Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

As the word was uttered, the gates of Qixueguan Pass were flung open with a deafening roar.

The crack was initially a narrow line, but then the two iron-clad city gates were pulled by winches, and a dull "creak" sound, like a giant beast awakening its musculars, slowly opened to both sides.

Behind the archway, the first thing to emerge from the dark passage was not light, but the white steam from horses' hooves, the clear clanging of black iron armor plates colliding, and the immense silence of tens of thousands of people holding their breath.

Then Dongfang Wudi rode out on his horse.

One man, one horse, and one black knife.

The armor was covered in old wear and tear, the shoulder armor was chipped, and there was a long scar on the breastplate that had been cut by a sharp weapon and then repaired with molten iron.

He didn't raise a flag, didn't shout, and didn't even look back—he simply spurred his horse forward, the sound of its hooves pounding on the stone slabs of the barbican monotonous and heavy, like a heartbeat, striking the chest of every soldier in the northern frontier.

Behind him, 30,000 northern cavalry surged out of the pass like a tidal wave.

No one shouted "Kill!" The veterans of the North didn't shout such empty words.

They simply gripped their spears tightly in silence, lowered their stances in silence, and followed the figure in black.

When the sound of horses' hooves came together, it was no longer a series of soft "clattering" sounds, but a deep, continuous roar, as if the earth had turned over in its chest.

Thirty thousand cavalrymen, not a single flag askew, not a single horse straying from the ranks; the entire iron torrent was like a long sword steadily thrust forward, its tip the invincible East.

On the city wall, a young guard gripped his bow tightly, his knuckles white. Watching the figure in black armor recede into the distance, he finally couldn't help but nudge the old soldier beside him: "Brother... the Marquis is charging ahead alone, won't he—"

"Shut up." The old soldier didn't look at him; his eyes remained fixed on the area beyond the pass.

"For a hundred years. None of those who fought alongside the Marquis have ever asked him that question."

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he spoke in a very low voice.

"He charges ahead, we charge ahead. He charges in, we charge in. That's all. If you say another word, go back to work in the kitchen."

The young guard kept his mouth shut, but his eyes were slightly red.

Deep in the grassland, three auras soared into the sky.

The Three Heroes of the Golden Tent.

The three Grandmasters of the Ninth Heaven, all Golden Clan experts, each rode a strange beast, forming a triangular formation to meet the enemy at the front of the formation.

The man in the center rides a red-maned lion-tiger beast and holds an eighteen-foot-long golden spear with a dragon pattern coiled on the tip, named "Shattering Mountain". He once used this spear to pierce through the three-foot-thick city gate of a small country to the south.

The one on the left is a two-headed lizard dragon, holding a giant axe in his hand. The axe face is as wide as a millstone, and the blade is quenched with cold iron from the grassland. It is said to have drunk the blood of three hundred people.

The one on the right rides a featherless golden-winged eagle, with thirty-six wolf-tooth arrows in a quiver on his back. Each arrow is coated with the Golden Clan's secret "Bone-Corroding Poison," which causes the flesh of those struck to rot and die within three days.

The three of them moved at the same time.

The spear-wielder was the first to arrive, his crimson-maned lion-tiger beast spewing out a foul gust of wind. The spear, carrying a powerful force that could tear the earth apart, and the wind pressure generated by the spear tip ripped away the grass ten feet in front of Dongfang Wudi, the grass clippings obscuring his vision like a rain curtain.

When the spear was thrust out, a piercing shriek filled the air, as if a gash had been torn open across the entire grassland.

The invincible East cannot be dazzled.

He didn't even sway his waist.

The black blade slashed out horizontally, seemingly just a casual swing, with a slow speed and a simple trajectory, without any fancy techniques—but where the blade passed, the Mountain-Shattering Golden Spear, which the Grandmaster of the Ninth Heaven had thrust out with all his might, was silently broken in two three feet below the spearhead.

The cut surface is smooth as a mirror, like butter cut by a red-hot iron spatula.

The spear-wielder's tiger's mouth exploded, blood spurting out, and two deep, bone-revealing wounds were simultaneously torn open in the tiger's mouth of both hands.

His eyes widened in horror, and the last thing he saw in his pupils was the blade of the black knife sliding down the broken spear shaft.

There was no second trace. It was merely the aftereffect of a single stroke.

The spearman's head flew off, blood gushing from his severed neck like a fountain. The headless corpse, still clutching half a spear shaft, sat on the back of the lion-tiger beast for a moment before slumping off the horse.

The axe-wielder's great axe cleaved the horse's leg, the axe blade tearing through the air with a low growl like the roar of an angry beast, leaving only half a foot between the left foreleg of Dongfang Wudi's mount.

Dongfang Wudi reached out with his left hand, his five fingers gripping the axe blade like iron pincers.

"Clang—"

A piercing metallic twisting sound rang out. The giant axe, forged from refined black iron, was in his palm like a lump of soft clay being kneaded by a child. The blade curled, deformed, and twisted, the entire axe body twisted into a pretzel shape by his single hand.

The axe-wielder's arms bulged with veins as he tried to pull the axe handle back, only to find that the axe seemed to be permanently attached to Dongfang Wudi's hand—he pressed down with all his strength, but the other's hand remained completely still.

Dongfang Wudi glanced at him.

That glance was devoid of any emotion, as if he were looking at a blade of grass, a stone, or a fallen person. Immediately afterward, two crisp cracking sounds came from the axe-wielder's wrist, his wrist bones breaking simultaneously. Just as a scream reached his throat, the black blade swept back, and another head flew off.

A hundred paces away, the archer retreated ten steps.

He witnessed his two brothers die one after another in an instant, and for the first time, fear appeared on his face, which had been weathered by wind and sand for many years.

But he did not turn and flee—the pride of the Golden Clan did not allow him to turn back before the battle.

He bit down on a secret medicine hidden in his molar, his eyes instantly turned blood red, his internal energy surged, and the seven arrows fired at once instantly became thirteen arrows in rapid succession.

Thirteen wolf-tooth arrows flew in the air, one after another, using each other's momentum to accelerate, and finally converged into a golden rainbow. The rainbow light was wrapped with a green light that corroded the bones, and when it cut through a hundred feet, it even scorched the air.

Dongfang Wudi raised his sword.

A single slash. No charging, no shouting, not even a "serious" posture—just a raised hand, and the blade fell.

The blade energy condensed into a straight black line, meeting the golden rainbow. The moment they collided, the golden rainbow split open from the center, and the thirteen wolf-tooth arrows turned into countless fragments, scattering like powder in the wind.

The black blade energy swept across a hundred feet without stopping, passing through the air three feet in front of the archer and grazing the center of his forehead.

The archer paused for a moment.

Then a thin line of blood appeared between his brows, running from his hairline straight down to the bridge of his nose. He swayed on his horse and fell headlong. The featherless golden-winged eagle let out a mournful cry, circled twice, and then flapped its wings and flew into the depths of the grassland.

Three knives.

Three heads.

From the first strike to the final strike, Dongfang Wudi's mount didn't even stop.

As the old black horse passed by the spearman's corpse, its hooves carefully circled around it, as if disgusted that the blood on the ground had soiled its horseshoes.

Dongfang Wudi sheathed his sword, the crisp, brief "click" of the blade returning to its sheath mirroring the sound of the battle itself.

Behind him, the 30,000 Northern cavalrymen fell silent for a moment.

Then cheers erupted like a landslide, and the veterans who had been silent all their lives roared at the top of their lungs, their voices hoarse and burning, like a beacon tower that had been burning for three days and three nights in the north, and now someone had finally added more firewood.