The Sickly Regent Prince Who Was Abandoned as a Substitute Bride

Commander Li Cheng and his archers were already in position at the gate tower. Thousands of crossbow bolts rained down on the approaching Northern Di main force like a dark cloud obscuring the sun. The front-line cavalrymen fell from their horses one after another, and the men behind them were tripped up, causing their formation to fall into chaos. Taking advantage of this opening, Zhao Xuan and his men finally rushed to the camp gate.

The heavy camp gate creaked shut, shutting out the roars and hoofbeats of the Northern Di cavalry. Zhao Xuan leaned against a stone pillar behind the gate, panting heavily. Sweat mixed with blood stung his eyes. He removed his helmet, revealing sweat-soaked hair, and glanced at his personal guards—Zhang Meng's left arm was pierced by a wolf-tooth arrow, and he was tightly binding the wound with a strip of cloth; Wang Yong's broadsword was chipped, and a deep, bone-revealing wound was split open on the web of his right hand; the remaining guards were all wounded, some with broken arms, some with limping legs, and others with blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their faces, yet their exposed eyes burned with an indomitable light.

“Take a headcount.” Zhao Xuan’s voice trembled slightly. After a moment, Wang Yong said in a low voice, “Three hundred guards set out, now… seventy-two remain.”

Zhao Xuan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He seemed to see those fallen faces again—Afu's hands trembling with nervousness when he first went to the battlefield, Li Zhong always saying that the women in his hometown could make osmanthus cakes, and that boy who always pestered him to ask about swordsmanship... They shouldn't have died. If someone hadn't leaked the marching route, if the Northern Di hadn't been prepared, this battle would never have been so brutal.

“A traitor…” Zhao Xuan clenched his fist tightly, his nails digging deep into his palms, drawing blood. He opened his eyes, a fierce glint in them, and looked south—towards the capital. “This conspiracy, I, Zhao Xuan, will personally shatter it.” He vowed silently, his voice soft yet carrying an unwavering resolve that echoed within the silent camp gates. In the distance, the howls of the Northern Di main force could be faintly heard, while the lights within the camp shone even brighter in the night.

The flickering candlelight inside the tent cast Zhao Xuan's long shadow on the mottled tent walls. He was deep in thought, staring at the unfolded map, his fingertips tracing the location of the Northern Di camp marked on it. A layer of frost settled between his brows. The fierce battles of the past few days had left his eyes dark and swollen, and although the bloodstains on his armor had been wiped away, a faint smell of rust still lingered.

Just then, the tent flap was abruptly flung open, and a gust of cold wind carrying snowflakes rushed in. The candlelight flickered violently, nearly going out. A guard stumbled in, his heavy cloak covered in snow, and even his eyelashes were icy. He had barely steadied himself when he knelt down on one knee with a thud, the clanging of his armor jarring in the silent tent. His voice trembled uncontrollably: "General! The camp... the camp's provisions have been inventoried. The remaining rations will only last for three days at most!"

Zhao Xuan's fingers paused abruptly, and he looked up at his personal guard. Before he could speak, the guard added through gritted teeth, "The army doctor just reported that the wound medicine and hemostatic powder are all gone, and even the Bupleurum Decoction used to reduce fever only has two doses left... The wounded soldiers are groaning in pain, and some of their wounds are starting to fester..."

With a loud crash, Zhao Xuan slammed his fist on the table, causing the bronze candlestick to jump and scalding wax to splash onto the back of his hand, which he seemed oblivious to. His brows furrowed into a deep knot, his eyes churning with turmoil—the siege by the Northern Barbarians was already like a sword hanging over his head; now, with food and medicine running low, it was like pouring water into a raging fire, only intensifying the flames. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, his hoarse voice carrying an undeniable authority: "Order all units to halve their daily rations from today onwards. The portions set aside by the soldiers should be prioritized for the wounded. Furthermore, have the medics inventory all usable herbs, even roots and bark—collect everything that can save lives! Tell the brothers that if they survive this, I, Zhao Xuan, will reward them handsomely!"

The guards, having received their orders, were about to rise when a rapid clatter of hooves suddenly erupted outside the tent, like countless thunderclaps exploding across the camp. Immediately following, a piercing horn blast tore through the night—the signal for the Northern Di to attack!

"Not good!" Zhao Xuan suddenly stood up, his sword flashing as it was drawn from its sheath, the cold light instantly illuminating his sharp eyes. "These jackals won't even give us a chance to catch our breath!" He rushed out of the tent, the biting wind instantly filling his thin undergarment, making him shiver, but he did not back down at all.

