Prologue

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 mount alongside Zhao, he stared in the same direction, voice heavy: “Half a day ago, the weather was clear. Who would expect such sudden snow? With the world blanketed, who knows how General Qin fares? If he cannot arrive on time, what are we to do in this frozen land...?”

“General Gongsun!” Zhao interrupted icily, his tone cold as the storm. “How General Qin fares is not for you to speculate. If you dare sow doubt among my troops again, do not blame me for merciless discipline.”

Rebuked, Gongsun showed no anger, only forced a thin smile. “General Zhao, there is no need for such words. I, too, worry for General Qin’s safety. After all, the fate of the western campaign, the destruction of the Xiongnu, rests on his shoulders... Heh, now I wear the battle robe of the Cavalry Army—I suppose I am one of you...”

Zhao reined in abruptly, turning his horse toward the woods. “A defeated general,” he retorted coldly, “Had it not been for you, would General Qin be forced into such peril? You may wear our colors today, but let me remind you: the Cavalry Army has never harbored cowards who abandon their comrades to save themselves. Not before, not now, not ever!”

Without another word, Zhao rode off, leaving Gongsun behind, gnashing his teeth in frustration.

The wind and snow soon erased all trace of their exchange.

—

Blood stained crimson robes; white snow coated iron armor. Blood melted snowcrystals, sweat ran in rivulets. The wind roared in Qin Cheng’s ears, burrowing into his skull in a maddening hum. Suddenly releasing the reins, he twisted around, drew his bow, and let fly three arrows in a flash.

Behind, at a hundred paces, the pursuers’ ranks rang with three anguished cries—screams that mingled with the shouts of his own men, indistinguishable in the chaos.

From afar, one could see through the snow curtain innumerable white-robed, black-armored cavalry chasing just over two thousand red-robed, black-armored riders. Like two great serpents, they surged across the steppe, one in pursuit, the other fleeing, the jaws of the latter nearly upon the tail of the former.

Bloody blooms erupted between the two armies, bright and ghastly against the blizzard—like splatters of red ink upon a vast white canvas.

The storm obscured the soldiers’ vision, but not their resolve.

“General, you must go on! I’ll stay behind with the men!” cried a red-robed cavalryman, urging his horse beside Qin Cheng, voice urgent.

They were already at the rear of the column.

“Shut your mouth!” Qin Cheng snapped, firing another icy barbed arrow over his shoulder as he spurred his mount onward.

“General, the storm is fierce! Only if you break through can you join General Le Yi and turn back to avenge us—your divine mount is our only hope to shake off these pursuers!” the young soldier shouted, heedless of the wind and the arrows hissing from behind. “The Eighteen Riders of Yan Yun will guarantee your safety!”

“Chief of the Charioteers, don’t think I don’t know you’re a woman in disguise!” Qin Cheng retorted, flinging an arrow behind the young rider. The clash of iron bolts rang out. “Whether woman or man, the Cavalry Army has never left its own behind!”

The young rider froze, shocked—she had thought her secret safe all these years, but the great general had seen through her. Her cheeks flushed, but in a heartbeat, her urgency returned. She was about to speak when chaos erupted at the head of the column; squinting through the storm, her face turned ashen.

Countless white-robed, black-armored cavalry surged from the flank, blocking their path and encircling their wings.

Qin Cheng pulled his horse short, his steed rearing and neighing. Then, with a burst of speed, he charged forward.

The blizzard blinded them to their surroundings; lost in unfamiliar territory, they could not tell direction. Their fate—encirclement—was now inevitable.

Before and behind, enemies outnumbered them tenfold. What was there left to do?

The two thousand red-robed cavalry did not slow, but instead accelerated, desperate to break through the enemy lines ahead. Survival meant smashing a hole through the opposing ranks—any hesitation would spell annihilation.

Qin Cheng was now at the very front. In retreat, the general covered the rear; in attack, he led the charge.

With a sharp ring, Qin Cheng drew his frozen ring-hilted blade, raising it skyward.

Behind him, over a thousand cavalry sheathed their bows and drew sabers in unison. In that instant, the two thousand riders became a single unstoppable force, brimming with lethal resolve—awaiting only the order to annihilate all before them.

Qin Cheng swept his blade forward, issuing a thunderous command: “Kill!”

“Kill!” echoed a thousand voices, as their horses surged forward like a flood unleashed.

A wedge-shaped formation.

