Chapter 870: Heaven Crumbles, Earth Splits, the White Disaster Arrives

Songqi crouched beside him, tilting his head to glance at the black, oppressive cloud mass on the horizon.

"Chief, that cloud looks off."

Gao Jiong said nothing, reached under the carriage board, pulled out a hard piece of jerky, tore off a strip and shoved it into his mouth to chew.

The wind direction changed three times within a Half Hour Rest.

First a north‑west wind whipped sand into people's faces, then it paused for a while, so still that even the bone‑strung poles on the tent roof stopped shaking, and then a fierce, bone‑piercing cold surged from the north, chilling even under the armpits.

The dogs in the Qifu Tribe camp all barked at that moment; seven or eight gaunt herding dogs leapt out of the tents, tucking their tails as they darted behind the low hill.

An elderly herder of the Qifu Tribe ran out of a tent, clutching a sheep scapula used for divination, his face turning ashen.

"White disaster, the white disaster has come!"

The old herder's shout echoed twice through the camp, and the tents lifted their curtains one after another.

Gao Jiong shoved the half‑chewed jerky back into his sleeve, his gaze fixed on the black wall along the northern horizon.

That was not a cloud.

It was a gray‑black curtain of wind and snow swirling with shards of ice, its advance from the horizon toward them visible to the naked eye.

Songqi stood up, his voice tightening slightly.

"Chief, this situation feels like that something we heard of."

"White‑hair Wind."

Gao Jiong jumped down from the carriage pole, brushed the broken grass off his leather coat.

"The nomads on the Grassland call it a white disaster: heavy snow crushes, the Herd of Cattle and Sheep freeze to death, tents are overturned, and the living cannot survive three days."

Songqi's complexion shifted.

"What shall we do with our convoy?"

Gao Jiong turned his head and gave him a glance.

"Why are you in a hurry? We have food, salt, leather coats; we won't die."

His voice faltered for a beat, the curve of his mouth under the gloomy sky bending so little it was almost invisible.

"The ones who should be hurried are them."

The blizzard slammed down after two incense sticks burned.

There was no prelude.

No gradual buildup.

The wind and snow struck the camp like a solid wall; in the first wave, a dozen tents collapsed, the leather tent walls were rolled by the gusts, and the cracking of tent frames rang through the wind like a line.

The temperature dropped within a quarter hour to the point where splashed water froze into ice shards.

The herd of livestock tethered outside the tents panicked; the Herd of Cattle broke their ropes and ran wildly, a few calves were blown down by the storm, struggled a few times then lay still, quickly covered in a white layer.

The Sheep fared worse than the Cattle; their wool soaked with snow became saturated, the cold seeped through the wet fleece to the skin, flocks of sheep collapsed in the storm, their legs kicking a few times before their bodies hardened into rigid white clumps.

When Qifugu burst out of the Royal Tent, his face was covered with ice shards.

His voice was stretched to the limit by the blizzard, his throat nearly tearing from the shout.

"Drive the Cattle and Sheep into the tents! Quickly, into the tents!"

A few herders bent over, running through the blizzard, the rope in their hands tugged by the wind beyond their grip; one man was shoved by the gust, fell face‑down onto the frozen ground, his nose bled, the droplets hitting the snow instantly freezing into red ice points.

Qifugu himself was blown off balance; he grabbed a horse‑tethering stake beside the tent, his voice roaring from the deepest part of his throat.

"Heaven is taking the lives of our Qifu Tribe!"

Gao Jiong sat beneath the board of the first big carriage, a simple windbreak of three leather pieces overhead, while Songqi and two other Hidden Agents huddled beside him, wrapped in leather coats.

Songqi's teeth chattered.

"Chief, is the calamity you mentioned this one?"

Gao Jiong slipped his hands under his leather coat, the white breath he exhaled instantly scattered by the wind.

"Mm."

Songqi rubbed his hands.

"This came far too precisely, as if it were arranged with you, Chief."

Gao Jiong ignored him.

The blizzard lasted the entire night.

The next morning the wind eased a bit, but the snow kept falling, the world a white haze, visibility under twenty steps.

The Qifu Tribe camp had changed its shape over the night.

Collapsed tents made up more than thirty percent; some tents remained standing but their walls were torn with large holes, the people inside shivered together, lips turning purple, fingers stiffened so they could not bend.

The worst was the livestock.

Qifugu led a headcount around the camp, and when he returned he collapsed on the snow at the Royal Tent's doorway, clutching a broken rope end.

"How many have died?"

The officer beside him trembled as he gave the numbers.

"The Herd of Cattle lost over 160 heads, another seventy‑or‑eighty are frost‑bitten and cannot stand; they will die in a couple of days."

"The Sheep fared worse, over four hundred froze to death, and the survivors are barely hanging on."

"Twenty‑three Warhorses died."

Qifugu's lip split open, a bead of blood oozed, dried by the cold wind, forming a dark‑red scab at the corner of his mouth.

"What about the food? How much is left?"

Another officer ran from behind a tent, his voice cracking as if about to fall apart.

"The store‑tents were blown open last night; half the Millet inside soaked in snow, froze into ice, and when melted turned mushy—inedible."

