The Winds and Clouds of the Desert

The world is filled with countless schemes. While those ensnared often suffer great losses, if one had never revealed a flaw to be exploited, how could they fall into such traps? Yet, no one is flawless. What is "perfection"? Even if one gave everything, it is impossible to become an invincible being. A lifetime of great deeds, within the span of eternity, is but a fleeting moment—a flash like a white horse passing through a gap.

The desolate desert now lay in the midst of a chaotic war. In the northern territories, Tiandu's army, with ninety percent of its forces mobilized, clashed in a death struggle with Yunpei. As for why this war—destined to lay waste to oases and bring suffering to all living beings—was ignited, King Jing of Tiandu had many reasons. But the two most crucial were: first, Tiandu now possessed the military strength to challenge Yunpei, and with abundant resources to gain, it was only logical to seize the opportunity; and second, the rapid rise of Tiandu's military power was due to internal chaos within the regime of the Ice Thorn Palace. There had long been factional struggles, notorious assassination attempts were relentless, and infighting rampant. From King Jing's perspective, the best solution was to find a common enemy—an adversary whose defeat would bring benefit to all factions in power. That enemy was Yunpei, and the goal was to unite the desert under one banner, establishing unrivaled supremacy. And indeed, this strategy proved effective—Tiandu had never been as united as it was now.

However, in politics, every action or decision is a double-edged sword; a single misstep could lead to disastrous consequences, ruining all in its path. Now, the battlefield had shifted westward across the desert. On the surface, it seemed that Tiandu was besieging Yunpei, but in reality, King Zhan aimed to break the balance of the battlefield—he was waiting for the right moment, that moment being the coup in the Ice Thorn Palace.

From the onset of war, King Zhan had dispatched agents to infiltrate the Ice Thorn Palace, conducting secret negotiations with the Zhao faction remaining in Tiandu, persuading them to support the establishment of a puppet king—Jing Tianwang's twelve-year-old brother, Huo Qingling. Once this new regime was formed, Tiandu's army would become a lawless force. Though risky, it was a golden opportunity for the Zhao faction. As long as King Zhan emerged victorious, the Zhao family would seize control of the Ice Thorn Palace. Remarkably, this perilous move was carried out smoothly, even as Qingyun mobilized all of Mangliu's forces in search of Huang Beishuang.

In the year 332 AD, the Ice Thorn Palace witnessed the rise of a new king overnight, given the title Xiaotong. Zhao Rui, the newly-appointed chancellor, wielded great power—eliminating dissidents, detaining 109 officials, and issuing a proclamation that King Jing of the North had been deposed as an unjust ruler, declaring him an enemy of all. In just four days, the Tiandu army's morale was shattered, tens of thousands of soldiers scattered aimlessly, and Yunpei swiftly regained the upper hand.

The first lament sings of intrigue. Those in power plot their course. Human hearts may lament the suffering of beings, yet they attempt to control fate in their grasp.

Amidst the ruins, Ruowen’s resilience was remarkable. After a deep, restful sleep, he awoke with renewed vigor. Glancing down at Huang Beishuang, still feverish beside him, he touched her forehead and confirmed that her temperature had indeed risen again. He gave her a few light slaps on the face until she awoke. Her eyes, red and tear-stained, looked at him.

"Get up if you've slept enough. We need to leave this place!" Ruowen sat by her, re-bandaging his arm.

"How do we leave?" She looked up, seeing only darkness above.

"How will we know if we don't try?" With that, Ruowen finished dressing his wound and turned to lift her up in his arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Stop asking me 'what' all the time. Can you walk?" He looked into her eyes, his tone irritated.

"..." Indeed, she couldn’t walk at all.

In the underground palace, the first thing to consider was finding the source—a way out. Ruowen carried Huang Beishuang along a waterway. It was a clear, flowing stream, and they walked for some time before finding that the watercourse had been deliberately blocked—a thick wall that didn't echo when struck barred their way completely. They stared at the wall, crestfallen; the waterway was clearly not an option.

"Do you have any suggestions?" Ruowen sighed and looked up at her.

Huang Beishuang surveyed their surroundings for a while before saying, "I don't know how to find the exit, but... have you noticed that despite the darkness, there is still some light here?"

"Go on." He carried her while continuing to observe the palace.

"The light comes from some still-standing Luminous Jade walls," she said, pointing ahead. "Look, there's a wall over there, partially intact, and it's embedded with many Luminous Jades!"

"Mm." Ruowen approached, touching the wall. "These are the things that emit light?"

"Luminous Jade can gather light. After so many years, it’s impressive that they haven’t entirely lost their effect!" She nodded, placing one hand on Ruowen's neck for balance while running the other along the wall. "But look, many of these jades have no light, which means they received different levels of exposure to light, so—"

"So, if we follow the brighter Luminous Jades, we might find an exit?" Ruowen immediately caught on.

