The night lay in heavy silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic footsteps of Yunhe patrol units circling the camp. Unbeknownst to them, two cloaked figures moved within their perimeter.
Dressed in form-fitting black garments, their faces concealed behind dark masks, the pair advanced with practiced precision, their movements swift and soundless as they slipped through the camp.
The absence of both moon and stars worked in their favor, cloaking the world in a deep, unbroken darkness that swallowed their presence.
From the high ground of the surrounding mountains, they had already surveyed the entire encampment, committing its layout to memory and even drafting a map of its structure. To any ordinary mind, the general's tent would have been the obvious target.
But that would have been a fatal misunderstanding.
Killing Zhèn Huá would not end the war. Another commander would rise in his place and the assault would continue without pause. If they wished to halt the advance, they needed to strike at the only instruments capable of breaking Kong'gong Pass.
The siege weapons.
Thud.
The leading assassin raised a hand, signaling his partner to halt. Both pressed themselves against the canvas of a nearby tent, their bodies swallowed by the shadows it cast, as a patrol unit of twenty soldiers marched past without the slightest suspicion.
Once the final patrol passed, the artillery zone lay exposed.
Positioned near the center of the camp upon a slight elevation, it had been placed where it could be easily observed by the surrounding units. Yet Yunhe had made a critical error.
The number of guards stationed around the central zone was far fewer than expected.
The reason was simple.
Most of the patrol forces had been redirected toward the supply zone.
Zhèn Huá had anticipated a night raid, but his focus had been misplaced. He believed the enemy would strike their provisions, not their siege equipment. With winter looming, they could not rely on aid from the kingdom. Without supplies, the campaign would collapse before it truly began.
His reasoning was sound.
But it was incomplete.
The masked figures advanced, their bodies blending seamlessly into the shifting shadows cast by flickering torches, their forms dissolving into darkness with each step.
It was the same technique that had carried them this far.
As they ascended the slight rise toward the artillery platform, they halted.
A lone figure stood between them and the siege weapons.
His silhouette flickered with the dancing torchlight, as though he too belonged to the shadows. Yet the calm certainty in his gaze made one thing clear.
This was no chance encounter.
"Shadowless flight."
Si's eyes remained fixed on the vague distortions in the darkness, the faint outlines where their presence disrupted the natural flow of shadow. Though their bodies were nearly invisible, their silhouettes betrayed them.
The technique was common among assassins of this era. It allowed the user to merge with darkness, but its flaw was equally obvious. Their shadows remained distinct, exposing their position to anyone with keen awareness.
"A mediocre technique from the son of a mediocre commander."
His voice carried a quiet venom, and the words struck their mark.
The two figures emerged from the darkness, abandoning concealment as they revealed themselves fully before him.
Behind their masks, their eyes burned with a mixture of shock and anger.
Not only had this boy obstructed their mission, he had seen through their technique and deduced their origin in a single glance.
How could they not be stunned?
But how could Si fail to recognize this figure?
In his previous life, though he had not been present on the battlefield, this man had carved his name into history by burning the siege weapons of the Yunhe army, crippling their offensive entirely and forcing them into a prolonged, grinding conflict that ended with the deaths of ten thousand Yunhe soldiers.
Gao Muchén, like Bi Xian, had been a forgotten relic of an older era in Jinshan, stationed and neglected along the cold, barren western borders of the kingdom.
A career that had long stagnated was suddenly revived by a stunning victory. With only five thousand troops, he held Kong'gong Pass against an overwhelming force of twenty-five thousand and proceeded to slaughter ten thousand of them while suffering barely over a thousand losses.
It was a triumph worthy of legend.
Yet even that victory would not have been possible without his son.
Gao Haoyu.
With only his Xiaosi[1], the boy had infiltrated the enemy camp under the cover of night and destroyed the siege weapons, striking the decisive blow that ensured their success. His brilliance eclipsed his father's glory, and from that moment forward, his fame soared far higher.
This was a future Si intended to rewrite.
He had not shared this truth with Jun, nor could he. Instead, he had spent his time searching for a way to prevent it.
The words of a slave carried no weight. To the soldiers, they were no more valuable than the barking of a stray dog. No one would believe him, not the infantry, not the officers, and certainly not Zhèn Huá.
"The Gao clan has always been known for its steelworks. Yet its envy of the Duan clan drove its descendants to abandon their craft and pursue the sword, only to produce one mediocre general after another," Si said calmly, his voice firm and unhurried. "Did you truly believe you could slip into this general's camp and remain unseen?"
General?
The expressions beneath the masks darkened instantly as both men tensed, their bodies instinctively bracing for what might follow.
This boy… was General Zhèn Huá?
Confusion flickered in their eyes. The reports had described Zhèn Huá as an overweight man in his thirties. The youth before them was not even seventeen, and worse, he bore none of the outward presence expected of a commanding general.
He wore nothing but the coarse sackcloth of a slave. And yet, three things stayed their hands.
First, the boy possessed a composure and bearing that mirrored that of a seasoned commander. They had initially intended to silence him without hesitation, but something in his demeanor forced them to reconsider. His calm was not natural. It was earned.
Second, techniques for concealing one's true strength were far from uncommon. If this youth was indeed a True Martial Realm expert disguising himself as a lowly slave to patrol the camp in secrecy, then they would be dead before their blades ever reached him.
Third, the snow-white wolf-hilted dagger resting at his waist.
The quality of that weapon was unmistakable. It was not something a common man could possess, let alone a slave. It belonged to nobility.
This alone suggested a hidden identity, a noble cloaked in rags, lying in wait.
And then there was his knowledge.
How else could he identify their technique and their clan with a single glance? Such information was not meant for ordinary men, much less a slave.
Too many contradictions surrounded him.
Too many unknowns.
The signals he gave were tangled and conflicting, leaving them suspended between action and hesitation.
[1] It means Page or Lackey