Gui Fang was unwilling to grant him another province, but also lacked the power to keep him any longer. Once Gui Fang left, those who fought each other on this land would be his former allies.

Ji Mo Dongli always seemed to be like this; one moment they were sharing life and death, advancing and retreating together, and the next, they were at each other's throats. I was used to it; he didn't worry me, and I was happy to be at ease. But I couldn't help thinking that his men were nothing more than people like Mao Tui'er and Da Kui, and then some righteous men who had come from all directions to join him. His army was roughly equal in number to the Gui Fang, but they were ultimately just scattered, disorganized troops. As the army continued to expand, Ma Shun'er's horses were slowly becoming insufficient. Meanwhile, the Gui Fang, who had been harassing the Fuqi border for decades, relied on possessing a fine horse. In the past, they had the brilliant strategist Mr. Xu, but now it seemed there were few people left who could discuss important military matters.

Beneath the walls of Biezhou, a fierce battle had raged for three days. The Guifang people were not adept at defense, relying solely on brute force. Fuqi was wealthy, but the north was a wild and untamed land; how could they possibly return empty-handed? Jimo had repeatedly requested aid from the south, but there had been no response. Jimo knew that the Fuqi royal family intended to sit back and watch the two sides fight. Without Jimo, they dared not attack Guifang; without Guifang, they had no choice but to attack Jimo. Now, the Guifang and Jimo were locked in a massive war of attrition in Biezhou, a battle that left both sides severely weakened—a sight the royal nobles were most pleased to see. They were secretly conserving their strength, preparing to swiftly strike the victor when one side fell.

The royal family wanted to see the two sides fight it out so they could reap the benefits.

Ji Mo knew, and Basilji Yu knew, but in war, there was no other way. Biezhou was the only north-south passage through the surrounding mountains, a city that absolutely could not be abandoned. Strategies and tactics were useless; only this most primitive and direct, almost hand-to-hand combat remained.

In the past, reinforcements from the south weren't always readily available, but at least there was Mr. Xu, calm and collected, who would launch flanking attacks and provide support from the sidelines. Now, Mr. Xu has passed away, and his army suddenly lacks a strategist. This place is no ordinary place; he dares not employ just anyone, not even the most loyal, but someone with the air of a master strategist. Unfortunately, few of his men can match Mr. Xu's abilities. He is at a loss.

When I visited him, he was still hunched over his desk, staring intently at the map.

Mao Tui'er insisted on calling me over, pestering me for quite a while. He said that these past few days, he'd been charging into battle during the day and then spending entire nights thinking of countermeasures after the troops had rested. He wanted me to come and offer some advice. I found it amusing, since he himself had said he didn't want me to interfere too much. However, I couldn't stand Mao Tui'er's nagging hour after hour, so I had no choice but to come.

It was late at night, and there was a flickering lamp on his desk, a light that was just right for me.

Across the table, I looked at him. He had become thinner and tanned, and the wrinkles between his brows seemed to never smooth out, forming a deep furrow.

He raised his hand and adjusted the lamp wick; the light was still a bit too dim for him.

He then looked up at me, pursed his lips, and without making any further movements, said, "Why are you here?"

"Am I being nosy?" I raised an eyebrow at him. His eyes were bloodshot, clearly from a long sleepless night. "Could it be that without Fu Xi, you truly can't defeat Basilji Yu?" I asked myself silently.

I placed the now-cold tea I was holding on the table; it was the one Mao Tui had given me.

He looked at the tea, then at me, but didn't make a move.

He couldn't help but push the teacup towards him again; the sound of porcelain rubbing against wood was somewhat low in the empty tent.

He just stared at me, his eyes never blinking once. How could I bear it? I lifted my skirt and turned to leave.

"Does your wound still hurt?" he suddenly asked, his voice so low I could barely hear him. He was suppressing the hoarseness in his throat; all along the way, he had always been at the forefront, shouting "Kill!"

I know that what soldiers need is not a high-ranking general who stands at the back of the column to supervise the battle, nor a general who shouts "Brothers, kill them!" but runs behind the others, out of reach of the enemy's crossbows.

I only secretly witnessed him leading his troops once. He rode a long steed, flying at the very front, shouting, "Brothers, follow me and kill!" That single word made me stand silently for a long time. From then on, whenever he went to war, I would hide in my tent. I was afraid to see his blood, leaving it far behind, while he continued to charge forward like a madman.