Earlier, the figure clad in the python robe of a Liyang vassal king had cleaved through the enemy formation, charging straight into the heart of the 400,000-strong Northern Mang army. The Northern Mang Crown Prince, Yelü Hongcai, remained mounted beneath the great banner, not retreating a single step. This nominal future ruler of the grasslands showed not a trace of fear—instead, his eyes burned with fervor, as if witnessing a mighty beast during the annual autumn hunt, step by step falling into a carefully laid trap. The more it struggled in its death throes, the greater the thrill of conquest for the hunting knights.
Though long dismissed as a mere puppet by the grassland nobility and the powerful *Daxiti*, considered mediocre at best with no grand ambitions, and even scorned by frustrated imperial relatives for tarnishing the noble Yelü name, the Crown Prince could not be denied one thing: clad in the dazzling armor his late father wore in every imperial campaign, he now stood on the battlefield like a golden-armored war god, embodying the legacy of his forebears.
Yelü Hongcai gripped an exquisitely crafted dagger studded with priceless gems in his right hand, tapping its sheath lightly against his left palm. He gazed ahead, suppressing the turmoil in his heart so fiercely that his chiseled face grew rigid. The long-suffering scion of the grasslands took shallow breaths, fearing the slightest misstep might cause the martial arts grandmaster, who had risen like a comet across the land, to “rein in at the brink,” ruining everything.
Yelü Hongcai narrowed his eyes, his emotions complex. If the Northern Liang King could still be called “young”—like the Zhao emperor of Liyang, the so-called “Central Plains’ Home”—then both were indeed young, still years from thirty. But he, Yelü Hongcai, was different. He had long passed the age when scholars of the Central Plains would consider a man established—thirty-five! As the southern refugees would say, “Seventy years is a rarity in life.” He knew his martial talent was mediocre, far from the likes of Tuoba Pusa, Hong Jingyan, or the Sword Qi Prodigy, not even close to peers like Zhong Tan, Li Fengshou, or Tuoba Chunsun. Thus, he would never reach the second-tier of grandmasters, let alone enjoy the longevity that came with tempering the body.
Half his life was gone, and what had he achieved? Only a politically arranged marriage to a woman of high birth, dull in every way, whom he was bound to for life. At the time, nearly all the young nobles of the Northern Court had waited to mock him, expecting his wife to openly keep lovers. Yet the Crown Princess, who had earned a two-character title in the Chess-Sword-Lyric Pavilion, remained dutiful, living reclusively, neither mingling with the bold noblewomen nor seducing the refined southern scholars. Beyond that, Yelü Hongcai had nothing to boast of.
A crown prince, the future leader of a million grassland cavalry, reduced to this—how pitiful, how pathetic!
Yelü Hongcai’s face twisted involuntarily, his fingers tightening around the dagger’s sheath, veins bulging.
Finally, the young Liyang vassal king did not disappoint. Carving a bloody path, he stood firm, holding his Liang blade, calm and composed despite being encircled by tens of thousands—the very picture of grace under fire.
Yelü Hongcai realized his envy burned as fiercely as the autumn grasslands set ablaze by a single spark, endless and consuming. Even knowing the young man a *li* away was doomed, he couldn’t suppress it. The Northern Mang Crown Prince suddenly craved the famed Northern Liang “Green Ant” wine, longed to drink it freely before this Liyang prodigy.
Under the gaze of thousands, Yelü Hongcai nudged his horse forward, the spirited blood-steed stepping lightly out of the banner’s shadow. “A true warrior, the Northern Liang King!” he laughed. “Were we not on the battlefield, I’d share a drink with you—the finest mare’s milk wine, until we drop!”
Behind him, the elite *Kheshig* guards, clad in heavy armor, exchanged surprised glances at their Crown Prince’s unexpected boldness, their disdain softening slightly. The *Kheshig*, more revered than Liyang’s imperial guards, were drawn from the elite *Jia* and *Yi* clans, a reflection of the Northern Court’s dominance over the sparser southern aristocracy. In the Western Capital’s halls, even minor talents from these clans secured high positions, while the Northern Court’s councils rarely saw outsiders. The three-reign elder Yelü Hongcai, whose name echoed the Crown Prince’s, had survived the empress’s bloody rise by holding the loyalty of half the *Kheshig*.
When the once-powerful Murong Baoding was relegated to the lowly Orange Province instead of the strategic Bottle Province, it was Yelü Hongcai and the old *Kheshig* who pulled the strings. Dong Zhuo’s rapid rise in the south owed much to his marriage to a Yelü woman, a move that eased tensions between the Murong and Yelü clans.
For four centuries, the grasslands had lived by one rule: “He who holds the *Kheshig* holds the grasslands.” The late Northern Court Minister Xu Huainan’s greatest feat was helping the empress break this rule, securing the throne without controlling half the *Kheshig*—and keeping it.
Facing the Crown Prince’s challenge, the Northern Liang King remained unmoved, neither reciprocating the admiration nor pressing forward. Despite breaking through 2,000 Northern Mang armored soldiers, he now stood still, puzzling both the infantry behind him and the *Kheshig* ahead. Had he finally reached his limit?
Yelü Hongcai didn’t advance further. Instead, he raised the dagger passed down from the founding emperor and pointed it at his own throat. “Xu Fengnian!” he shouted. “Do you have what it takes to take this head?!”
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