Directly ahead, among the white-robed cavalry, a towering warrior in a king’s helm glared at Qin Cheng, eyes burning red with murderous intent.

His gaze was locked on Qin Cheng alone.

This was the man who had driven him from the desert to the steppes, from the steppes to the far west, yet still pursued him relentlessly.

This Han general, determined to see him dead.

—Commander of the Cavalry Army, the Han’s foremost general, the sharpest blade in Liu Che’s war against the Xiongnu!

He was the undisputed hero of the Han Empire and the terror of all its border nations. He had doubled Han’s territory, subdued every neighboring realm, consolidated the empire’s foundations, abolished the feudal kingdoms, enriched the people, fostered trade, multiplied the state’s revenues, and forged an invincible army—the Cavalry Army.

He was the stuff of legend.

But today, that legend would be buried by his own hand—Qin Cheng’s head would be his trophy. With thirty thousand elite cavalry encircling two thousand Han, how could he possibly fail?

Yizhi Xie felt his blood boil.

The storm began to abate.

“Kunlun gods, protect the Great Xiongnu! The Great Xiongnu is invincible!” Yizhi Xie drew his blade and bellowed, eyes cold, saber pointing at the Han cavalry. “Kill them all—leave none alive!”

The Xiongnu cavalry howled like wolves, charging at the Han with savage ferocity.

“Qin Cheng, you wretch—your life is mine!” Yizhi Xie hurled himself at Qin Cheng.

Qin Cheng’s face was calm as water. As Yizhi Xie closed in, he swept his blade in a graceful arc toward his foe’s chest.

But Yizhi Xie was no ordinary foe. With a cold sneer, he parried with his saber.

At the last instant, Qin Cheng switched from a slash to an upward thrust, aiming for Yizhi Xie’s throat.

Yizhi Xie recoiled in shock, saber raised to guard his face. Qin Cheng’s blade flashed past the tip of Yizhi Xie’s nose.

The two riders thundered past each other.

Qin Cheng pressed on, his blade reaping three or five Xiongnu cavalry in quick succession—their hot blood melting the ice on his armor.

Enraged, Yizhi Xie cut down several Han soldiers near him and spurred after Qin Cheng, slashing at his neck from behind.

But Qin Cheng’s blade was already upright at his back to block the blow as he ducked low.

The long saber skimmed his helmet.

In a swift countermove, Qin Cheng swept his blade upward toward Yizhi Xie’s face.

The two locked in close combat, horse to horse.

Meanwhile, the Han cavalry crashed into the Xiongnu ranks, sending blood spraying high, men and horses falling, cold steel slicing flesh. In an instant, the snow was stained crimson. Limbs and bodies flew, horses toppled, and men fought both on horseback and in the bloody slush below—a scene of utter chaos and carnage. The din of shouts, screams, neighs, clashing steel, and spurting blood composed a savage symphony.

Yizhi Xie, knowing Qin Cheng well after years of war, had heavily fortified the sector facing him. The Han charged valiantly, but could not break through—there were simply too many foes.

The charge faltered, and the battle dissolved into a brutal melee.

From above, the Xiongnu cavalry formed a multilayered ring, trapping the Han within.

In this moment, life was fragile; blood marked not just glory, but death.

“Qin Cheng, for all your heroism, in the end, your achievements have only made your emperor fear you—Liu Che has abandoned you!” Yizhi Xie, failing to gain the upper hand, resorted to psychological warfare. “Look at the men around you—they are nothing compared to your Cavalry Army! If your full force were here, could I have trapped you so? Ha!”

Qin Cheng regarded him coldly, unperturbed, his attacks as relentless as ever.

Yizhi Xie pressed on: “Shandong is in revolt, Liaodong and Joseon are chaos, yet Liu Che uses your army but not you, its commander! In the west, he’d rather send that fool Gongsun to die than let you lead. Three crises at once, defeat in the west—only then did he hand you less than ten thousand light cavalry to fob off the Xiongnu. Hmph! As if such a force could defeat my warriors!”

Qin Cheng remained stoic, his gaze cool and disdainful.

At last, the storm ceased; sunlight pierced the grey clouds.

“All your feats—enriching the nation, dominating the world—yet in the end, you cannot even save your own men! How laughable!” Yizhi Xie sneered.

Qin Cheng glanced briefly at the sky—the faint sunlight pricked his eyes.

The struggle between Han and Xiongnu had reached its fever pitch.

