A family of loyal martyrs, starting with nine wives to continue the family line.

Before the Western Qiang cavalry blocking their way could even raise their swords, their spears swept across.

It's not a thorn, it's a sweep.

The force of the spear swinging horizontally sent two cavalrymen and their horses flying.

The warhorse neighed and fell to the ground, tripping over three or four cavalrymen behind it, causing them to tumble and fall.

Wei Zhao slipped through the gap, only to be met by another layer of people.

The spear tip thrust forward, piercing the chest of a centurion. With a twist of the shaft, the body was flung to the left, knocking down two archers who were drawing their bows.

Immediately afterwards, the white wax spear retracted half an inch and then shot out again—like a snake spitting its tongue.

The spear tip went in through a centurion's chin and out through the back of his head.

Wei Zhao didn't even glance at the person; his eyes were fixed straight ahead—on Tuoba Yue's location.

The crooked golden crown flag was still standing, but it was swaying, and swaying more and more violently.

He could see it; Tuoba Yue's figure slumped off her horse, someone was trying to catch her—no, no one caught her, she fell to the ground.

Wei Zhao's teeth were grinding together.

Ahead was a large group of Western Qiang cavalry blocking their way. They were Tuoba Ye's personal guards, the best-equipped group, with gleaming scimitars and thick leather armor.

Wei Zhao did not slow down.

The white wax spear drew a complete circle in the air, and the tip of the spear slashed down with a whistling sound, slicing off half of the first guard's shoulder.

The blood mist exploded, and the warm liquid splashed onto Wei Zhao's face, but he didn't even blink.

Shots kill.

There are no fancy moves, no ingenious dismantling techniques.

The brute force of a first-class cultivator crushes all techniques; every shot is the straightest line, the shortest distance, and the most lethal angle.

Fifty steps.

Tuoba Ye witnessed this scene.

He rode on his gray-maned warhorse, his scimitar still raised, its blade stained with Tuoba Yue's blood. But his hand was trembling.

It's not from being tired.

The sight of that white-clad cavalryman charging towards him sent a chill down his spine from his tailbone to the back of his head.

Fifty paces apart, separated by his most elite personal guards.

Those tough guys who had risked their lives with him for three years were sent flying one by one by that white wax spear, like picking up haystacks.

No one can stop him. Not a single one.

Tuoba Ye's mind went blank for a moment.

It's not that he hasn't fought tough battles.

He had killed people in a tribal fire when he was sixteen, and fought the chief of the neighboring tribe when he was twenty. He had been living on the edge for thirty years. What kind of battles hadn't he seen?

But he had never seen such a thing before.

This is not human. No human could carve a path through thousands of cavalrymen and then remain unscathed.

A person's strength will eventually wane, and their speed will decrease. After fighting to this extent, a person should at least catch their breath.

The madman on the other side didn't even change his breathing rhythm.

Tuoba Ye made a judgment.

This judgment was made in just one breath.

If he stays here to kill Tuoba Yue, will he be able to succeed?

Yes, she's already on the ground; it was just one stab wound.

But what happens after the killing?

The white-clad killing god rushed towards him, and at most ten breaths later, Tuoba Ye's head would be lying next to Tuoba Yue's corpse.

When you die, you lose everything.

"Batu!"

Tuoba Ye roared, his voice filled with determination.

A burly man with a face full of scars and a knife scar on his left eye rode up beside him.

Batu, Tuoba Ye's childhood friend, wrestled with him on the grassland when they were five years old, killed their first person together when they were fifteen, and remained inseparable for twenty years.

"Block him!"

Five words.

Batu glanced at Tuoba Ye.

That glance was so brief that the person next to them wouldn't even notice it.

But there was something heavy in that glance—understanding, resignation, and a touch of indescribable bitterness.

He understood.

To stop him is not to hold him back, but to risk our lives to save him.

Batu tapped his scimitar against the saddle twice, shaking off the blood and bits of blood from the blade.

"Let's go."

The two words were spoken in a very flat tone, like the way someone would normally hand out a bowl of wine by a campfire.

