I slaughtered my way through the border at the start, I am the Great Ming's Night Raider!

Winter of the twenty-second year of the Xuande reign.

The wind at the border is as fierce as a knife.

Chen Yuan had been lying in the pile of dry grass for two hours.

The arrow wound on my right shoulder was covered with ice crystals, and every breath was excruciatingly painful.

But he didn't move an inch, not even blinking.

Fifty paces away, the campfires of the Tatar scouts crackled.

He silently counted in his mind, "Three bright and one dark."

There was another one hidden in the shadows at the edge of the firelight.

This is Yehuling, seventy li outside Xuanfu Town, the boundary of the night watchman's activities.

Five days ago, Chen Yuan's 12-man Night Scout Seventh Squad went out to scout when they were ambushed by the Tatar elite "Iron Falcons." Eleven of them died in battle, and he was the only survivor.

He was also the only one who could possibly bring the message back to the military.

Chen Yuan licked his chapped lips: "The Iron Falcons have assembled no fewer than three thousand cavalry, well-equipped, and possess siege weapons."

This message must be sent back.

But this cavalry force in front of him blocked his shortest route back to Xuanfu.

Chen Yuan slowly moved his frozen fingers and gripped the goose-feather saber at his waist.

The knife was standard military issue, but he had modified it, making the blade three-tenths narrower and adding two blood grooves to the edge.

My master once said, "A knife that kills doesn't need to be fancy; speed is enough."

His martial arts instructor was surnamed Chen, a retainer of the Chen family of Yingchuan.

Chen Yuan's eyes darkened as he thought of the Chen family.

Three months ago, I received a letter from home saying that the head of the family, Chen Xi, was seriously ill and that I should "return home if I have free time".

With the border war intensifying, he submitted three leave requests, all of which were rejected.

Zhang Meng, a centurion, patted him heavily on the shoulder and said, "We can't leave at night, so wait a little longer."

And so the wait has continued until today.

Around the campfire, the Tatar soldiers began to share the roasted lamb.

The aroma of meat wafted on the breeze, and Chen Yuan's stomach twitched.

He hadn't eaten for two days; the last small piece of dry rations he gave to his injured warhorse yesterday.

The horse was named "Chasing Wind," a five-year-old fine horse from Hexi that had been with him for three years. It died last night on the icy riverbank thirty miles away.

Chen Yuan personally slit its throat—the horse's leg was broken, it couldn't be taken away, and it couldn't be left to the Tartars.

He was heartbroken at the time, and in the end he could only stroke the horse's head with his calloused hands and whisper, "I'm sorry, old friend."

All things have a spirit, and the horse's eyes looked at him as if it understood.

Chen Yuan put away his memories and began to calculate.

Of the four Tatar soldiers, two were eating meat, one was sharpening a knife, and the one in the shadows remained motionless. Chen Yuan began to guess the man's identity; he could be a sentry or the leader.

The best time to act is half an hour later, at the turn of midnight.

Border veterans all know that midnight is when people are most tired and exhausted. The sentries will change shifts, the campfire will need to be fueled, and there will always be a moment of relaxation.

Chen Yuan closed his eyes and adjusted his breathing.

His master taught him the "turtle breathing method," which can lower the heart rate and conserve body temperature.

The martial arts of the Yingchuan Chen family are not passed on to outsiders, but he is an exception.

He entered the Chen family at the age of seven, began learning martial arts at the age of twelve, mastered military strategy at the age of fifteen, and was personally sent to the border by the head of the family, Chen Xi, at the age of seventeen.

"The sons of the Chen family either study to become officials or join the army to serve their country."

Chen Xi's eyes were complicated as he said this, "Choose a path and walk it."

Chen Yuan chose to join the army.

It wasn't because he was particularly patriotic, but because the military was the simplest place—if your blade was sharp enough and you were ruthless enough, you could survive. Unlike the imperial court or aristocratic families, all those convoluted things annoyed him.

A quarter of an hour passed.

The Tatar soldiers around the campfire began to drink, using leather bags; the smell of strong liquor mingled with the wind.

The person in the shadows finally moved, walked to the fire, and took the wine flask.