"The remaining edible food won't last five days."

Qifugu's fist struck the Xuedi.

"Five days."

"After five days, what will the Qifu Tribe eat? Eat snow?"

No one answered him.

The wind and snow poured through the tent's seams, whimpering in bursts; from afar came women's cries and children's wails, feeble and shattered the moment the wind stirred them.

Qifugu squatted there, ten fingers thrust into the snow, nail beds turning a blue frost, his voice forced out from between his teeth.

"Go to the He Lan Tribe to borrow grain."

The officer beside him hesitated for a moment.

"Chief, you know the relationship between the He Lan Tribe and us."

Qifugu's eyes widened.

"So what if you know? People are dying; how many heads of Herd of Cattle is face worth? Send the most eloquent one, say all the nice words, first borrow about a hundred shi of Millet and a few hundred heads of Herd of Cattle and Sheep to get through this hurdle!"

He stood up and kicked a tent pole.

"Go quickly!"

Qifugu dispatched three men, riding the few good Horses left, braving the wind and snow toward the eastern direction of the He Lan Tribe.

After half a day, the three men returned.

To be precise, they were beaten back.

The leader's nose bridge was swollen with a large lump, his left eye socket bruised to a purple hue, and his mouth corner still stained with blood that hadn't been wiped clean.

The other two also bore injuries; the front of their garments were torn, exposing skin underneath that was frozen red.

When Qifugu saw them, his voice was stuck in his throat for two breaths before it rose.

"Did they beat you?"

The man with the swollen nose knelt in the Xuedi, his throat hoarse as if about to smoke.

"Chief, the He Lan Tribe never let us approach the Royal Tent."

"Their sentries blocked us, and after we clarified our purpose they began to curse."

Qifugu's knuckles gripped the curved blade's hilt, his finger bones flashing an abnormal white.

"What did they curse?"

The man swallowed a mouthful of blood‑foamed saliva.

"They called the Qifu Tribe a stray dog on the Grassland, saying our Herd of Cattle and Sheep were all dead, deserved it."

"They also said the Royal Court had long grown impatient with the Qifu Tribe, and that a few deaths would conveniently save grain."

"The leading sentry chief added another line."

Qifugu's voice squeezed out from beneath his tooth roots.

"What words?"

The man lifted his head, and his swollen left eye shed a mixture of blood and tears.

"He said, if the Qifu Tribe cannot survive, send the women and children to the He Lan Tribe, where they can still be used to tend cattle and sheep."

Three breaths of silence fell before the Royal Tent.

Qifugu's curved blade was drawn from his waist.

The blade's edge glimmered a dark hue in the gray‑white snowlight; the blade was slightly rusted, and the tip bore two small nicks.

He raised the curved blade overhead, his voice turning into a howl deformed by extreme humiliation.

"He Lan Tribe's mongrel dogs!"

The blade struck the horse‑tethering stake, splitting the wood in half, fragments scattering onto the Xuedi.

The herders around the tent, hearing the chief's howl, gathered in small groups, their faces marked with frostbite reds and hollows hollowed by hunger.

Qifugu, panting heavily, stood before the broken stake, his voice low enough that only those within three steps could hear clearly.

"Go fetch that traveling merchant from Fengzhou."

When Gao Jiong was summoned into the Royal Tent, the fire basin inside was almost out; the final red glow from a bit of cow dung burned flickered on and off in the cold wind.

Qifugu sat on the low platform, still clutching that curved blade, its blade stained with wood shavings from the horse‑tethering stake.

When he saw Gao Jiong, his voice was hoarse to the point of breaking.

"Merchant, how much grain do you still have on your cart?"

Gao Jiong stood at the tent entrance, hands tucked under his leather coat, head lowered, waist bent, still the same nod‑and‑bowing little merchant demeanor.

"Chief, why ask this? The little amount of grain on my cart is for trading along the way."

Qifugu patted his knee.

"I'll buy! All of it! Whatever grain and salt you have, the Qifu Tribe will take it all!"

Gao Jiong lowered his head a bit, his voice carrying a perfectly measured hesitation.

"Chief, I am also a proper trader; if you take everything in one breath, I won't be able to conduct any business afterward."

Qifugu grew urgent, sprang from the low platform, and with one hand pressed Gao Jiong's shoulder.

"How much grain is on your cart?"

Gao Jiong staggered a step from the pressure, his smile curving even more.

"Chief, don't be hasty; I tell you, don't doubt me—Millet plus coarse grain together amount to roughly three hundred shi."

Qifugu's eyes widened in a full circle.

"Three hundred shi?"

"How can a single merchant carry so much grain?"

Gao Jiong rubbed his hands.

"Leader, you don't know, I originally planned to take a long route, go through five or six tribes, and stock up more goods—that's the rule of doing business."

"There are also winter‑protective cotton clothes, a full two hundred pieces, all fine goods from mainland tailoring shops."

Qifugu's Adam's apple rolled up and down twice.

He seized Gao Jiong's arm, the force so great that Gao Jiong's bones cracked under the squeeze.

"Sell them to me, sell everything to me."