The guards had already gathered upon hearing the commotion, their hands on their sword hilts, their faces weary yet their eyes resolute. Zhao Xuan swiftly took the armor offered by a guard, his fingers deftly fastening each brass buckle. The coldness of the metal seeped through his fingertips, ironically making his mind even clearer. He picked up the longsword he had carried for many years, its blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight. Turning to face the crowd, his voice was like the clash of metal: "Brothers, those Northern Barbarian bastards see we're exhausted from days of fighting and want to take advantage of our weakness! Do they think they can defeat us like this?"

"No!" the guards roared in unison, their voices so loud that snowflakes fell from the top of the tent.

"Yes! No!" Zhao Xuan pointed his longsword straight out of the camp. "Behind us are the rivers and mountains of Da Jing, and our elders and fellow countrymen! Even if we fight to the last drop of blood today, we will let the Northern Di people know that the bones of the sons of Da Jing are hard! Follow me and fight our way out!"

"Kill! Kill! Kill!"

Amidst the shouts of battle, Zhao Xuan charged out of the camp gate, taking the lead. The Northern Di cavalry had already reached the outside of the palisade, their scimitars gleaming bloodthirstyly in the moonlight, their hooves kicking up clouds of snow. Zhao Xuan brandished his longsword, precisely deflecting the scimitar from a Northern Di cavalryman, then swiftly kicking the horse in the belly. The startled warhorse neighed and reared up, throwing its rider to the ground.

The guards followed closely behind, using the chevaux-de-frise and palisades outside the camp to construct a makeshift defensive line. Arrows swarmed through the night like locusts, and the Northern Di soldiers who were hit screamed and fell from their horses, quickly turning the snow a glaring red. Zhao Xuan's longsword had slain countless enemies; his hand was numb from the impact, and several wounds appeared on his arm, blood dripping from his fingertips onto the snow, instantly freezing into ice.

The fierce battle lasted for nearly an hour, until the sky began to lighten, when the Northern Di people retreated dejectedly with dozens of corpses. Outside the camp, there was a scene of devastation, with broken weapons, scattered helmets, and blood-stained snow mixed together, and a heavy stench of blood filling the air.

Zhao Xuan stood by the fence, leaning on his sword, watching the direction the Northern Di people had retreated, his chest heaving. He knew very well that this was just a probe by the Northern Di; the real attack was yet to come. And they no longer had the strength to resist.

"General, you are injured!" A guard rushed forward to bandage the wound on his arm.

Zhao Xuan waved his hand, his gaze sweeping over the mess on the ground, and said in a deep voice, "Go and take stock of the casualties and take good care of the wounded." He paused, then lowered his voice to a very low tone, "Also, call Wang Yong here; I have important instructions for you."

A moment later, a burly man with a scar on his face strode over. It was Wang Yong, the captain of Zhao Xuan's personal guard, who was most skilled in infiltration. He knelt on one knee: "General."

Zhao Xuan looked around to make sure no one was approaching before crouching down to face Wang Yong at eye level. "Wang Yong," he said, "the situation in the camp is critical. We're out of food and medicine. There must be a traitor tipping off the Northern Barbarians, otherwise they wouldn't have been so accurate in their timing." Wang Yong's eyes narrowed sharply. Zhao Xuan continued, "I need you to do one thing—disguise yourself as a Northern Barbarian herdsman, take this blood-written letter, and quietly leave during tonight's midnight blizzard. You must reach the capital within three days and present the situation to the Emperor. At the same time, secretly investigate the traitor's trail, especially the supply officer and the quartermaster."

He pulled a blood-stained piece of silk from his robes. Written in his own blood, it detailed the times when food supplies were running low, the amount of medicine that had disappeared, and the defenses of the Northern Barbarians. Wang Yong took the blood-stained letter with both hands, clutching it tightly in his palms, his knuckles turning white from the pressure: "General, rest assured, even if I am reduced to dust, I will deliver this letter!"

Zhao Xuan patted his shoulder, his eyes filled with expectation and heaviness: "Be careful on the road. Your safety is more important than anything else."

Night fell again, and heavy snowflakes drifted down, completely obscuring the camp. Wang Yong changed into a tattered sheepskin coat, his face smeared with soot, making him look no different from a northern nomad. Carrying a tattered knapsack, he hunched over and disappeared into the vast snowstorm, watched by Zhao Xuan. His figure was quickly swallowed by the snow, leaving only a trail of shallow footprints, which were instantly covered by new snowfall.

