily into the snow, sending up a shower of ice. "This is the most fatal blow to the Xianbei monarchy. Our first priority after returning to the grasslands is to guard against Murong Xuepo. The new Zuoxian King and Guli King haven't been elected yet. If he seizes the opportunity to annex those leaderless tribes, we'll inevitably be forced to engage in war with him first."

"Although we escaped unscathed this time, we were ultimately utterly defeated." He gazed at the gloomy sky, his voice filled with weakness. "After Tan Shihuai's defeat, the Xianbei were torn apart for years. We finally managed to reunite this force, but after this battle... I'm afraid we'll be back to our old ways of fighting each other."

Aguda frowned, gazing into his father's tired yet still sharp eyes. He asked in confusion, "Father, if that's the case, why did we invade the Han in the first place? When you first unified the Xianbei, our tribe was well-fed and clothed, and we had the best grass and water on the grasslands at our disposal. Why would we risk this, and end up with the loss of our troops and generals today?"

"Stupid!" Ke Bineng was so angry that he raised his bronze scepter and gently knocked it on Aguda's helmet. The animal tusk on the scepter head hurt him. "Your father has high hopes for you, and you can't even see through this!"

He took a deep breath and pointed to the snow-covered horizon to the south. "The Han people are divided, the princes are vying for supremacy, but are we, the Great Xianbei, truly impregnable? Look around you—which tribal leader doesn't harbor ulterior motives? My father was able to sit on the throne of the Great Chanyu thanks to the unwavering support of the Left Wise King, but do you think the other tribes would willingly submit?"

A chill wind whipped snow into their faces. Kebineng's voice suddenly rose: "The tribes on the grasslands are constantly fighting each other. If we don't channel this internal strife outwards and use Han land and wealth to appease the tribes, within three years, blood feuds will ignite between the tribes! By then, you kill me, I devour you, and sooner or later the throne of the Great Xianbei will crumble!"

He slowed his tone, the tip of his staff carving deep grooves in the snow. "Although we were defeated this time, the grasslands are now leaderless, with only Murong Xuepo to rule the land. If my father could unify the Xianbei once, he could suppress another rebellion. He doesn't have the guts to act rashly."

Finally, he placed his hand on Aguda's shoulder, his gaze as sharp as a hawk's. "Remember, the law of the grasslands has always been the survival of the fittest. We are the alpha wolf. If we can't lead the pack to new pastures, our tribe will be trapped by hunger and cold, and will only start to slaughter each other. Only by constantly sharpening our claws and fangs and expanding outward can this Xianbei giant wolf survive—this is why I am marching south."

Aguda gazed at his father's hunched back, suddenly realizing the sudden graying of his hair, hiding his anxiety about the Xianbei's future. The wind and snow swept between them, shredding Kebineng's sigh into shreds, scattering them across the vast snowy plains—the helpless lament of a king facing the impending collapse of his royal power.

Ma Chao's silver spear leaned against his shoulder, ice shards clinging to the tip as his horse's hooves lurched. The clatter of dragging chains behind him pierced the snowy plain. Thousands of Xianbei captives, strung together in a long line by ropes, sobs of despair escaped their cracked lips. They knew not that the city ahead, its battle-blackened walls, waited to heal its wounds with their pain.

The snowy ground outside Wuwei City was already filled with welcoming crowds. Ma Dai, clad in blood-stained armor, his left arm bandaged with blood, strode forward upon seeing Ma Chao. As he clasped his fists, their iron guards collided heavily. "Brother!" His voice was hoarse, his eyes reflecting the fatigue of days of desperate defense, yet he couldn't conceal the excitement of reunion.

Cheng Gongying stood beside Ma Dai, leaning on a cane, his graying beard frosted. Behind him followed civil officials like Xi Zhi, their official robes stained with gunpowder, yet they held their backs straight. What made Ma Chao's heart sink even more was the crowd surrounding them—mostly gray-haired elders, sallow-faced women, and a few half-grown children, clutching broken spears, stones, or rusty kitchen knives. Those young and strong men who should have been charging the battlefield now lay in the city's wounded camp or had become loyal souls beneath the walls.