Snow had fallen for three days without pause, smothering the land in a silence that felt older than war. The world was white and gray — the corpses beneath the drifts gave it texture. Lin Yao stood on the ridge, cloak stiff with frost, eyes on the empty horizon where the last route once ran. What had been a road was now a grave of carts and horses, the final artery to Zhen choked off by the enemy's encirclement. Three hundred men remained under his command. Once, they had been a regiment. Now, they were only the remnants of belief.
The wind scraped at his face like a whetstone. His fingers were numb around the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the men huddled around a dying fire that offered no warmth, only the illusion of it. The rations were gone. Even the horses had been slaughtered, their bones scattered in the snow. The convoy they were supposed to protect — sacks of grain, crates of medicine, weapons — lay piled and useless. No one left alive could carry them far enough.
"Commander," said Xu Heng, his adjutant, voice rough from cold. "Scouts returned. The northern pass is blocked. Thousands. Banner of the Yue Division."
Lin Yao did not turn. "And the west?"
"Burned villages. Tracks of cavalry patrols. If we move, we'll be seen."
He nodded once. The movement was mechanical. His thoughts had been dulled to a steady rhythm: calculate, decide, move. No emotion remained for doubt. Yet beneath that frozen calm, something raw gnawed at him — a quiet, constant awareness that every choice now demanded lives.
He descended to the camp. The men rose when they saw him. Hollow eyes watched him — sunken, red-rimmed, unreadable. None spoke. They no longer asked where they were going. They only waited for the next command.
"We move at dusk," Yao said. "We head east. Through the marsh valley."
A ripple of disbelief passed through them. The valley was enemy land. Everyone knew it.
Xu Heng's mouth twitched. "Sir… the valley—"
"—is where they won't expect us."
Silence stretched. Then the men began to pack what little they had — a few strips of dried meat, broken spears, bloodstained bandages. There was no protest, no argument. They trusted him still. That was what hurt most.
As the light faded, they began their march. The snow deepened with every step. The convoy creaked and groaned behind them, wheels cracking under frost. Men slipped, stumbled, rose again without complaint. The air reeked of iron and sweat, the slow decay of the dead they had abandoned days ago.
By midnight, the wind turned savage. The valley loomed ahead — a throat of darkness between two frozen ridges. Lin Yao halted the column at its edge. The moonlight barely reached the bottom, only glinting off sheets of ice and black pools of frozen water. The men waited, their breath clouds merging into one.
Yao closed his eyes. He could almost hear the echo of the decision forming — that soft, inevitable click in his mind.
"Two divisions," he said quietly to Xu Heng. "Split the men. Half to move down the ridge and draw their sentries. The rest follow me through the basin. We'll use the diversion to cross before dawn."
Xu Heng hesitated. "You know what that means."
"Yes."
"Then let me lead the decoy."
Yao looked at him for a long time. The man's face was gray with frostbite, eyes sunken but steady. He had followed Yao since the siege of Hanyuan — through mud, starvation, and worse.
"No," Yao said. "You stay with the convoy. Someone has to keep it moving."
For the first time, Xu Heng's composure cracked. "They won't come back."
"I know."
He turned from him before more could be said.
When the order went out, fifty men stepped forward — volunteers. They knew what they were volunteering for. Yao didn't thank them. Words would have been an insult.
The decoy unit vanished into the ridges like shadows swallowed by the dark. Minutes later, the first arrows streaked through the night — distant, faint as sparks. Then came the thunder of hooves, the roar of men, the clash of steel.
Yao signaled the advance. The rest moved into the valley, dragging the wagons through sludge and snow. Every sound felt amplified — the grind of wheels, the groan of strained leather, the ragged gasps of breath. The enemy would hear them soon. They had to move faster.
Hours blurred. The world narrowed to rhythm: step, pull, breathe, bleed. A man collapsed beside the wagon, too weak to rise. Another took his place without a word. When one fell, two more stepped forward. The cold didn't just numb; it erased — pain, thought, mercy. Only duty remained.
At the fourth hour, the horizon flared. Fire spread along the northern ridge. The decoy was surrounded.
Xu Heng muttered a curse. "They bought us minutes, no more."
"Enough," Yao said. "We use them."
They pressed on. Dawn came slow, gray, colorless. The valley widened ahead, opening toward the plains — and the faint silhouette of enemy banners.
"Archers!" Yao shouted.
Shafts hissed through the air. Men screamed. Horses reared. The front line of the convoy shattered under arrowfire. Yao drew his sword and charged forward, the sound of steel slicing through chaos. His breath burned in his chest. Blood misted the snow like ink dropped in water.
He fought not as a commander but as something reduced — instinct, rage, survival. Every motion was mechanical, perfect, merciless. His blade cut through an enemy's throat; the man fell silently, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Push the wagons!" Yao roared.
They heaved against the wheels, bodies trembling. Arrows struck around them, lodging in flesh and wood. The air was thick with cries and the thud of collapsing men. Xu Heng was beside him, face streaked with soot, shouting orders until his voice broke.
Then the second volley came.
Half the convoy fell. Horses screamed. A cart overturned, spilling sacks of grain into the snow. The men trampled over it, too desperate to care.
"Burn it," Yao said.
Xu Heng turned, stunned. "What?"
"Burn the supplies. If we can't carry them, the enemy won't have them."
He lit the torch himself, hands shaking, and flung it onto the nearest cart. The fire spread fast, a blossom of orange against the gray dawn. It illuminated faces hollowed by exhaustion, turned their eyes into mirrors of flame.
The enemy charged.
There was no formation left, no order. Just a tangle of men locked in the slow rhythm of death. Steel bit flesh. Flesh broke steel. Snow turned black beneath them.
Yao fought until the sword felt like an extension of his bones. His mind emptied. The world shrank to sensation — the crunch of ice, the wet sound of impact, the heat of blood on his frozen fingers.
When he blinked again, he was kneeling. His sword was gone. The valley was silent except for the hiss of dying fire. Around him, bodies lay piled in broken heaps.
Xu Heng was among them. A spear through the chest. His eyes were open, frost forming on his lashes.
Yao stared at him for a long time. Then he closed the man's eyes with a gloved hand and stood.
The sun rose — pale, indifferent. The snow began to fall again, soft flakes drifting over the dead.
Forty men remained.
They stood scattered, trembling, weapons slick with blood. None spoke. The convoy was gone, the supplies reduced to ash, but the path ahead lay open — a narrow corridor through the frozen plain.
Yao took a step forward. His leg nearly gave. The weight of it — the blood, the loss, the futility — pressed against his chest like a hand closing around his lungs.
He looked back once. Smoke rose from the valley, black against the morning.
"Form up," he said quietly.
The survivors obeyed.
They moved on through the snow — a procession of ghosts vanishing into the white.
No victory songs. No banners. Only the crunch of boots and the wind whispering through the ashes of the dead.
And Lin Yao, walking at the front, his face unreadable, knowing that what they had delivered was not supplies — but proof that even in ruin, men could still obey.
The silence followed them for miles.