Zhao Xuan stood at the camp gate, staring in the direction Wang Yong had disappeared, motionless for a long time. Snow fell on his hair and shoulders, quickly accumulating into a thin layer of white. He gripped his sword tightly, the coldness of the blade spreading through his palm and throughout his body, yet it couldn't freeze the determination in his eyes. Behind him were hundreds of weary but still standing guard; before him lay a formidable enemy and unknown dangers. But he knew he had to hold this place, to hold it until Wang Yong brought news back to the capital, to hold it until dawn pierced this darkness.

The cold wind howled through the camp, swirling up snowflakes as if telling the story of the war's cruelty. Zhao Xuan took a deep breath, turned, and walked towards the wounded soldiers' camp, where many more people awaited his support, and where even more difficult battles awaited him.

When the cotton curtain of the wounded soldiers' camp was lifted, a strong smell suddenly rushed into the nostrils—the fishy sweetness of fresh blood, the putrid smell of old scabs, mixed with the bitter scent of herbs, and the sweat of the wounded soldiers from pain, fermenting in the airtight tent, weighing heavily on the heart.

The tent was dimly lit, with a dozen or so oil lamps hanging from the beams, their tiny flames shivering from the cold, barely illuminating the dry grass spread on the ground. The wounded soldiers lay or curled up, some with broken arms, others with broken legs. The hastily wrapped bandages over their wounds were already soaked with blood, dark red stains spreading across the straw mats. The groans that rose and fell were like fine needles pricking the eardrums, and some, in excruciating pain, cursed in low voices, cursing the cruelty of the Northern Barbarians and the damned winter. Finally, their voices grew weaker and weaker, leaving only suppressed gasps.

Zhao Xuan walked over quietly, his boots crunching over bits of grass. His gaze swept across the pained faces, from veterans well past sixty to young boys, each bearing the same despair. Reaching the end of the tent, he stopped before a "bed" covered with a tattered felt blanket—lying on it was a young soldier, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, named Little Stone, a new recruit who had been brought from his hometown three months prior.

At this moment, Xiao Shitou's legs were wrapped in thick strips of cloth up to his knees, and dark red blood seeped out from beneath, forming small puddles on the felt blanket. His face was as white as the snow outside the tent, his lips were cracked and chapped, and tears clung to his eyelashes. He was clearly in great pain, yet he gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound. Hearing footsteps, he struggled to open his eyes, and when his cloudy gaze met Zhao Xuan's, it suddenly brightened. His cracked lips moved, and he managed to squeeze out a weak voice: "General... General..."

Zhao Xuan crouched down, trying to make his voice sound gentle. He reached out to touch the boy's forehead, but hesitated for a moment, afraid of aggravating his wounds. His fingertips paused in mid-air before he finally gently grasped the boy's cold hand. The hand was so thin it was just bone, the palm covered in frostbite and calluses, and it was trembling uncontrollably from the pain.

"Can I...can I still go to the battlefield?" Little Stone's voice trembled with tears, which finally streamed down his face. "My mother said...that once I've rendered meritorious service, she'll let me marry A-Cui from the neighboring village...I haven't killed enough Northern Di people yet..."

Zhao Xuan's throat felt constricted, a dry, painful tightness. He knew that with such injuries, it was uncertain whether he could even survive the winter, let alone go to war. But looking at the remaining light in the boy's eyes, he couldn't utter a single discouraging word. He gripped the cold hand tightly, his voice filled with unwavering determination: "Yes. Why not?"

He freed one hand and gently patted the boy's shoulder: "Once the army doctor heals your wounds, we'll continue killing the Northern Barbarians. I'll let you be at the forefront then, give you the top credit, and let you go home in glory to marry Acui, okay?"

Little Stone's eyes brightened slightly, and he weakly nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He soon collapsed from the pain and fainted again. Zhao Xuan tucked him in, and when he stood up, his back was soaked with cold sweat. He wandered around the wounded soldiers' camp, looking at the other wounded soldiers and listening to the medic's low reports on their conditions; every word felt like a hammer blow to his heart. Only after confirming that all the wounded soldiers had received hot soup did he drag his heavy steps away.

Back in his tent, Zhao Xuan threw himself into the simple wooden chair and wearily rubbed his temples. He unfolded the Northern Di's defense map again, trying to find a breakthrough in the intersecting lines, but his mind was filled with the painful faces of the wounded soldiers and Little Stone's words, "I haven't killed enough Northern Di people yet."

The candlelight flickered again, and the wind outside seemed to pick up. Just then, the tent flap was flung open, and a guard stumbled in, his armor covered in snow and mud, his face ashen, his voice trembling uncontrollably: "General! No... something terrible has happened!"

Zhao Xuan suddenly stood up, his heart skipping a beat: "What's wrong? Tell me slowly!"