Chapter 692: The Azure Wolf Tears Apart the Gentle Land, and Raging Flames Consume the Rouran Dream

Pfft!

A sour‑tinged, muffled thud, like a butcher's razor‑sharp cleaver, effortlessly sliced through the ripe hide of a cow.

For an instant the sound drowned out the howling wind across the Wilderness, becoming the sole marker of the night.

The old herdsman's mournful alarm was still lodged in his throat; his clouded eyes had just bulged from terror, never having time to send the signal to his brain, when his frost‑white, dirt‑caked skull was flung high into the air.

The hot blood in his throat, pressurized by fear to the limit, surged like a subterranean spring, shooting a little over ten feet high, tracing a bleak, cruel arc under the pallid moon.

The scorching blood sizzled onto the still‑warm campfire embers; the unextinguished coals, spurred by the hot, fetid liquid, erupted in a plume of white smoke reeking of rust and char, choking anyone nearby.

But this was merely a trivial appetizer before the long‑planned feast of slaughter.

"Charge!"

Su Nongtun's steed, the Thousand‑mile Snow‑hoof Divine Steed, thundered its hooves, crushing the grass like a white lightning bolt tearing the night.

It showed no sign of slowing; instead, using the sprint's momentum and its hind legs as an axis, it launched with astonishing bounce, soaring straight over the fire pit more than two meters wide.

The warhorse vaulted, like a deity descending or a demon lunging for prey.

Su Nongtun wore a whole gray wolf hide; the snarling wolf head was fashioned into a helmet, its pallid fangs pressed against his brow.

At the moment the warhorse touched down, he thrust his waist and abdomen, tilting oddly on the saddle like a roly‑poly; the twin blades in his hands, propelled by the horse's precarious inertia, sliced a cold semicircle like Death's scythe.

At this moment, Rouran thousand‑man leader Ba Ye Gu was just awakened by the clamor outside.

He staggered groggily from the warm tent, still clutching his belt, his pork‑fleshed face bearing the daze and irritation of a hangover.

A moment earlier, he had been dreaming of clutching a stolen Zhou State woman, bragging that Rouran Iron Cavalry were invincible, fantasizing about the gold and silver awaiting after conquering Lingzhou.

Yet the dream ended too quickly, and too coldly.

He didn't even see the enemy's face, only a bone‑chilling cold at his neck, followed by a world spinning.

His vision grew strange; he saw the starry sky whirl, saw his own headless body rigidly standing, a three‑foot‑high column of blood spurting from its neck, then the body sagged like a pool of sludge.

That was… me?

Ba Ye Gu's skull, rolled into the grass, eyes wide open, filled with terror, bewilderment, and resentment.

Until the very last moment before his consciousness faded, he seemed unable to grasp where this devilish army, burrowing up from the earth, had emerged from.

This is the deep rear, Rouran's heartland!

"Kill! No one left alive!"

Su Nongtun didn't glance at the corpses beneath his feet; he kicked the banquet table laden with cold meat, then roared a deafening shout skyward.

The sound was not human; it resembled a wolf from the deep grassland, starved all winter, finally tasting blood and erupting in feral frenzy.

"Wooo— wooo— wooo—"

The mournful horn finally tore the night's silence.

Trailing Su Nongtun were thirty thousand elite Turkic Iron Cavalry, surging like a black tsunami.

Both riders and horses wore specially crafted light armor, woven from nitrate‑treated layers of cowhide and vines—light yet sturdy, perfect for long‑range night raids.

They bore no spears, only uniform iron horse‑knives and iron‑rimmed round shields, moving like wind, fierce as wolves, silent as iron.

No superfluous chatter, no pre‑battle shouts—this was a slaughter conducted for pure destruction.

They surged like a breached black flood, instantly smashing the Qiyan Tribe's outer wooden fence, which had been little more than a token.

The fragile wooden stakes snapped like dry grass before the galloping warhorses; amid the spray of splinters, the black torrent barreled forward, tearing the sleeping camp to pieces.

Ah—!!

"Enemy attack! It's an enemy attack!"

"Help! Where did these cavalry come from! Where are our sentries?!"

"Where is the Khan? Go call for help!"

The Rouran tribe's camp exploded in an instant.

Many herders still in slumber, eyes unopened, were crushed by the heavy iron hooves of warhorses that burst into the tents, their chests shattered into pulp.

Sharp horse‑knives easily sliced the tent's canvas, cleaving the naked, panicked men and women in two.

The men's screams, women's cries, children's wails, and the terrified cattle and sheep's frantic bleats intertwined, turning the once‑peaceful grassland into a chaotic, blood‑soaked human furnace.

Fresh blood stained the grass, gathering in low spots into winding streams that poured into the nearby river, turning its clear water a shocking dark red that glimmered eerily in the moonlight.

