As Sang Kun struggled to run, his trembling legs urging him on, he prayed, "I hope he won't make things difficult for a nobody like me, I hope he won't bother with me." He knew that if a cultivator at the Profound Realm wanted to kill him, it would be useless even if he hid in the army; taking the head of an enemy general amidst a vast army was something cultivators enjoyed doing.
His prayers moved Changsheng, and the terrifying one-armed man never left Huba's side. Sangkun ran out of Simba's camp and found his main cavalry force before he calmed down. However, he had no intention of turning back to seek revenge. He broke camp overnight and marched all the way back to the traditional territory of the Kereit tribe.
Simba watched as Sankhun's guards collapsed and fled, finally feeling despair. He had no reinforcements left. Looking at the dozen or so guards still fighting desperately in front of him, Simba closed his eyes in anguish. Only then did he understand what it meant to be utterly hopeless.
"Stop...stop it all..." Simba realized for the first time that he could utter such a mournful voice, like the howling swords of abandoned elders in a tribe ravaged by a white plague, silently waiting to freeze to death.
"Stop...stop it all..." Huba closed his eyes after Xu Liyan made his move. Victory was no longer in doubt, but he felt no joy. The field was filled with the blood of the Tatar tribe, people who had once been his subordinates, brothers, and friends.
"Huba... spare my tribe. It's all my fault, it has nothing to do with anyone else."
Huba looked at his surrendered elder brother and remained silent for a long time before saying, "Your tribe is the Tatar tribe, and the Tatar tribe is my tribe. What they did is none of your business. You can leave, but you cannot take our Tatar people with you. This is the greatest mercy I can show."
Simba opened his mouth as if to say something, but seeing the corpses scattered on the ground and the crowds receding into the distance, he knew that Huba truly couldn't leave him any more. After all, he had just attacked Huba's herdsmen a few days ago, resulting in many deaths.
To appease his most loyal tribesmen, Huba would inevitably distribute his herdsmen as slaves. This was a natural law of the grasslands for thousands of years. The losers would lose everything and become nothing more than vagabonds on the grasslands. From a leader with tens of thousands of followers to a poor vagabond, Simba finally shed tears of regret.
"Huba, my brother, please, spare my child..."
Huba looked at his brother, who suddenly seemed ten years older, nodded, and agreed to his request.
Simba let go of his last worries. He closed his eyes for a moment, mustered his courage, drew his knife, and slashed his neck. Blood spurted out with a hissing sound, just like the cold wind blowing from the north at this time of year.
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