"It's just a possibility," she said, frowning. "We could also end up lost in a maze."

Ruowen adjusted his grip on her and asked, "Any other suggestions?"

She shook her head. "I can't think of any."

"Then let’s go," he said with a grunt.

Jiandu.

Restless and uneasy, Qingyun resolved to end the conflict swiftly. It had already been seven days, and the coup in the Ice Thorn Palace had inflicted deep wounds upon him—wounds that could only be healed by defeating King Zhan. Who would have thought that a nearly defenseless courtier could orchestrate such a coup? Perhaps that was the very essence of fate's secret—every territory had its ruler, and once that ruler departed, those left behind could at any moment declare independence. It seemed that the barrier of yellow sands could indeed sever the power he held in his grasp.

Qingyun was well aware of King Zhan's intentions; a mere coup by a civil minister, with no soldiers to command, was not enough to determine the outcome of the war. King Zhan merely sought to use this incident to force him into a truce, while Zhao Rui took a desperate gamble, betting that Qingyun would not yield. Politics was often like this—manipulation, balance, a gamble that could succeed or result in total collapse. It was a cold and absurd world they were born into.

On the battlefield, Qingyun, clad in armor, rode his white steed—swift and gallant—charging through the chaos of battle. Blades clashed, and the agitation that had festered in his heart for days could only be vented through this duel with King Zhan. His blood boiled, his heart pounded, and the horse beneath him reared up repeatedly, its whinny piercing the sky.

"Your Majesty! Do not go too deep!" Jihua, stationed by his side, hurriedly intervened. This was the third battle fought on the western front, and both armies were on edge, made worse by the new policies of Xiaotong in Tiandu, which had thrown them into disarray. King Zhan's move had been ruthless, causing chaos within their ranks, and in the end, they had no choice but to execute three deserters.

"Your Majesty!" Yet Jihua's warnings fell on deaf ears. In a matter of moments, Feita had plunged into the sea of soldiers, leaving Jihua sweating with anxiety as he hurriedly gave chase.

In that fleeting moment, a shadow flashed beside the sand trench. Atop the hill appeared a Yunpei soldier, broad-shouldered and formidable, holding a bow nearly as tall as himself. The slender string vibrated, and the black arrow shot forth with alarming swiftness. Such a bow was beyond the strength of an ordinary man; once pulled, the arrow was destined to pierce through countless bodies, and this time was no exception.

"Your Majesty!" Jihua cried out in shock, rushing forward to shield Qingyun. But the arrow pierced through one soldier, then Jihua's shoulder, and still it did not stop—hitting Qingyun squarely in his right back. Time seemed to halt, and blood surged forth like a fountain...

The archer was none other than Zhanbie, an envoy from the vassal state of Huohe, now under Tiandu's control. Forced to join the Yunpei army, he finally saw his chance to avenge his mother and his homeland. Standing on the hilltop, exuding an air of grandeur, he drew his bow again, laughing wildly. This king, once invincible, would fall to his hand today. With that thought, his eyes grew cold, and his powerful arm pulled the bowstring back, sending another arrow flying.

But this arrow was intercepted by Jihua, who leaped into the air, catching half of the shaft in his hands even as it penetrated his flesh and bone. He staggered back several steps before finally spitting out a mouthful of blood. Zhanbie was stunned, momentarily frozen.

Jihua's sacrifice ignited the loyalty of the Tiandu soldiers, who immediately gathered around, raising their weapons—swords, arrows, and bows—targeting Zhanbie.

"Release the arrows!"

To harm the king was a crime that could not go unpunished. Despite his grievous wounds, Jihua shouted, and the guards followed suit, unleashing a storm of arrows. While Zhanbie reveled in his success, the sky darkened with a volley of arrows descending like an inescapable net.

Zhanbie was but a small figure—despite his aspirations, he lacked the fortune to achieve them. He fought desperately to gain status, all to marry a Huohe noblewoman, yet fate denied him time and again. His country, his mother, his beloved... As his life ebbed away, he wondered if there was still a chance to meet them again in another world. What was a hero, after all? As he slowly fell, gazing at the sky, did he finally understand?

The second lament sings of heroism. What is destined will come, but the heavens are unkind. To force greatness without the destined fate is futile.

...

Qingyun had been struck in the shoulder and back, but fortunately, the arrow's malevolence had largely dissipated after passing through two others, lodging in his back with only symbolic force. He pressed a hand to his wound while gripping his sword tightly, lifting his head without any desire to see who had managed such a strike. Ahead, to his right, unexpectedly, was King Zhan, equally deep in the midst of the battle. For the first time in so long, they faced each other on the battlefield as kings, so close.

