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Nowadays, his hair had already been dyed with hints of grey, the ferocity in his gaze was withdrawn inside, completely undetectable.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.

He lifted the wine jug hanging at his waist, taking a sip of the liquor mixed with the rusty taste of iron, his expression tight, eyes focused on a figure flying over from the distance. The shadow side by side with the falcon came near. It was a Hawk armor suit, bigger than the Black Eagle, the helmet fiercer. With a sharp, ear-piercing noise, he landed in front of the Wolf King, lifting up a golden arrow made of unknown materials with both hands.

Jia Lai reached out to pick up the little golden arrow and poured wine on it. The smooth arrow pole slowly revealed a line of words written in the Eighteen Tribes language, the fine and curly handwriting stretched out under the hot liquor. It read: Wolf King, please take the first move.

Jia Lai took a deep breath. He had thought that once this moment arrived, he would be full of ecstasy.

But no, he discovered that after so many years, hatred had soon hollowed him out. Even if he was about to turn the tide, he had forgotten how to laugh or smile. The current Wolf King looked up at the heaven above him. The sunlight made him feel slightly entranced, as if the eyes of countless deceased were watching over him.

"It is time." He whispered softly, raising a hand in the midst of thousands of troops, engulfed in dead silence.

Then he slashed down.

The gray wolves lifted their necks and howled, charging forwards, heading in the direction of the south.

At the Southern Sea Islands, where greens were lush all year, and warm wind rustled.

In the night, a large black ship slowly entered an ordinary and quiet dock but did not stop just yet. A group of armed people donned in armor opened the hatch and rushed out. The uninhabited island suddenly became brightly lit.

There were rows of battle armor lined along the large rocks, reflected by the dim light of the fire, resembling an army of ominous and sinister soldiers.