The Black Eagle had not yet landed, but he was already met with a wave of Baihong arrows. He managed to break out and landed with difficulty. He then disguised himself and blended in. He had learned the whole story from the beginning to end from the boiling conversations of the people in the capital.

The Black Eagle had directly traveled back to the Northwest in a fit of rage, just happening to pass by the Cavalry sent out by Chang Geng in the same direction. The Eagle was countless times faster than the horse. He arrived at the Black Iron Camp Garrison earlier than the other by a few days.

He Rong Hui — the gunpowder barrel — was blown up on the spot, bringing people charging into the Northwestern Governor's manor. But it was exactly at this crucial moment that the Sand Tigers lined up at the Kucha Kingdom slowly left the station and lifted their dark muzzles, aiming in the direction of the east.

The various forces involved had done everything they humanly could, the rest could only lie in the fate decided by Heaven.

But this time, Heaven seemed to have completely abandoned the dynasty of the Li family whose fate was coming to its end.

In the still chilly Saibei wilderness —

The rolling ridge bent creating a gentle arc, wild flowers were eager to display their buds one after another.

The gray wolves stood high, the falcons howled as they hovered, the flags covered with oil and dust and animal skin flew together with the wind. The sky was green, the earth was dark and gold, and deep in the grass, there were thousands of troops and horses.

In the roar of cold iron and machinery, there suddenly came a hoarse song.

"The cleanest spirit, even the heavenly wind wanted to kiss her skirt, all living beings will sing and bow their heads, kneel down where she sings and dances. Next year there will be herds of cattle and sheep, lush vegetation, blankets of flowers, spreading to the end of Tianshan Mountains. Next year there will be evergreen grass, the hare will come out of its nest, the wild horse will slowly return —"

It had been five or six years since Jia Lai Ying Huo — the barbarian prince who directly pressed onto Yanhui Town in a fit of rage — now inherited the Eighteen Tribes and officially became the true Wolf King. The northwest wind of the frontier had left on his features marks as deep as the cuts of a knife, repeatedly carved onto his face for thousands of days and nights, hatred and resentment soaked through to his bones.

Nowadays, his hair had already been dyed with hints of grey, the ferocity in his gaze was withdrawn inside, completely undetectable. His vast and far-reaching singing voice had already been covered with dust. He could only hum a few lines. The lyrics of the olden days remained, but his voice soon became incredibly hoarse.