Patrolling the perimeter of the camp, Ye Changgeng inspected every sentry post. One of the guards, ill and coughing so violently he could barely breathe, cupped his hands over his mouth to suppress the sound. Ye Changgeng ordered him to rest, telling him to return after sleeping for two hours.
Tonight, the Milky Way draped across the sky, and the moonlight fell like cascading silk. Though Ye Changgeng was no poet, even he found the night breathtakingly beautiful—a beauty that stirred a faint homesickness within him.
Each outpost was manned by two soldiers. With the sick one dismissed, the remaining guard stayed with Ye Changgeng. The soldier leaned against a tree, his eyes warily scanning the distance.
"General," he said in a low voice, "something doesn't feel right tonight."
"What's wrong?" Ye Changgeng took a step closer, instantly alert.
The soldier's name was Zhu Yan. Though his face was shifty, his mind was sharp.
"It's too quiet," he murmured. "Listen—there's not even a single birdcall."
On ordinary nights, the woods echoed with the chirps of insects, especially crickets. In late autumn, the crickets had dwindled, but the cries of owls still often haunted the dark. The soldiers hated that ominous sound, always tossing stones to drive the birds away. Even when the owls fled, nightjars and bats still flew overhead; mice scurried noisily across the ground, and startled hares dashed through the underbrush, stirring sleeping fireflies into flight.
But tonight, there was only silence—so complete it was as if their ears had gone deaf, broken only by the occasional crackle of firewood.
Ye Changgeng narrowed his eyes at the distance, then suddenly gripped his blade and yanked Zhu Yan behind him.
"Back to the camp! Wake everyone! A wolf pack is coming!"
His voice was sharp, urgent, yet composed. Zhu Yan froze, scalp prickling, until Ye Changgeng gave him a forceful slap on the back to jolt him into motion.
"Up! Everyone up!" he shouted, beating the bronze alarm gong at his waist. "Wolves! We're under attack!"
Chaos erupted in the camp just as the wolves abandoned stealth. One by one, they emerged like phantoms hunting sheep, descending upon the camp like lightning.
Ye Changgeng had only enough time to seize the largest burning log from the fire before racing to the camp's main path. The wolves crashed into soldiers, tearing through tents and people alike. He swung the torch, driving back one beast, but it didn't flee. Like the rest, it diverted its fury toward other prey.
"Protect the Tibetan delegation!" Ye Changgeng roared. "Use fire! Use blades! Stay together—never fight alone!"
His command brought clarity to the chaos, allowing the soldiers to regroup. But Ye Changgeng's mind had already jumped ahead.
Wolves.
A month ago, he had hunted and killed a snow-white wolf. Could that have been the alpha? If the alpha had perished by his hand, vengeance was inevitable.
He had skinned that wolf—half its pelt became a kneepad, the other half hung in his tent.
He dashed back to retrieve it, slung his signal-smoke pouch over his shoulder, and ran back out.
"Third squad, mount up!" he ordered. "The rest, defend the camp!"
His men responded in unison. Ye Changgeng vaulted onto his horse, sliced open his arm, and smeared blood across the white pelt.
"I killed your alpha!" he bellowed, swinging the bloodied pelt. "If you want revenge, follow me!"
His horse reared and surged forward, thundering out of the camp. The wolves, drawn by the scent of blood, gave chase, kicking up dust along the narrow path. Ye Changgeng led the charge, the third squad close behind, flanked by nearly two dozen wild wolves.
In a wide clearing, he hurled the pelt to the ground. The wolves swarmed, fighting over it. Within moments, a victor emerged—biting down on the pelt and stepping back. It was the new alpha.
As if receiving a silent order, the wolves turned and charged at Ye Changgeng.
He did not panic. Leaping off his panicked, uncontrollable horse, he hit the ground with his bow already drawn. The first wolf took an arrow through the skull and collapsed. The second and third fell in quick succession. But the rest had already closed in—his bow was useless now.
He dropped it and drew his blade. The fourth wolf lunged and bit deep into his shoulder. Ye Changgeng gritted his teeth and slashed, gutting the beast. It fell and, stumbling on its own intestines, tumbled to the ground, barely clinging to life.
Bathed in blood, Ye Changgeng stood alone, a lone war god beneath the pale light of dawn.
The wolves formed a circle around him, pacing, probing—but hesitant to strike.
Ye Changgeng pulled out his signal smoke and lit it. With a series of dull booms, colored smoke exploded outward. Startled, the wolves turned as a distant howl pierced the air—mournful, hollow, and retreating.
The wolves scattered.
Only then did the third squad arrive, bows drawn, ready to attack.
"Stand down!" Ye Changgeng commanded. "It's over. They have their alpha's pelt. They won't come back."
Some rushed off to retrieve the horses; others helped bandage Ye Changgeng's wounds. As he lowered his gaze, he saw the wolf he had disemboweled still alive, twitching weakly.
"Is there a needle and thread?" he asked a nearby soldier.
The man quickly dug into a saddlebag and pulled out a sewing kit. "We should let the physician handle it—once we return—"
"It's not for me."
Ye Changgeng crouched beside the wolf. It tried to crawl away, but couldn't move. Its eyes fixed on him—full of pain, fear, and reluctant submission.
He pushed its intestines back into its belly. They weren't severed—there was a chance.
The soldier handed over the kit. Ye Changgeng cleaned the wound, aligned the torn flesh, and crudely stitched it shut. He applied wound powder and wrapped the wolf tightly with cloth to stop the bleeding.
"Why save it?" his subordinate asked in confusion.
"I killed its alpha," Ye Changgeng replied. "It's only right. If left like this, it'll be eaten alive."
Even with its belly slit open, the wolf wouldn't die immediately—but the vultures and jackals would come soon enough.
His men helped him to his feet. "We should get you back, General. That wound is no small matter."
Fortunately, the camp had held. A few soldiers were injured, but none worse than Ye Changgeng. The Tibetan delegation greeted his return in person. Seeing him safe, they raised their hands skyward and chanted blessings in their native tongue.
Ye Changgeng nodded in return. As they parted, a noble figure emerged—a Tibetan princess.
She wore a blue crossed-collar gown, a golden fox-fur cap, and a necklace of dazzling gemstones. A veil hid her face, but her phoenix-shaped eyes were enchanting.
She spoke fluent Han Chinese.
"General Ye, you are injured."
Though her face was obscured, her eyes brimmed with concern.
The camp physician rushed over with his medicine box. Ye Changgeng offered the princess a brief salute and made for his tent. But before the doctor could begin, she arrived.
"Allow me," she said, holding a vial of medicine. "Wolf fangs are venomous. If you only stop the bleeding, fever and illness will follow."
Ye Changgeng rose and politely declined. "Your Highness, I'm honored by your concern, but how could I possibly trouble you—"
Before he finished, the physician tactfully slipped away.
The princess smiled gently. "Your protection has kept us safe. In my homeland, we don't stand on such ceremony. Treating your wounds is the least I can do."
She reached for his arm. Standing on tiptoe to reach him, she said softly, "Please, General. Sit."
Awkwardly, Ye Changgeng complied. She bent close, uncorked the bottle, and poured the medicine over his wound…