Bone Grafting

In July of 121 BC, under the reign of Emperor Wu of Han, in the western territories near Puqie.

In the farthest reaches of the north, snow fell in July. The bitter wind howled, draining all color from the world. The vast grasslands had long since lost all trace of green; wherever the eye wandered, sky and earth seemed indistinguishable.

A piercing neigh suddenly split the sky, scattering drifting snowflakes. Atop a hill appeared a solitary rider on a sweat-blooded horse, its coat blending with the bleak heavens. The horse was armored in iron plates; the rider wore a red robe over black armor, a ring-hilted saber at his waist. One hand gripped the reins, the other shielded his brow as he gazed into the distance.

Though the rider could see nothing useful, he stubbornly held that posture for a long while. Before and behind him stretched open plains—empty ahead, but treacherous behind.

Half a day earlier, in a nearby grove behind him, eighteen thousand armored cavalry had materialized.

“General Zhao,” another rider approached, forced by the blizzard to advance slowly. The same breed of horse, the same armor; aside from their faces, the two were nearly identical.

Zhao the Vanquisher did not turn, nor did he reply, his posture unchanged. Just past thirty, his features were sharp, his gaze eagle-like; even in the storm, his resolute aura was unmistakable. Not even this harsh environment could shake his steadfastness.

The second rider, older and bearing the marks of a lifetime, wore a look of concern etched deep in his brow. Drawing his