Old Ma seemed to understand the young man’s words and continued moving forward. As an old horse familiar with the road, there was no need to worry about losing the way. The young man threw the whip onto the cart and drew a mountain-splitting saber from under the sacks. The blade was over two feet long and eight inches wide, with a thick spine and a slightly curved edge. Its handle was wrapped in red cloth, and it came without a sheath.

With the saber in hand, the young man’s aura changed. Gone was the boy-next-door gentleness, replaced by a sharp and resolute presence. His eyes narrowed into needle-like glints as he stared coldly at the wild wolf. Gripping the saber with one hand, veins bulging on the back of his hand, he slightly bent his body, as if facing a mortal enemy.

Only those who have experienced it know the cruelty and madness of a starving wolf. A well-fed wolf would not attack humans unprovoked. But hunger knew no reason. A starving wolf, driven by survival, had no scruples. Perhaps provoked by the young man’s defiance, the wolf charged in a frenzy.

Seeing the wolf’s pace and steady, straight sprint, the young man grew more serious. This was a seasoned predator. Its even speed and direct line minimized attack time and distance, and the fact that it wasn’t yet at full exertion meant it still had strength left—it wasn’t yet desperate from exhaustion.

The young man remained still, waiting calmly. His eyes gleamed, and the saber naturally lowered, the blade now angled forward. As the wolf drew closer, he still didn’t move. Panic would only hasten death. Clearly, he had fought such beasts before.

In an instant, the wolf closed the gap. When it was five or six meters away, it suddenly leapt, its large body soaring high, mouth wide open, and its sharp claws flashing coldly under the twilight glow.

But a wolf midair had no leverage—no way to change direction. This was the moment the young man had waited for. Unmoving like a mountain, yet striking like lightning, he suddenly roared, “Kill!” and with a powerful stomp, dashed forward to meet the pounce.

Just as they were about to collide, he sidestepped with a sudden crouch and slid to the side. With the motion, he slashed upward with the saber—shhk!—the blade drove deep into the wolf’s belly, blood spraying wildly.

Thud! The wolf’s body crashed to the ground at his feet, groaning in pain, eyes full of rage and unwillingness. Its body curled and struggled, trying to stand.

With ice-cold precision, the young man stared it down. He raised a foot and kicked the saber’s hilt—shhk!—driving the blade even deeper. The wolf howled in agony. Its dull yellow eyes locked onto him for a moment, then slowly lost their light. Lifeless.

Staring at the dead wolf, the young man sighed in relief and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. That fight had been dangerously close. Had the wolf not leapt, leaving itself no way to turn; had he not stayed calm and waited for the right moment—the outcome could’ve gone either way. He pulled the saber from the carcass, wiped the blood clean, and exhaled deeply. Seeing that Old Ma had already gone far, he grabbed the dead wolf and hurried after.

A battle with such an experienced wolf was never easy. If he had attacked a moment too soon or too late, the wolf, still grounded, could have adjusted. The result would’ve been uncertain.

Throwing the carcass onto the cart, the young man joked cheerfully, “Old Ma, how was my performance? This wolf skin will make you a fine vest! Imagine how dashing you’ll look—bet the mares will flock to you. No need to thank me—we’re brothers, after all. Remember when I got heatstroke in the wilderness? If it weren’t for you, I, Luo Zheng, would’ve been fertilizer long ago.” The light-hearted grin had replaced the earlier grim resolve.

Old Ma neighed loudly in response and picked up speed. The young man chuckled and cursed, “Heh, talk of mares gets you fired up, huh? You old horny beast—just don’t end up with diarrhea!” And with that, he chased after him.

Man and horse galloped across the wilderness. At dusk, torrential rain suddenly poured, pelting his face like needles. The young man quickly pulled out a tarp from the cart and covered the sacks, urging Old Ma to run faster. Seeing the outpost ahead, he finally relaxed a little.

As they got closer, Luo Zheng caught the strong stench of blood. He looked up and saw the sentry post unmanned. Alarmed, he drew his saber, eyes flashing. He hid behind the cart and cautiously approached. Soon, he saw a familiar figure lying motionless in the square.

The man lay face down, unmoving, the rain around him dyed red. Luo Zheng rushed forward in panic, completely forgetting that doing so might expose him to a sniper. Turning the body over, his face turned pale. It was the deputy squad leader, a comrade he knew all too well. Half of his head was blown away. Dead beyond doubt.

“Deputy?” Luo Zheng cried out, disbelieving, holding the corpse. Just yesterday, they were chatting and joking together. Now, after just a day away, his closest comrade had become a lifeless body. A sudden thought gripped him, and Luo Zheng picked up the body and sprinted toward the barracks.

It was his first time facing such horror, and he completely lost his composure. All tactical sense forgotten, he exposed himself recklessly—luckily, the enemy had already withdrawn. Otherwise, he would’ve died a dozen times over. His mind was consumed by worry and rage.

Reaching the barracks, he saw the kitchen burnt to a crisp, surrounding buildings scorched and destroyed. Had it not been for the rain, the whole outpost might have turned to ash. Luo Zheng frantically searched every room. In the kitchen, he finally found several charred corpses.

“Squad leader?” His mind went blank. Legs giving out, he collapsed to the ground. The deputy’s corpse fell from his arms. Luo Zheng stared vacantly at the scorched bodies, oblivious to the overwhelming stench.

Who knows how long passed before Luo Zheng’s face twisted with grief and rage. Already guessing what had happened, he endured the pain, knelt, and bowed. His mind swarmed with memories of happier days—laughing, fighting, joking with his brothers. Tears like hot iron welled up and fell. A man doesn’t cry easily—unless truly heartbroken.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Three heavy bows. Blood reddened his forehead. Luo Zheng spoke with deep sorrow, “Squad leader… brothers… please come to me in my dreams and tell me the truth. If I don’t avenge you—I am no man.” A fierce killing intent surged from him, as if the air itself ignited.