"The people of the Qifu Tribe are starving to death."

"Whatever price you name, it's fine."

Gao Jiong furrowed his brows and put on a look of being troubled.

"Leader, it's not that I refuse to sell, but what will you give to buy?"

"Given the current state of the Qifu Tribe, most of the herd of cattle and sheep have frozen to death, and there are only a few warhorses left; even if you offered the whole camp's tattered tents in exchange, it wouldn't be worth three hundred bushels of grain and two hundred cotton clothes."

Qifugu tightened his grip on Gao Jiong's arm a little more.

"I'll write an IOU."

"When the harvest improves later, I'll repay you with double the warhorses."

Gao Jiong gently pulled his arm out of his hand, stepped back half a pace, and his voice added a hint of a merchant's shrewd calculation.

"Leader, in trade we speak of real gold and silver; an IOU is something that blows away with the wind on the Grassland, and I can't take it back to settle any account."

Qifugu's face swelled to the color of pig liver.

"Then tell me what to do!"

"We can't just watch my people starve and freeze here!"

Gao Jiong stepped back a pace, flicked his fingers at the collar of his leather coat twice, and peeled away his expression layer by layer, the nodding, bowing smile disappearing completely in that breath.

What was revealed caused Qifugu to choke briefly, a short gasp in his throat.

Gao Jiong's pupils rotated half a circle in the last red glow of the fire pit, his voice changed, becoming a different person from the smiling wine‑selling peddler before.

"Qifugu leader, this official offers you a way out."

Qifugu was stunned.

"The official?"

"Who exactly are you?"

Gao Jiong fished a tiny iron plaque from the inner pocket of his leather coat; the plaque bore the secret pattern of the Mingjing Department, barely visible in the dim tent, yet the very act of producing it was enough.

He did not reveal the front side of the plaque.

He merely turned the plaque half a circle on his fingertip, then slipped it back into his pocket.

"You don't need to know who this official is; you only need to know that the three hundred bushels of grain and two hundred cotton clothes on my cart are enough for your Qifu Tribe to survive this calamity."

Qifugu's Adam's apple rolled.

"What do you want?"

Gao Jiong walked onto the sand inside the tent and drew two lines on the ground with his boot tip.

"This official wants one thing as collateral."

Qifugu stared at him, his fingers rubbing back and forth on the hilt of his curved blade.

"What thing?"

Gao Jiong's boot tip poked a point between the two lines.

"The He Lan Tribe's wind‑sheltered grassland."

The temperature inside the tent dropped another two degrees.

Qifugu's mouth opened, but the sound was stuck in his throat for several breaths before emerging.

"What did you say?"

Gao Jiong placed both hands behind his back, straightened his spine, and lifted his chin slightly.

"The three‑hundred‑li wind‑sheltered grassland on the eastern side of the He Lan Tribe, you take it for me, and the grain and cotton clothes will be all yours."

Qifugu's entire face changed from red to white and then from white to blue within those three breaths.

"You want me to seize the He Lan Tribe's territory?"

"The grassland was allotted by the Royal Court to the He Lan Tribe."

"If I move a single finger, the whole Royal Court's great army will press down."

"This isn't saving me; you're making me lead the whole clan to certain death!"

Gao Jiong looked at him, his voice carrying a chill that reached the very seams of his bones.

"To a death sentence?"

"Qifugu leader, if you don't seize the He Lan Tribe's grassland, you won't survive more than ten days."

"Your grain will last five days; after five days the herders will start cannibalizing."

"Has the Royal Court sent anyone to rescue you?"

Qifugu's lips trembled.

"When the He Lan Tribe beat your people with sticks, did anyone stand up for you?"

Qifugu's jaw clenched, grinding audibly.

Gao Jiong lowered his voice to a level only two people could hear.

"If you don't seize it, tomorrow your wife, children, and clan will die."

"If you do seize it, with grain and grassland, your Qifu Tribe will become the toughest bone in the eastern Grassland."

"Does the Royal Court dare to attack you? This official has left you other good things; can you not win?"

Qifugu's breathing grew heavy, his chest rising and falling with increasing amplitude.

He stared at Gao Jiong, staring for a long time.

From outside the tent came a child's cry, a thin sound, pressed down by the wind and snow until it was almost inaudible.

Qifugu's fist clenched on his knee, his knuckles snapping with a series of crisp clicks.

His voice leaked out from between his teeth, shattered as if about to fall apart.

"I need to confer with the people below."

Gao Jiong withdrew his gaze, turned and walked toward the tent entrance.

"Leader, as you please, this officer awaits your reply."

"The food is on the cart, the cart is in the camp; it won't grow legs and run away."

"But my patience will run."

When he lifted the tent curtain to go out, the blizzard outside lifted the lower hem of his leather coat, revealing a corner of the dark‑red iron plaque pressed in the inner layer.

The curtain slapped twice in the wind and fell back into place.

Qifugu sat on the low platform, his curved blade gripped white in his hand, his gaze fixed on the endless white hell outside the curtain.

The child's cry came again, this time a little closer.

He lowered his head, released the curved blade with his right hand, and thrust all ten fingers deep into his own hair.