Chapter Forty-One: Scaling the Witch Mountain

A hundred miles away, in the Xiongnu tribe, several robust Xiongnu men sat together in a tent, their eyes fixed on the chief seated above them.

“Reporting, Chief, the enemy army fighting against us is actually the Youzhou troops expelled by the imperial court,” one of the Xiongnu leaders spoke up. “I never expected that the very Han army sent to attack us—usually weak and timid—would now be as fierce as a tiger. These Han rulers truly are muddleheaded.”

The Xiongnu had never cared much for production, living by herding and putting survival above all else. The chief could only lead raids southward against the Han people to feed his tribe, but this time, Zifan had routed them, leaving them battered and defeated. Many leaders blamed him, but the most pressing concern was still filling their stomachs.

Gazing at the crude, rough map, a glint of gold flashed in the chief’s eyes as he scanned the territories surrounding the Han dynasty. His gaze was sharp as a blade, sweeping over each county like wolves searching for prey, poised for another bloody rampage.

“Shixian,” he declared.

That county was far from Zifan’s Youzhou camp; even if he learned of it, he could not come in time to aid. By the time they finished their raid, they’d be long gone. The Xiongnu forces were less than a thousand miles away—easy pickings. Shixian was remote, poorly defended, with most of its garrison made up of the elderly, infirm, and weak.

The chief was confident: no matter what, they wouldn’t encounter that wolf-like army again. With five thousand warriors left in the tribe, they could sweep through all before them.

Victory was certain. The chief glanced down at his four strongest leaders, their eyes flickering with determination. He turned and said, “All Xiongnu warriors, travel light. Bring everything previously taken from the tribe. Ximi, instruct the old, weak, and sick in the camp to withdraw ahead. We will follow soon.”

“Ximo, lead all light cavalry to attack Gongcheng. Within forty minutes, you must take the city. No mistakes.”

“Dayu, once the gates are breached, the killing, arson, and looting of gold and treasures in the city are yours. Search every home—do not overlook anything taken before.”

“Yes!” they replied.

This raid must be swift and decisive; I do not want that wolf-like army catching up. They are a pack of ruthless killers.

“Men, warriors, for the tribe, for survival, march!”

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Meanwhile, in the Youzhou camp, the scouts brought a precise report: “Our forward troops have confirmed that the Xiongnu chief will head for Shicheng tomorrow for a massacre.” The scout spat the words with venom, thinking of the Xiongnu’s deeds.

Zifan looked at the map. Shixian was far from their camp; even at the fastest speed, they would arrive only to find ruins. The chief had chosen his target well.

Closing his eyes, Zifan’s system map instantly plotted countless routes to Shicheng, highlighting the fastest path—over Mount Wu. But this mountain was treacherous, its cliffs perilous, known as impassable even for birds. To the herders, it was a sacred mountain cursed and shrouded in cold, its peak covered in snow year after year. No man could cross such depths.

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Zifan quickly summoned his trusted guards, showing them the closest route over Mount Wu, and sent them ahead to scout.

The hazy mountain was veiled in mist, indistinct and shifting in the ethereal clouds, distant yet near, elusive as strokes of ink brushed across the blue sky—its beauty concealing deadly danger.

It is said that the most beautiful things are often the most poisonous...

If the Xiongnu slaughtered Han civilians without interference, so be it; but if they were encountered, they would be torn to pieces—distance would never excuse indifference.

Zifan ordered Dian Wei to assemble eight thousand troops, lightly equipped, and told him they would climb Mount Wu.

Ding Feng was left to guard the camp and protect the food supplies against mishaps.

A flicker of hesitation passed through Ding Feng’s eyes. As a warrior, he longed for the battlefield—his only true companion. To remain at the camp meant missing the fight, unable to avenge fallen brothers.

Zifan promptly ordered every soldier to prepare slender sticks, bring chili peppers, and dress warmly for the climb.

The hardship of Mount Wu surpassed even the heavens; to cross it would test the soldiers' endurance, and a single misstep meant falling into the abyss. Zifan commanded each man to tie himself with ropes, so if one slipped, the others could pull him back.

“Come on, brothers! Give it your all!” With the wind howling, slicing their faces like knives, Zifan’s encouragement spurred his men onward.

Only when faced with the terrifying force of nature do humans realize their insignificance. Yet it is precisely that spirit that drives mankind to climb ever higher.

“Fortresses and deep valleys, let us conquer them together...”

“Newborn calves showing their divine might, stepping forward without hesitation—who else but us...”

“Brothers, Mount Wu will yield to us.” The soldiers roared against the cold wind, using their flesh and blood for one last stand against nature.

Hungry and cold, they marched through the night, undaunted by hardship, conquering the sacred mountain in just six hours. As the sun set, beauty returned—the summit cloaked in clouds and mist, mysterious like a fairyland.

Easier to climb up than down... To reach the city before the Xiongnu’s atrocities, every second counted. Zifan ordered a brief rest, then rallied the troops for the descent.

“Military orders are like the mountain—disobedience means death.”

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The eight thousand cavalry set out once more, their cheers fueled by vengeance and the hope of bringing their brothers home.

Following the winding mountain paths, they pressed onward. The wind grew fiercer, the snow heavier, the cold more biting. The north wind whipped up blizzards, battering the troops. Their faces and hands were numb, bones frozen through. Flags were cracked by the frost. Warhorses, too cold to neigh, trudged through the thick snow with difficulty.

“Dian Wei, order the troops to advance quickly—we must arrive before these beasts commit their crimes.”

“Yes!”

Zifan’s voice, cold as winter’s snow, held no warmth; he would not witness another massacre of his people.

The wind slashed through the night sky, making the leaves scream, and Mount Wu in darkness became even more terrifying. All was silent, and silence often heralded danger.

The worst thing in this world is not defeat, but surrendering before the battle.

Soldiers are made of flesh and blood. Some, after resting, never rose again, their eyes wide open, their faith never extinguished.

At dawn...

The Youzhou army witnessed another miracle. With their flesh and blood, they had challenged the towering sacred mountain.

“Report to the general—six soldiers died... They were frozen to death,” Dian Wei, usually so tough, was now in tears.

“They were brave men, every one of them. We will avenge them.” Zifan’s eyes burned beneath his brows, a fire in a thicket of thorns, chilling all who saw it.

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