He was still clad in his scarlet robes, vivid and intense; the other was still armored in black, domineering and wild.

After so many years, this was their first time meeting on the battlefield, separated by mere paces. Their swords—itching for the clash—had already begun to move.

"All of you, stand down!" King Zhan looked at Qingyun, tightening his grip on his sword.

"You too, Jihua!" Qingyun glanced at King Zhan, his own grip unyielding.

And then they moved closer, step by step, their swords clashing like thunder in the sky.

Despite his injuries, Qingyun's innate valor and flawless swordsmanship had not diminished. The sound of steel striking steel resonated as he found his rhythm, swiftly delivering a blow that fractured King Zhan's bone. King Zhan spat blood, using his sword as a crutch, refusing to fall as he clutched at the wound on his chest, glaring defiantly at Qingyun.

"Not practicing your swordsmanship, are you?" Qingyun smiled coldly. "Spent too much time plotting and scheming?"

"Hmph!" King Zhan wiped the blood from his lips, pointing his sword at Qingyun. "At least under my rule, Yunpei has never been a laughingstock like your kingdom! You're still young and arrogant—ten years as a king, but spending all that time training in martial arts. No wonder you haven't cured the deep-seated weakness!"

With those words, they stared at each other, and as the wind of blood swept past, they charged once more. Qingyun's sword was faster, slashing through King Zhan's flesh again and again, though none of the blows could take his life. In the heart of the battlefield, they fought, their crimson garments fluttering like banners. Around them, their guards formed a circle, watching this fierce struggle of two titans, their blood boiling in that very moment.

They were two entirely different people—different in political style, different in character, different in how they validated themselves. One would not restrain himself, taking what he desired by any means; the other had immense faith in his own self-control, never straying from his path. And the one thing they shared was their fate—the fate of a ruler whose commands none dared to disobey. When they were right, their people prospered; when they were wrong, their people suffered. Both had pursued civil and martial excellence, striving for the well-being of their kingdoms, pieces moved by destiny that they had no choice but to play, paths they had no choice but to tread. Whether they succeeded or failed, to outsiders, it seemed inevitable.

It seemed their loves, their hatreds, their blood and their tears—all were irrelevant.

The third lament sings of kingship. Lofty ambitions rise from the plains, illustrious fame stands tall. Yet who knows? Civil or martial—both bear the weight of a kingdom's sorrows, only to see a gentle breeze at the Yellow Springs.

The soldiers fought, the common folk did not. As smoke rolled across the western front, refugees fled from Jiandu's snowy plains like a tide, most hoping to reach Mizang in the distant east. But it was far too distant, and more often than not, those hopes ended in the desolation of the wastelands. Thus, more and more gathered at the small oasis, forming groups of dozens or hundreds, defending against plunderers or killers, leaving little hope for the lone traveler.

"How long have we been walking?"

Under the dim light, Ruowen held Huang Beishuang in his arms, unsure how long they had been traveling. His arms were beginning to turn purple. Hearing her question, he looked up at her and said, "What? Finally awake?"

Huang Beishuang blinked, realizing she had fallen asleep. Even wounded, she shouldn't have let her guard down like this. She bit her lip in frustration and said nothing more.

"There are two paths," Ruowen suddenly said in a low voice. "Which way?"

Huang Beishuang looked up. The two passageways appeared almost identical, making it difficult to decide. She frowned, her mind beginning to recall the contents of the "Desert Chronicles," hoping to find some clue.

Seeing her troubled expression, Ruowen chuckled. "No need to think. I know which way to go."

"You know?" Huang Beishuang was stunned. "How do you know?"

Ruowen loosened his grip, slowly setting her down. After carrying her for so long, his arms were already numb and sore. He shook his arms and paced between the two entrances before coming back to lift her again, staring at her chapped lips for a while, his amethyst eyes gleaming with an unreadable light.

His gaze grew more unfathomable, especially in his silence. Huang Beishuang turned away, unwilling to meet his eyes. Yet, just as they stepped into the passageway, Ruowen pressed his lips together and leaned in, kissing her again—a rare, gentle kiss, as if offering her much-needed moisture, soft and tinged with a faint acidity. Huang Beishuang dared not resist, merely endured it silently, her hands on his shoulders, fingers nearly digging into his flesh. Yet he seemed not to care.

After a long moment, he finally released her and said softly, "Let's go."

...

The passageway was peculiar—winding like a serpent, seemingly designed to let the orderly walls of luminous jade reflect light upon one another. Most importantly, Ruowen seemed to have chosen correctly, as the glowing stones grew increasingly bright.

"How did you know this was the way?" Huang Beishuang looked at the brightening walls, her heart pounding with excitement.

Ruowen remained silent, his pace growing faster until he was running. Despite the steepening slope, his uphill sprint showed no sign of slowing. At last, they reached the highest point and saw a crescent-shaped opening—a break in the wall revealing the blue sky and white clouds beyond.

