Chapter 691: Drunken Dream Unaware of the Hanging Slaughter Knife, Grassland Night Conceals the Killing Plot

The camera lifts northward from the still‑smoking, charred earth and corpses of Gancao City, passes over the towering Helan Shan Que, crosses the endless yellow‑sand Gobi, and finally settles its view on the vast, boundless Western Grassland thousands of li away.

This is a world completely different from the Central Plains.

It is midsummer evening; the setting sun burns like a raging fire, turning the clouds at the horizon a deep crimson, and the golden‑red afterglow pours over the rolling sea of grass, coating each blade with a dazzling golden edge.

The wind brushes the grass low, herds of cattle and sheep scatter like pearls across the green carpet, and a river far away winds like a silver ribbon; everything seems tranquil and peaceful, as if the gloom of war has never shrouded this land.

Under the left‑wise king of the Rouran Khanate, the largest tribe—the Qiyan Tribe—is now immersed in a sea of revelry.

Hundreds of white felt tents are neatly scattered along the riverbank; in front of the largest golden‑topped main tent, several huge bonfires have already been lit.

Although the main army has long followed the Khan south to cooperate with Qi State in attacking the supposedly oil‑rich Zhou State's Lingzhou, the Rouran nobles and herders left behind still live a drunken, dream‑like existence.

On the bonfires sit a dozen or so skinned, cleaned whole sheep, sizzling and dripping golden oil, the fat splashing onto the coals and releasing an enticing aroma.

"Drink! All of you, drink! For the Khan's imminent great victory!"

A burly Rouran thousand‑man commander Ba Ye Gu, his face covered with horizontal flesh, lifts a silver‑inlaid bull‑horn cup filled with fiery Mamajiu.

His face is flushed, his eyes hazy, clearly having drunk a lot.

The few young Rouran nobles and centurions sitting around him also raise their cups in agreement, each wearing a greedy, exhilarated grin.

"Lord Ba Ye Gu, I heard that in the Zhou State's Lingzhou city, silk and porcelain cover the ground, smoother than the finest wool and hide of our grassland cattle and sheep!" a sharp‑mouthed centurion wipes the wine stain from his mouth corner, a lewd glint in his eye, "Especially those Zhou State maidens—rumor says their skin is as white as winter snow, a pinch will make water gush! Now that the Khan and Qi State join forces, once we breach the city, won't each of us get a few?"

"Hahaha! Of course!" Ba Ye Gu laughs, draining the cup in one gulp; the liquor streams down his thick beard, soaking his Leather Armor, "Our Rouran Iron Cavalry is unrivaled; with those tens of thousands of Qi troops pressing ahead, taking Lingzhou will be as easy as play."

He casually draws his curved blade from his waist, slices a large piece of tender lamb leg, stuffs it into his mouth and chews noisily, muttering, "That so‑called Zhou State, supposedly ruled by the Yu Wen family, and that so‑called Duke of Wei Chen Yan, are just a bunch of two‑legged sheep that only know how to cower behind city walls!"

"As soon as our hooves sound, they'll be scared stiff, piss and urine flowing, obediently handing over gold, silver, treasure and women!"

The crowd bursts into uproarious laughter at his words.

"Exactly! The Zhou people are weak, like rabbits on the grassland—fast runners and nothing else!"

"And if we don't go, if Lord Ba Ye Gu himself leads us, they're probably already sleeping with Zhou maidens in Lingzhou, drinking that… oh right, Dukang wine!"

They mock brazenly, their words full of contempt and disdain for the Zhou army.

These nobles left behind know nothing of the front‑line situation, let alone that just days ago the ally they had high hopes in—Crown Prince Gao Xiaoyu of Qi State—had been beaten at the foot of Gancao City, stripped of helmet and armor, fleeing like a bereaved dog.

They live only in their self‑spun beautiful dreams, believing the world is still a pasture where the Rouran Iron Cavalry can go wherever it pleases.

Night falls silently amid the revelry and clamor.

The wind over the grassland seems to change tune, no longer the gentle evening caress but now bearing a hint of biting cold, blowing the bonfires to flicker erratically with a "whoosh whoosh" sound.

The once‑cheerful horse‑head fiddle music gradually fades; the Rouran who are drunk as mud either cuddle women and crawl into felt tents, or lie sprawled on the grass snoring thunderously. Even the sentry on watch, having downed two extra bowls of Mamajiu, leans against a horse‑tether post with his spear and dozes off.

The entire Qiyan Tribe looks like a fat sheep that has shed all defenses, belly exposed, lying quietly in the night.

Until the middle of the third watch, the moon is veiled by a cloud, and the earth sinks into deep darkness.

At the tribe's edge, an elderly herder, urgent to urinate, shivers and crawls out of a dilapidated felt tent.

Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he loosens his belt, ready to relieve himself into the grass.

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet seems to shift.

"Hm?" the old herder pauses, thinking perhaps his eyes are failing or the bowl of wine he stole earlier has gone to his head, making him unsteady.

He shakes his head, intending to continue relieving himself.

Yet the next moment, the vibration returns, clearer and more violent than before.

"Clack clack clack…"

A small stone at his feet seems to come alive, hopping violently across the grass.

Immediately after, warhorses tethered to nearby posts begin to snort anxiously, their hooves pawing the ground, emitting restless whinnies.

The old herder's heart tightens sharply; a primal fear of the steppe surges within him. He knows that vibration frequency all too well—it is not earth tremor, but the omen of thousands of cavalry thundering toward them!

He jerks up his trousers, abandoning half‑urinated flow, eyes wide and clouded, staring toward the western horizon.

In the faint moonlight leaking through the cloud gaps, he sees a scene that shatters his soul.

On the western horizon, where the grassland once stretched empty, now a boundless black line surges upward.

That black line, like a tide of darkness, spreads toward them at astonishing speed, accompanied by a growing, rumbling roar like distant thunder rolling across the sky.

It is the sound of hooves!

The destructive roar that only ten‑thousands of well‑armed cavalry can produce in a charge!

"Enemy… enemy attack!!"

The old herder throws his wine sack aside, letting out a hoarse, almost broken scream that cleaves the night's dead silence: "Cavalry! Get up! Get up now!!"

Yet his shout is feeble against the thunderous hoofbeats.

Almost as his cry fades, the black tide has already surged before his eyes.

At the front rides a fierce general on a snow‑white thousand‑mile Divine Steed, wearing no heavy iron armor but a whole grey wolf hide, the snarling wolf head covering his helmet.

He wields a cold‑glinting curved blade in each hand, his face dark, a fierce scar bisecting half his visage, looking like a demon in the moonlight.

He is the Turkic great general, the blood‑thirsty, brutal "Grassland Butcher"—Su Nongtun.

He looks at the panicked old herder, eyes devoid of mercy, only brimming with blood‑thirsty cold light and the excitement of the slaughter about to begin.

"Die!"

Su Nongtun roars, his warhorse streaking like wind, his curved blade carving a cruel arc in the air.