It was an unequivocal one‑sided crushing.

Since the Rouran main force had already marched south with the Khan to assault Lingzhou of Zhou State, those left behind were few guards, mostly the elderly, weak, sick, and pampered nobles.

Before these Turkic Iron Cavalry, like killing machines, they were fattened lambs awaiting slaughter, facing a pack of famished wolves with gleaming fangs.

Their former arrogance now turned into the most laughable weakness.

A few self‑styled Rouran warriors tried to seize weapons and resist, but after only a few strides they were riddled by stray arrows into hedgehogs, or surrounded by coordinated Turkic riders, their bodies sliced apart before a single bitter word could be uttered.

Su Nongtun fought with fervor, his body drenched in blood; his twin blades, their edges rolled, were slick with flesh and fat, yet he swung them tirelessly. He rode his horse through the chaos, wherever he passed a torrent of blood and wind rose, leaving no opponent standing.

A near‑pathological frenzy flickered in his eyes, the pleasure of a century‑long hatred finally unleashed.

"Burn! Light all those tents!"

"The Crown Prince commands! All men taller than a cartwheel, behead them! Women and craftsmen, bind them all and take them! They are our property!"

Su Nongtun's voice echoed amid the flames.

The Turkic soldiers obeyed faithfully and coldly, flinging their torches without hesitation at each white tent.

The dry felt ignited instantly, the blaze spreading swiftly on the wind.

In but a moment, the entire Qiyan Tribe became a sea of fire.

The towering flames reddened half the sky, turning night into daylight and stretching fleeing silhouettes into twisted, elongated shapes.

The soaring firelight also illuminated a high hill nearby, where a lone, austere figure stood on a horse.

Turkic Crown Prince Moheduo, clad in jet‑black refined iron battle armor, his armor plates glinting a chilling sheen in the firelight.

He wore over it a scarlet cloak embroidered with a Golden Wolf Totem, flapping in the night wind like a blood‑stained battle flag.

He did not go down himself to the melee, but stood like a cold statue, silently on the high slope, his black horse beneath him unmoving. From his height he looked down, those deep, gloomy eyes seeing through the fire net, overlooking the slaughter and wails below.

The flames danced in his pupils, reflecting his grim, ambitious face.

He pressed his lips tightly, his eyes showing not a trace of mercy for life, only an extreme thirst for power and the thrill of holding fate in his own hands.

This was not merely a simple raid.

It was the Turkic People, suppressed for a hundred years, the despised Duan Nu tribe, issuing the first deadly roar toward the once invincible Rouran overlord.

"Crown Prince."

A Personal Guard rode up to Moheduo's rear, gazing at the horrific scene below…

An elderly Rouran woman clutching her grandson was cut down, a group of children driven into the fire…

A flicker of reluctance crossed the Personal Guard's eyes, and he whispered, "Did we kill too ruthlessly? These… after all are tribes of the Grassland, many of whom are kin through intermarriage."

Moheduo heard this, and the corner of his mouth slowly curved into a cruel, icy arc.

He did not answer immediately, but inhaled deeply the blood‑stained air, as if it were the sweetest fragrance in the world.

After a moment, he turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping the Personal Guard like a blade, his voice low and terrifying, each word seeming forced from between his teeth:

"Ruthless?"

"It's been a hundred years… we Turkic People have been at the foot of Jinshan, day and night hammering iron to forge weapons for those Rouran. Our fingers have been smashed, our backs whipped to ruin, our women violated at will; when a slight misstep led to our whole clan being slaughtered, did they ever consider the word 'ruthless'?"

Moheduo suddenly raised his hand, pointing at the sea of fire below, his tone grim, filled with bone‑deep hatred: "On this Grassland, wolves eat sheep—it's natural law. We Turkic have been the sheep for too long, so long that we've almost forgotten the taste of blood."

"Now, it's our turn to be the wolves that eat meat!"

His voice rose sharply, bearing an undeniable dominance: "This fire must not only burn the Qiyan Tribe, but also incinerate the Rouran people's rule over the Grassland! I will make every blade of grass on this plain remember the name of the Turkic People!"

"This is only the beginning."

Moheduo swung his Horse Whip violently, striking toward the deeper darkness, where the direction of the Rouran Khanate Court lay.

"Send the orders! Speed up! Gather all the Herd of Cattle, Sheep, and Warhorses!"

"Before dawn, I want to see no standing Rouran man left in this camp!"

"Yes!" The Personal Guard felt a chill, stunned by the terrifying pressure radiating from Moheduo, daring no hesitation, instantly turned his horse's head, roaring as he delivered this brutal death order.

With the command issued, the Turkic People's assault grew ever more ferocious.

Flames and blood intertwined, cries of agony and maniacal laughter resonated; this night on the Grassland was destined to be sleepless.