The appointed time had come.

Suddenly, Qin Cheng’s eyes flashed. His blade surged with double its former strength, crashing down on Yizhi Xie. Yizhi Xie’s arm numbed, his saber nearly flying from his grasp; he teetered in the saddle, barely recovering.

Stunned, he pulled back, shock written across his face.

How could Qin Cheng suddenly unleash such ferocity?

Qin Cheng straightened in his saddle, blade raised high. With a ringing neigh, he shouted, “Eighteen Riders, where are you?”

“Here!” came eighteen voices from all directions, nearly in unison.

“Break out with me!” Qin Cheng’s blade swept forward, and he charged at the head of the column. Behind him, at the sound of eighteen answering neighs, eighteen riders burst forth like gods descending, cutting down all Xiongnu who blocked their path and following hard after their general.

Behind them, the remaining Han soldiers held the breach at all costs.

“The Eighteen Riders?” Yizhi Xie, forced aside by Qin Cheng’s assault, watched in horror as Qin Cheng thundered past. “Stop them! Block their escape!”

Qin Cheng, armored and astride his warhorse, saber dancing, blazed a trail none could withstand—killing with every ten paces, leaving no trace across a thousand miles. The Eighteen Riders beside him moved like wraiths, swift and merciless, their blades unstoppable.

The horses were sweat-blooded steeds; the men, elite cavalry.

As in countless past miracles, the Eighteen Riders shielded their master through the chaos, breaking out in a line of nineteen.

Wherever they passed, blood stained the snow.

The surrounded Han cavalry, fighting desperately, saw Qin Cheng break free and smiled with relief. In the next moment, as if injected with a final burst of strength, they fought with renewed fury.

For they knew—the end had come.

This was their last battle as soldiers.

But it was a moment of glory.

They knew that, twenty or thirty li away, their eighteen thousand-strong Cavalry Army waited. If only Qin Cheng reached them, they would charge to the rescue and annihilate the thirty thousand Xiongnu.

Thirty thousand Xiongnu cavalry, before the Cavalry Army, were as ants before a tiger.

And the Cavalry Army recognized only one commander:

General of the Cavalry—Qin Cheng.

But for him to ride there and back, even at full gallop, would take nearly half an hour—in which few, if any, of the surrounded Han could hope to survive.

These men knew their task: to bind the Xiongnu in battle until the Cavalry Army arrived and avenged them.

They watched Qin Cheng crest a nearby hill, knowing it would be the last time they saw their beloved general.

In the next instant, he would vanish over the ridge to summon reinforcements.

If they bore any resentment, it was toward fate itself—had the blizzard not struck half a day earlier, they could have lured the Xiongnu into ambush and obliterated them in a pincer attack.

But now, all regrets were useless.

Or were they?

A deep, sonorous horn sounded—again and again—near the battlefield.

The Han cavalry, catching a breather, looked toward the sound. Qin Cheng had not ridden over the hill, but stood atop it, motionless. The Eighteen Riders flanked him in a straight line, each raising a horn to the sky and blowing in perfect unison.

What did it mean?

Suddenly, the embattled Han cavalry, inspired anew, launched a fresh, furious assault.

Yizhi Xie, uncertain, stared at the line of horn-blowers atop the ridge, his pursuit faltering. He hesitated, torn between retreat and disbelief—was it a ruse, or real?

But Qin Cheng gave him no time to decide.

On the ridge, a line of black dots appeared, swelling swiftly into a host of Han-armored cavalry.

The Cavalry Army had arrived.

Zhao the Vanquisher had come, leading them—without waiting for word from Qin Cheng, acting on the tacit understanding forged in years of battle.

“The Cavalry Army?” Yizhi Xie stared in disbelief at the dense ranks suddenly before him. “Impossible! They’re supposed to be fighting in Shandong and Liaodong! How can they be here? Impossible!”

All his recent intelligence had assured him the Cavalry Army was nowhere near the west. Only then had he dared encircle Qin Cheng.

Yet now, they stood before him in undeniable force.

“Nine days and two thousand li, the Cavalry Army has come. Yizhi Xie, you did not expect this, did you?” Qin Cheng finally looked at him coldly, a sneer on his lips. “You underestimated the Emperor, the Cavalry Army, and me—Qin Cheng! You are doomed!”

Qin Cheng swept his blade forward, uttering a single cold word:

“Kill!”