"My god!" Huang Beishuang shouted in astonishment. "This is..."

Ruowen set her down, then drew his sword and spear, wedging them into the crescent gap before mustering his strength to deliver a powerful kick. With a loud crash, the narrow crevice burst open, and Ruowen's patricidal blade shattered into three pieces, falling away along with the yellow sand.

Huang Beishuang was utterly stunned. She had not expected him to possess such strength. What she thought would require hours of digging had been accomplished with a single kick.

Ruowen pulled her up through the gap, and outside lay the familiar sight of endless yellow sands.

Sitting down on the sand, Huang Beishuang took a deep breath, gazing up at the vast white clouds, tears welling in her eyes. She had truly believed she would die in the abyss, never imagining she would escape alive. Perhaps it was the fact of facing death once that made life seem all the more precious. Tears flowed freely as an irrepressible joy filled her heart.

Yet, despite emerging from the abyss together, Ruowen's reaction was vastly different. His face was darkened with malice, murderous intent rising within him. Huang Beishuang blinked, turning to see him gripping the only weapon he had—a spear named "Wife-Seizer"—lowering his body and rushing swiftly forward. She followed his gaze and saw a group of twenty or so refugees—mostly widowed women and children, with few men among them—who seemed to be resting on a patch of ground. She noticed wisps of smoke rising from their fires and heard the faint, sorrowful singing of a woman:

The sky is gray, ashes descend,

Camel bells ring, horse hooves fly!

Stars refuse to shine on waters,

The moon mocks the tears unshed!

Husband! Husband! Why have you not returned?

Son! Son! Why have you not come home?...

Alarmed, Huang Beishuang shouted at the top of her lungs, "Run! Run!"

The singing stopped abruptly. The women turned toward the sound of her voice, only to see Ruowen approaching with his spear.

"Ah!" they screamed in terror, huddling together. The seven or eight men in the group, holding crude knives, stepped in front of Ruowen to block his path.

"Who are you?" they roared, their rough hands trembling as Ruowen's murderous aura bore down upon them.

But Ruowen, wielding his spear, was like a reborn demon, killing anyone he encountered. His strikes were swift, each taking down two at a time. Cries filled the air—men, women, even children—none knew what had happened, none had the chance to take a last bite of their meager rations. In the end, all twenty-plus people lay lifeless, their bones now beneath Ruowen's feet.

Huang Beishuang could hardly believe her eyes. After spending these days with Ruowen in the ruins, she had almost forgotten what a violent man he truly was. The wind now reeked of blood. Ruowen stood there, his mocking gaze devoid of all emotion. He wiped the blood from his spear on a corpse before lifting the only small bag of grain from the pile of bodies and walking back, step by step.

He threw the bag beside Huang Beishuang and said coldly, "Eat."

"Taking the food was enough. Why did you have to kill them?" Huang Beishuang stared at the bloodstained grain, her voice trembling with anger.

"So naive." Ruowen scoffed, sitting down to eat. "If you spare their lives, they'll only come back to kill you. People only rest when they're dead."

"You're no human," Huang Beishuang said, the only words that came to mind as she looked at him.

Ruowen chuckled, biting into a piece of bread. "Why did I know which way to go? Because I smelled... prey. Understand?"

"Prey..." Huang Beishuang repeated weakly. "To you, what is this world?"

Ruowen looked at her, his response slow but certain: "Hell."

Hell, where the strong survive and the weak perish. No prayers, no innocence—only strength can keep you alive and satisfy your needs. No sympathy, no mercy—if roles were reversed, your fate would be the same.

Huang Beishuang, as a daughter of the desert, understood this truth well. But still, those women—what had they done wrong? They married, raised children, lived quietly. What had they done to deserve such an end, deprived even of the faintest hope for survival? As a woman herself, witnessing such a scene, she could no longer hold back her tears. She buried her head and wept.

The fourth lament sings for women—petals fall from their red attire, spring winds scatter on countless paths. The battlefield smoke mocks glory and merit, leaving only tears beneath the lonely tents. Who knows their worries... beauty fades, yet the heart refuses to break.

Western Desert.

Wars dragged on too long, and eventually flags would be lowered and horns silenced. But until Qingyun or King Zhan fell, this battle would rage on. Heaven's intent seemed inscrutable—how could two men, one from the south and one from the north, have so many differences—ideals, ambitions, even love... all in conflict?

Qingyun shed the cumbersome armor, wiping the dirt from his face, his eyes locked on King Zhan, now blood-soaked. If he could kill him, Tiandu could rule the world, taking Yunpei's fertile lands; if he could kill him, Huang Beishuang could become his rightful queen. There was no better moment—he could finally, openly, kill him.

