The snow hadn't yet melted. But war had already returned.
Three days after the siege of Wuzui Fortress, the remnants of the border army—now no more than three hundred men—made camp at Danyaling Ridge. Smoke from burnt-out shelters still drifted through the mountain air. Most soldiers wore scorched armor, half-mended. Nearly half were wounded.
General Tu Lu poured over maps in the command tent. His pen—still blackened with ash—traced the valleys and ravines where the next ambush might fall. Beside him, Captain Bai helped ration herbs and supplies. In the distance, Li Song stood on the ridge edge, alone, watching the only mountain pass the enemy could take.
His eyes were bloodshot. Since slaying Narta in the chaos of the retreat, he hadn't slept.
Leather armor clung to his frame, streaked with dried blood. Scars—some new, some faded—marked his arms. A single long scar cut from his cheek to his neck, visible just under his helm. But it was his gaze that struck hardest: sharp, cold, unwavering.
On his back rested the bow "Eagle," worn from years of use. Its back was cracked, now reinforced with hide. At his hip, his blade "Dog"—chipped and dull but still lethal.
Later that day, he entered the armory.
Miha, the camp's blacksmith, raised an eyebrow as Li placed the old blade down.
"Recast it," Li said simply.
Miha sighed and lifted a broken Damascus blade from a shelf. "Western steel. I can forge Dog's soul into this. It'll take three days—and everything I've got."
Li nodded. "Do it."
That night, as wind howled outside, Miha sat alone beside the forge. His flask was nearly empty. Flames glinted off the unfinished weapon.
"Hah... another Dog," he muttered, fingers brushing over its spine. Hammer marks still fresh, it pulsed with heat.
"Kids think I'm just a blacksmith," he said to the fire. "But I've fought too."
He spoke into the night—memories spilling like smoke:
"Year of White Bone Ridge. I was just a wagon man. Got caught when the Eastern Cavalry dropped in from the cliffs. Took a hoof to the hand. Thought I'd die right there."
He showed his crooked finger, bent sideways.
"But someone pulled me out of the corpses. One blow, one pull, gone. Just a rookie then—clean face, wild eyes."
"Li Song."
He smiled, softly bitter. "The blade he used was cracked—jagged like a dog's teeth. I remembered it. I remembered him."
"I never fought again. But since then, I've forged every edge like it might save a life."
He placed the finished blade in an iron mold.
"Dog will be my last."
Across the camp, Li Song was crafting a new weapon.
Nan Wei, a scholar and engineer, had agreed to help him design a new "Eagle."
"We'll use ox horn, tendon, mulberry core," Nan explained. "No ornament. Just killing power."
Days later, the new bow was ready: crescent-shaped, double-tendon-strung, deadly.
Li stood on the range. A hundred paces. One breath.
Thwip.
The arrow struck center.
Three more followed. All perfect.
"Still good for thirty lives," he muttered.
He also commissioned a final weapon—a sleeve crossbow no longer than a forearm.
"Snake Bone," he named it. Silent. Close-range. Assassination-grade.
That evening, he sat alone on the cliff's edge.
Eagle on his back. Dog at his waist. Snake Bone hidden.
The snow roared like a forest.
Bai approached.
"Tu Lu wants you. Patrol with him."
Li nodded. They walked side by side past the wounded toward the main tent.
Tu Lu was waiting, brows furrowed.
"The enemy's testing us," he said. "Small night raids. Supply attacks."
"They want to know if we can still bite back," Li replied.
"Exactly. So we'll answer with teeth."
He pointed to a snowy valley. "We'll rig rockslides. When they enter, we strike—stone and crossbow."
"I'll lead the team," Li said.
Tu Lu turned to Bai. "Hold the second line. If they breach us, hold or die."
"Understood."
Just then, a scout rushed in.
"Enemy cavalry spotted. Northern slope. Raymond's crest."
Silence.
Li rose. Eagle slung. Dog ready. Snake Bone cocked.
"Then we strike first."