Chen Yuan saw his face clearly: a scar across his left eye, running from his forehead to the corner of his mouth.

"Scarface" Agula, a notorious bandit leader from the Tatars, robbed three villages in the Ming Dynasty last year. Xuanfu Town has offered a reward of one hundred taels of silver for his head.

Chen Yuan's breathing was as steady as a rock.

Scarface took a few sips of wine and began to speak in Tatar.

Chen Yuan spent three years at the border and could understand about 70-80% of what he heard.

"The main camp will move in five days, heading straight for Xuanfu!"

"The Ming general Zhao Guang is an incompetent fool and nothing to fear."

"The king has decreed: After the city falls, the swords shall not be sheathed for three days; the warriors may vent their fury to their heart's content."

Chen Yuan's eyes were as cold as ice.

He slowly drew his goose-feather saber, the blade gleaming with a faint blue light under the moonlight.

This knife has drunk the blood of seventy-seven enemies; tonight, it will add four more.

Another incense stick's time passed.

The Tatar soldier who was sharpening his knife got up to urinate and staggered toward the haystack where Chen Yuan was hiding.

Ten steps, five steps, three steps!

Like a leopard that had been lying in wait, Chen Yuan suddenly sprang out from the withered grass, his blade flashing!

The Tatar soldier didn't even have time to utter a sound before his throat was slit open, and blood splattered onto the snow, a glaringly red sight.

Chen Yuan didn't stop; he charged forward, heading straight for the campfire.

"Enemy attack!"

Scarface reacted the fastest, grabbing the curved knife at hand.

But it was too late!

Chen Yuan's second strike arrived, not a slash, but a stab.

The goose-feather saber passed between two Tatar soldiers, accurately piercing the heart of the man on the left. With a twist of his wrist, he withdrew the saber and slashed at the neck of the man on the right.

One cut, two lives.

The entire process took less than three breaths.

Scarface finally pulled out his knife and roared as he charged forward!

His swordsmanship was ruthless, following the style of a bandit, specializing in underhanded tactics.

Chen Yuan dodged to the side, his goose-feather blade slashing diagonally towards the scarred man's wrist.

"when!"

The two knives clashed, sparks flying everywhere.

Chen Yuan's arm went numb; the arrow wound had flared up from the impact!

Scarface seized the opportunity and slashed straight at his face with his curved blade.

Instead of retreating, Chen Yuan advanced, crouching down and crashing into Scarface's arms. He struck Scarface's ribs with his left elbow, while his right hand stabbed Scarface's chin from below with his knife.

The tip of the knife pierced through the top of the skull.

Scarface stared wide-eyed, unable to believe it even as he died.

Chen Yuan drew his sword, and the corpse fell to the ground.

The campfire was still burning, and the roasted lamb was half-burnt.

Chen Yuan was panting; the wound on his right shoulder had reopened, and blood seeped out, staining his tattered cotton armor red. He walked to the fire, tore off a piece of lamb leg, and began to eat it heartily. Grease dripped from the corner of his mouth, but he didn't care.

After finishing his meal, he began searching the body.

He pulled a bronze plaque from Scarface's pocket. The front of the plaque had a wolf head totem, and the back was engraved with the Tatar script: "Thousand Households".

"He's still an official."

Chen Yuan put away the bronze plaque, then took out a few taels of silver and a sheepskin map. The map marked the gathering locations of the various Tatar tribes, one of which was circled in cinnabar—Xuanfu Town.

Chen Yuan stared at the map, his eyes growing colder and colder.

The three thousand iron hawks were just the vanguard; there were at least twenty thousand more troops behind them.

"We must return to the city immediately."

"Xuanfu was completely unaware of this sudden attack, and there is no time to lose."

He extinguished the campfire, covered the bloodstains and corpses with snow, and then chose Scarface's warhorse, a chestnut horse with strong limbs, a fine warhorse.

Before mounting his horse, Chen Yuan glanced back at the southeast direction.

That's the direction of Yingchuan.

"Wait a little longer."

He told himself, "I'll go home after I deliver the message."

He mounted his horse, the chestnut steed rearing up and neighing, and charged towards Xuanfu Town.

The night was still deep, and the wind was blowing harder.