With that thought, he tightened his grip on his sword, his gaze cold. Before King Zhan could catch his breath, Qingyun lunged forward, his sword flashing—a strike infused with all his strength, swift, relentless, and fierce. Yet, as the blade drew near, King Zhan, who seemed to have awaited this final blow, avoided the vital area. Qingyun's sword pierced only his side, while King Zhan seized the chance, counterattacking—a hit!

This was why, after so many bouts, King Zhan never shed his heavy scarlet armor. The same blow—while King Zhan staggered back a few steps, Qingyun coughed up blood and slowly fell to the ground.

His vision shifted from the darkened mass of soldiers to the vast blue sky above. Lying on the ground, his gaze lingered on the white clouds...

The gods had always favored him, granting him a fate above thousands, gifting him with courage and grandeur, allowing him to find a woman he truly loved...

Yet the gods had also forsaken him—born into the cold Ice Thorn Palace, where he feared his own kin from childhood, where his woman could not be his wife...

Oh gods... what were you thinking?

The sudden break in silence was Jihua, rushing forward, taking two steps in one, with the guards forming a protective circle around their king. Of course, Wu Jihai was not far behind—His Majesty's narrow victory had lifted their spirits. He quickly helped the nearly-fallen king back to their camp.

But King Jing lay there, still gazing at the sky...

The sky was blue, the clouds white, endless beyond sight. Perhaps no one on the battlefield had ever paused to appreciate such beauty. If one is weary, can one rest? And where shall rest be found? That place—will it have you, Huang Beishuang?

With that thought, her name bloomed in his mind like a sacred herb, snapping Qingyun out of his weary daydream. He quickly turned to look at Jihua, who was urgently dressing his wounds, then at the soldiers encircling them. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a self-deprecating, lonely, faint smile. Then, he murmured, as if in a dream, "I will come for you."

"Jihua!" Qingyun lay on the ground, making no attempt to rise. Though his wound was serious, it was not fatal. In that position, he spoke firmly to Jihua, "King Zhan's strike has greatly boosted morale. Immediately retreat ten miles, then encircle again."

Jihua froze, thinking His Majesty had passed out, but the words were clear. Though wounded himself, Jihua nodded deeply. "As you command!"

Qingyun smiled, patting his shoulder. "You've worked hard."

Jihua's eyes reddened. "No, Your Majesty—the hardship is yours!" With that, he and the other soldiers helped Qingyun up, retreating under the protection of their guards.

"Jihua, let me ask you something." Qingyun spoke as they walked, a faint smile still on his lips.

"Whatever Your Majesty wishes to ask!"

"When you were struck by the arrow, what were you thinking?"

"I thought only of protecting Your Majesty—it's my duty!"

"And what else?"

"Nothing more—given the urgency, that's all I could think of."

Qingyun chuckled. "Jihua, you have three wives, don't you?"

Jihua nodded. "One was betrothed to me in childhood, one was bestowed by Your Majesty, and one is a dear confidante."

"And at that moment, you didn't think of them?"

Jihua fell silent for a while before replying, "I am ashamed, Your Majesty. Though I have three wives and two sons, I have no lingering attachments. My will to establish a grand legacy for you, to fight and kill in your name, far surpasses any such bonds."

"Good brother!" Qingyun looked at him, deeply moved.

"Your Majesty!" Jihua did not meet his gaze, instead keeping his eyes forward. In a low voice, he asked, "What was on your mind at that moment?"

Qingyun gripped his sword tightly and suddenly shouted, "My woman!"

The fifth lament sings of passion—resentment, sorrow, longing, pursuit. A lifetime together, until death do us part!

In the presence of a domineering man, even the wisest woman finds it hard to remain strong. However, in the absence of love, calmness can achieve anything—even turn hardened steel into pliable softness.

The seven-colored bird of paradise soared across the sky with regal grace, parting the swirling clouds and cutting through the wild dance of wind and sand, its cry piercing the heavens.

"Hong!" Huang Beishuang murmured in delight as she saw it.

"What?" Ruowen also looked up. "Oh, the bird of paradise?"

Startled, Huang Beishuang feared Hong might be hunted down as food by Ruowen. "It's nothing."

Ruowen eyed her as her gaze gradually calmed.

It was always fleeting—that look of helplessness whenever she was by his side. Just like now, having just escaped the ruins, even after witnessing him kill, her panic subsided within moments.

"What are you plotting now?" Ruowen asked in a low voice. Having just killed, his violent aura had yet to settle. Gripping his spear, he abruptly tilted her chin up, his violet eyes growing darker. "Don't make me angry."

"You said you wouldn't touch me until my wounds healed," Huang Beishuang replied evenly.