Tuoba Ye didn't turn around to look at him. He pulled on the reins, and the gray-maned warhorse suddenly turned and galloped wildly towards the mountain road to the south.

A dozen or so guards followed closely behind, their horses' hooves beating rapidly like a dense drumbeat.

Batu turned around and faced the white-clad cavalry general who was charging towards him.

The white wax spear was covered with bits of flesh and blood, and its tip gleamed coldly in the sunlight.

The young man riding the white horse had blood all over his face, but his eyes were terrifyingly clear-headed.

Those eyes were fixed on the direction Tuoba Ye had fled, and something burning inside them sent chills down Batu's spine.

"Brothers."

Batu glanced back at the twenty-odd guards who hadn't run away yet.

They were all the elders who had followed Tuoba Ye the longest.

"Stop him."

No one asked why, and no one criticized Tuoba Ye for abandoning them.

They raised their scimitars, turned their horses around, lined up, and charged towards Wei Zhao.

More than twenty people faced a killing machine.

Wei Zhao saw Tuoba Ye running south.

A thought flashed through his mind in an instant—to chase or not to chase?

How do we deal with this group of people?

But Tuoba Yue was still lying on the ground.

The white wax spear met Batu's curved sword.

"clang!"

The scimitar broke.

The spear tip pierced through Batu's chest, and with a thrust of the spear, he was lifted off his horse, arcing through the air before crashing heavily onto the gravel ground.

Batu's eyes were still open, a trace of blood foam at the corner of his mouth, and his pupils were rapidly dilating.

He took one last look at the mountain path to the south.

Tuoba Ye's figure had become a small black dot.

They got away, good.

Batu loosened his grip on the half-broken knife, tilted his head to one side, and remained motionless.

The remaining twenty-odd guards met an even faster end; Wei Zhao's spear was almost constantly in motion, each swing taking one or two lives.

In less than ten breaths, a pile of corpses appeared beneath the horse's hooves.

It's quiet now.

Wei Zhao reined in his white horse, planted the tip of his spear on the ground, and scanned the ground with his eyes.

Tuoba Yue lay three steps away, face up, her clothes on her left shoulder soaked in blood, a dark red stain, and half of her hair was disheveled.

The crooked golden crown had rolled off at some point, and was just two feet away from her hand.

Wei Zhao dismounted.

When he squatted down, his hand hesitated for a moment—not because he was afraid to touch it, but because he was afraid of touching the wound.

He put his finger under her nose.

It has breath, but it's very weak.

Wei Zhao opened up her left shoulder wound and looked at it. There was a three-inch-long gash in the skin, and blood was still seeping out, but the bone was not broken.

He lost consciousness due to blood loss, but his life was saved.

Wei Zhao lifted her up from the ground very gently, so gently that it didn't seem like the movements of a man covered in blood who had just killed dozens of people.

Tuoba Yue's head rested on his shoulder, unconscious. Her face was deathly pale, and her lips were completely bloodless.

Wei Zhao looked down at her.

This woman, leading three thousand elite troops and one hundred thousand slave soldiers, killed the garrison commander, seized the palace, and took the throne.

Then one person carried the entire mess of Western Qiang to the front line.

Surrounded and hacked down by 60,000 elite cavalry, he didn't run.

He was dying, yet he was still holding his sword.

Wei Zhao placed her on his horse, mounted himself, put one arm around her waist, and held his spear in the other.

He turned to look at the mountain path to the south.

Tuoba Ye's figure had long since disappeared around the corner of the valley.

Ran.

Wei Zhao narrowed his eyes.

He knew where Tuoba Ye would run to: south, to the southern barbarians.

With the alliance of the five tribes in place, Tuoba Ye only needs to run to the barbarian king to have the means to turn his life around.

Okay, go ahead and run.

No matter where you are in the world, I'll remember this debt.

The sounds of fighting in the valley had thinned out.

After the 50,000 cavalrymen of the Wei family army rolled over, the Western Qiang army, without Tuoba Ye in command, completely fell apart.

The tribal coalition was the fastest to run. Those chieftains who were just there to make up the numbers, once they saw their commander had run away, who would still stand there like an idiot?

They quickly surrendered or fled.