Hearing this, Ruowen's lips curved into a roguish smile. With one arm around her waist, the other still grasping the spear, he suddenly hefted her onto his shoulder like prey. After all, she was always prey—that fact had never changed.

"Where are we going?" Having grown accustomed to his rough treatment, Huang Beishuang knew resistance would only make things worse. In her awkward position, she asked each word deliberately.

Ruowen answered flatly, "The wind smells off. We need to find a place to rest before sunset, or we'll be done for if we encounter a storm."

The wind and sand indeed grew increasingly harsh. She had no idea how long they walked, but before sunset, they managed to find a small oasis. However, the situation was somewhat unexpected. Refugees had gathered in the woods, forming groups of threes and fives. Hundreds of eyes glared at the two newcomers, poised as if ready to pounce and seize what little they had.

Ruowen raised an eyebrow, setting Huang Beishuang down. He pulled the last of their food from his coat and tossed it to the ground. The refugees were covered in grime and scars, but their eyes shone with the desperation of those willing to do anything to survive. They stared at the small bag at their feet, silence instantly falling over them.

Ruowen snorted and said coldly, "This is all our food. Take it and don't cause trouble." With that, he drove his spear into the earth, carving a clear boundary line. "Respect each other, and everyone gets to live. Understand?"

The refugees glanced at Ruowen, then at the small bag on the ground. Realizing this was not a man to be trifled with, they hesitated for a moment. Finally, a limping middle-aged man stepped forward, cautiously picking up the bag before quickly retreating. Seeing no harm come to him, the other refugees rushed over, ignoring Ruowen entirely.

Ruowen smirked, then sat down to start a fire for warmth.

Huang Beishuang looked at him and said softly, "I didn't expect you to understand mutual respect."

Without turning his head, Ruowen scoffed, "Too many people—killing them all would be endless. Besides, all we need now is a place to rest."

Huang Beishuang sat beside him, staring at the spear planted in the earth, its handle still stained with blood. She couldn't help but ask, "Do you ever regret it? The killing?"

Ruowen, now finished with the fire, lay down and laughed. "There are two words I've never known—love and regret." He then lifted one leg, resting it on Huang Beishuang's shoulder, asking her with a hint of arrogance, "And you?"

Huang Beishuang shook her head. "There's nothing I know how to pronounce but not how to write."

Ruowen burst out laughing, his voice loud and uninhibited, as if genuinely amused, one hand resting on his stomach. Huang Beishuang turned away, unsure what she had said that was so funny. She waited until he finished laughing before awkwardly saying, "Um... I want some water."

Ruowen sat up, looking at her. He seemed to feel a bit thirsty himself, so without a word, he stood, pulled out his spear, and headed into the woods. Once she could no longer see Ruowen's figure, Huang Beishuang hurriedly turned to the sky and called, "Hong!"

With a chirp, the seven-colored bird responded, and Huang Beishuang, overjoyed, tore off a piece of her sleeve. Taking a burnt stick from the fire, she quickly scrawled a few words on the fabric, twisting it into a strip and tying it to Hong's leg. Then she whispered, "Find him."

The bird chirped a few more times before spreading its wings. As it took flight, the refugees in the woods frantically hurled stones at it, perhaps hoping to catch it for food. The sight made Huang Beishuang break into a cold sweat, but Hong was nimble, and after some effort, it flew out of the small oasis.

As long as the message reached Qingyun, the Yellow Sky Berserkers would be no more on this desert. With that thought, Huang Beishuang's gaze hardened. She would survive—even if it meant staying with Ruowen, she would live. In the midst of chaos and smoke, to encounter him was a miracle, and she refused to let that miracle slip away.

Jiandu.

Qingyun extended his arm, and Hong swooped down, perching on it. Excited, Qingyun retrieved the fabric from the bird's leg, his hands trembling slightly with tension as he nearly dropped it while opening it. But once he read it, a wild laugh burst forth. Jihua and the others exchanged glances, unsure what could have lifted His Majesty's spirits so suddenly. When Qingyun finished laughing, he tossed the fabric to Jihua and strode away confidently.

Jihua carefully read the hastily scrawled words in charcoal:

"Ruowen escaped from the abyss. The berserkers still don't know if he's alive or dead. Seize the moment—strike swiftly!"

After reading it, Jihua couldn't help but laugh. Throughout his years on the battlefield, he had encountered many formidable women, but this one was truly admirable. Even in such a situation, she managed to take a crucial step.

Qingyun mounted his white horse, Feita. Watching the seven-colored bird still circling above the camp, a rare smile graced his lips. He then turned to Jihua and Liaozhen and ordered, "Generals, heed my command. Feign defeat in this battle. At dawn tomorrow, abandon Jiandu. Leave behind the three thousand captured Yellow Sky Berserkers, and the entire army will retreat to the snowy plains."

Liaozhen hesitated, then asked honestly, "Your Majesty, why not just execute these men? Though we are at a slight disadvantage, there's no need to retreat."

At this, Jihua laughed. "General Liao, you're too straightforward. Don't forget—tens of thousands of civilians are still at the mercy of the berserkers in Ruoshui City. If they decide to massacre the town, Tiandu will bear the blame for eternity. His Majesty intends to pass this hot potato to King Zhan."

Realizing the situation, Liaozhen nodded heavily. Indeed, Ruowen's ultimatum was well known—any mishap could have grave consequences. With that in mind, he nodded at Jihua and said, "Aside from Miao Jing, no one understands His Majesty's thoughts better than you, Left General."

Jihua shook his head with a knowing smile, and the two generals rode out of the camp, one on each side.

When the red cavalry stormed into what had once been Tiandu's encampment, they found only smoldering ruins—charred earth blending with hills of yellow sand. Amid the howling wind, King Zhan stood in the center. Behind him was the Yunpei army, and before him stood the three thousand captured Yellow Sky Berserkers, a thorn in his side.

"Your Majesty, this..." Wu Jihai, of course, knew what a tremendous headache this would be.

King Zhan's face darkened, speechless for a long time. Killing these captives would be no small trouble; sparing them would still be hard to justify to the world. He should have known that King Jing would leave a pit for him when surrendering Jiandu so easily, but he hadn't expected it to be this troublesome.

"Shall we seal the news immediately?" Wu Jihai asked in a low voice.

King Zhan let out a bitter smile, turning to walk back to the tent. "With Mangliu around, how could we possibly seal this news?"

Wu Jihai nodded. "But, Your Majesty, these berserkers have killed countless innocents—men, women, and children alike. If we don't exterminate them, Yunpei will face endless resentment in the future."

They entered the tent, and King Zhan sat down, his brows furrowed deeply, sighing from time to time.

"Your Majesty!" Guangzhaoyun hurriedly entered. "A dispatch from Ruoshui has arrived!" He handed over the scroll in his hands.

King Zhan took it, and after a quick glance, said indifferently, "We have barely taken Jiandu, and already Ruoshui's dispatch arrives. It is just as I suspected—King Jing had planned all along, spreading news of our captives being held by Yunpei." He tossed the document to Wu Jihai.

Wu Jihai opened it: "In exchange for thirty thousand Ruoshui civilians, three thousand captured berserkers must be returned. For every one berserker not returned by dawn, ten Ruoshui citizens will be killed. Signed, Luoying."

"This isn't Ruowen's seal?" Wu Jihai's eyes filled with doubt.

King Zhan sat in his chair, his eyes seemingly fixed on the top of the tent—a patch of darkness. Shadows of intersecting beams cast their shapes there. After a long while, he exhaled, "Agree to the exchange. Make the arrangements."

Wu Jihai paused. "Your Majesty truly intends to release them?"

King Zhan let out a bitter smile. "Withdraw the red cavalry, and by dawn, surround Ruoshui with seventy thousand troops. Once the thirty thousand civilians are released, exterminate them immediately."

He closed his eyes, bitterness flooding his heart. He had used the method he least wanted to in dealing with the mess King Jing had left behind—release, then exterminate. The outcome would be mutual destruction, but he had no other choice.

The sunset was like a requiem of blood, singing the world's sorrows. No matter the clamor of gongs and drums, no matter the howling wind, that night, the calmness, like a storm about to break, roiled over the smoke-filled yellow earth. The soldiers of Yunpei, clad in cold armor, lay sleeping, their ears keen even in slumber, straining for the faint echoes of hooves—perhaps echoes of the previous day's battles, or perhaps the passion to defend their homeland. All they knew was that they slept with furrowed brows.

The sixth lament sings of fate: futile living, futile dying, futile sorrow, futile joy—coming for none, departing for someone.

Ruoshui.

Ruowen's room remained shut tight. Outside, two haggard-looking women stood guard. On the steps below lay Luoying, along with the distraught Manhu and Langtou. Under the moonlight, the air was laced with an eerie, icy blue chill—no vitality, no passion.

Manhu and Langtou still found it hard to believe that their leader had been swallowed by the quicksand, yet they had seen it with their own eyes. No one taken by the quicksand had ever returned. They had fought alongside their leader all this time, knowing well that naïve prayers were useless. Without him, Ruoshui—a city once as resplendent as the heavens—had lost its luster. The civilians locked in the city center were now but ants underfoot. If these ants could be exchanged for their brothers, they would not hesitate.

"Luoying!" Manhu spoke after a long while, his empty gaze flickering. "Take the young ones and leave by morning. There's no need to follow us to certain death."

Luoying looked up at the pale crescent moon and let out a wry laugh. "I've already opened all the city gates. From tonight, anyone who wishes to leave may do so—no need for farewells. Pack up and leave quietly. I won't force anyone to stay, nor will I force anyone to leave."

Manhu chuckled. "Taking down a few shadow agents, and now you've got some backbone. Not bad, kid!"

"Get lost!" Luoying cursed, then asked in a low voice, "Did the leader say anything in the end?"

Manhu glanced at Langtou, who had remained silent all along. "The leader no longer saw us—what could he have said? Nothing, not a word."

"Ha!" Unexpectedly, Langtou let out a sharp laugh at that.

The three lay there, occasionally glancing at Ruowen's door, then at the dim moon above. Sometimes, they reminisced about their past raids in the northern desert, breaking into laughter from time to time—completely unlike Ruolanfei and Wen, who sat by in dazed silence.

Perhaps this was the most obvious difference between men and women. Though not absolute, men often embraced boldness, even in despair, while women were often more delicate, sinking into darkness when faced with hopelessness.

They all loved Ruowen, and they all approached him in their own ways.

Ruowen, do you know—even if the heavens abandon you, even if love forsakes you, there are still those who, abandoned by you, cannot stop thinking of you? When one day you meet them in another world, will you still think of that unattainable woman? Will you realize then that your persistence was so unreasonable—unreasonable, yet inevitable?

Ruowen, do you now understand the meaning of happiness?

The sunrise that day was particularly terrifying—dawn breaking like a mad tolling of bells, shattering the haze. At the gates of Ruoshui, Wu Jihai eyed the band of brigands before him, their unwavering resolve chilling him to the bone. Swallowing hard, he shouted, "We abide by the agreement and agree to exchange hostages." With a wave of his hand, two hundred captured berserkers were pushed forward. As the two hundred men stepped out, they spat at the Yunpei soldiers behind them and cursed loudly before returning to Ruoshui like dignitaries. Then, two thousand Ruoshui civilians came forth, each of them trembling, looking around in terror as they were led to the rear of the Yunpei forces.

The exchange was unexpectedly calm, repeated over and over until high noon, under the blazing sun, when it was finally completed.

Once the exchange was done, both sides knew that the real slaughter was about to begin. They stared at each other, eyes filled with a fierce resolve.

After a long while, a sudden fierce wind swept through. Manhu glanced at Chengxiang, Langtou, Luoying, and the others, nodding at each other before raising their fists to the sky in unison. Manhu shouted loudly, "Brothers, our leader is gone, and these scum think we're easy prey, surrounding us layer upon layer, sealing us off completely. Today, I've thrown caution to the wind—so long as we can face our leader with heads held high in the underworld, that's enough for me. Listen, brothers! Charge forward, fight with me, and take down these bastards. We'll meet again on the path to the Yellow Springs, bound by our brotherhood. Retreat now, and with all four gates open, you're free to go wherever you wish. Our bond ends here and now."

With that, he and Langtou spurred their horses forward without a backward glance. Many of the brothers followed behind, Chengxiang and Luoying among them. Chengxiang shouted, "Brothers, each of us should take at least ten heads to meet our leader—that's the only way to do him justice!"

As he spoke, none of the two thousand men hesitated. The sound of whinnying horses filled the air, and the three thousand berserkers, recently freed, also took up arms and joined the charge. In that moment, their overwhelming battle cries were deafening—five thousand berserkers, like caged beasts set free, devoid of all humanity.

That battle, fought at the gates of Ruoshui, turned the sands red with blood. Without Ruowen, the Yellow Sky Berserkers remained utterly deranged, the clashing of bone and steel a sound that would drive an ordinary man mad, yet to them, it was a symphony—a macabre accompaniment urging them toward ultimate death. Who was it, guiding them?

The seventh lament sings of madness. A ruthless path is, in truth, one of emotion; a path devoid of righteousness can embody true virtue.

In the year 332 AD, during the deep spring, seventy thousand Yunpei national guards encircled over five thousand Yellow Sky Berserkers at Ruoshui. The ensuing bloodshed lasted an entire day and night, ultimately annihilating the berserkers—but Yunpei paid a dear price, losing nearly fifty thousand soldiers. It was one of the bloodiest pages in history. Outside the small city of Ruoshui, the sands crusted with dried blood, and the wind carried a pungent stench. Tens of thousands of corpses piled high. For years afterward, the sand remained unnaturally crimson, as though ready to devour anything in its path—a cursed place haunted by an ominous spell.

Since then, travelers passing through the red sands would bow thrice, hoping to ward off its malevolence. People began to call the place "The Tomb of Vengeful Spirits" in jest.

As spring fades, crimson light departs,Tears of warmth exchanged for a cup of cold wine.The seventh lament never stops its song,The setting sun rots through countless rounds.Today, we laugh—how many arrows pierce through blood?All shall drift away with the ocean of sin...