Chapter 131: The Tragedy Of The Seven Rivers, White Devil
West of Yinshan Prefecture is a vast, boundless Great Grassland.
Its area reaches an astonishing four hundred thousand square kilometers, more than ten times that of the Khorchin Grassland, comparable to Yunnan Province in our country.
The terrain here is flat, with grasslands like a sea, forming an endless great plain, only occasionally undulating with low, gentle hills and mountains in the southeast, adding a touch of varied beauty to this expansive plain.
Seven rivers originating from the Tianshan Mountains wind their way, eventually converging into Lake Balkhash, nourishing this land and giving it the beautiful name of Seven Rivers Basin.
The Basaigan Tribe has lived here for generations.
However, under this twilight, every person in the Basaigan Tribe is busily packing their belongings, preparing for tomorrow morning’s migration.
Old herdsman Qimuge scoops river water with a chipped copper pot, his turbid pupils reflecting the shimmering waves: “The grasslands granted by Allah, abandoned just like that.”
Nearby, young herdsman Bater tightly pulls the leather rope binding sheepskin, looking anguished as he says: “The Royal Court and Eastern Capital are at war, and they insist on using us as cannon fodder!”
“Once the Eastern Capital Army attacks the Royal Court, they will surely pass through the Seven Rivers, and our tribe will be the one to suffer!”
“Hush!”
Qimuge hurriedly covers his mouth, his withered hand pointing toward the leader’s large tent by the riverbank.
“The Sijin received the Royal Court’s golden arrow last night, saying wolf cavalry will come to aid within five days…”
Bater breaks free from Qimuge’s hand, his face still showing indignation, and snorts lightly as he speaks.
“Everyone knows that the Sixth Courtyard Department Great King rebelled precisely because the Royal Court Army suffered heavy losses in the south.”
“Where would they have any more troops to support us?”
“It’s just a deception to make us expend the Eastern Capital Army’s strength for them.”
Bater understands everything; he was just too lazy to say it before.
But now, with war threatening the safety of himself and his family members, no one can treat it as usual.
“Sigh, the Sijin has no choice either.” Qimuge shakes his head lightly with a sigh.
“Back then, he had already offended the Sixth Courtyard Department Great King in the Royal Court, and now there’s no possibility of gaining forgiveness.”
It’s all sinful!
The Royal Court has a system of conscripting the sons of leaders from various vassal tribes to serve in the Royal Court Pishi Army.
Equivalent to hostages.
Some fare well, others poorly.
And Sijin Tiyaer of the Basaigan Tribe was among the best performers back then.
To gain Yelü Zhilugu’s favor, he once bullied Xiao Simo, and afterward was promoted.
When the old Sijin of the Basaigan Tribe died, the eldest son should have succeeded him.
But under Yelü Zhilugu’s forceful command, Tiyal became the Sijin of the Basaigan Tribe.
Thus, Tiyal can be considered Yelü Zhilugu’s confidant.
Absolutely impossible to receive forgiveness from Xiao Simo.
Once the Eastern Capital Army arrives, the Basaigan Tribe will surely face reckoning.
Therefore, to preserve the tribe’s strength, after deliberation with the headmen, Tiyal decided to temporarily evade the Eastern Capital Army’s sharpness.
Tomorrow morning, migrate toward the Royal Court.
Join the Royal Court Army and then plan further.
This decision received unanimous support from the tribe.
So, under the setting sun, everyone in the tribe is tense and busy.
“I only hope this war ends soon and the grassland restores peace quickly.” Qimuge looks devoutly upward at the sky, praying to Allah.
Hoping Allah can bless them to safely pass this calamity.
The sunset’s afterglow sprinkles on the Basaigan Tribe’s felt tents, dyeing the entire camp golden yellow.
Others in the tribe busily bundle luggage, cattle and sheep are driven together, emitting uneasy cries.
As the Sijin of the Basaigan Tribe, Tiyal stands on high ground, gazing solemnly at the eastern horizon, the possible direction of the Eastern Capital Army’s approach.
His brows are furrowed, knowing in his heart that this migration is the tribe’s only way to survive.
However, in this moment of quiet, suddenly thunderous hoofbeats tear through the peace of heaven and earth.
The sound starts faint, like distant thunder, but soon becomes clear, as if the land is trembling.
Old Qimuge’s prayer abruptly stops, his turbid eyes suddenly widen, looking toward the direction of the sound.
“That’s… what?”
Someone asks in a low voice, with unease in their tone.
Amid the panic, vast dust clouds suddenly rise on the northeastern horizon, blotting out the sky.
The sheep flock scatters in panic, startling the herding dogs to bark madly against the blood-red sunset.
Tiyal, who had just returned to his tent to rest, rushes out swiftly, his face full of shock and disbelief.
“Damn it, it’s the Eastern Capital Army.”
He sees a black line appear on the horizon, at first just a blurry shadow, but soon becoming clear.
It is a cavalry clad in white cotton armor, sweeping in like an avalanche, raising towering white waves on the verdant grassland sea.
Their armor gleams like frost, like moving snow mountains.
The thunderous roar of hooves pounding the ground is like rolling thunder, scattering the wild horse herds on the grassland, even startling the eagles in the sky to flap their wings high.
The tribesmen stand stunned in place, their tasks halting abruptly.
The copper pot in old Qimuge’s hand clangs to the ground, his turbid eyes wide, murmuring: “Allah… are these demons from the snow mountains?”
“It’s the Eastern Capital’s white devils!”
In Bater’s hoarse scream, the first whistling arrow has already pierced the chest of a companion nearby, shocking Bater into quickly grabbing his weapon and mounting his horse.
The white armored cavalry’s speed is extremely fast; in an instant, the white flood has overrun ten li of grassland, the sound of hooves on grass like pouring rain.
The foremost cavalry draw bows simultaneously, arrow rain like locusts, blotting out the sky.
The shrill whistle of arrows cutting air mixes with screams; felt tents are turned into pincushions, burning tents belch thick smoke, the air filled with scorched and bloody scents.
“Devils.”
“White devils.”
“Run quickly~”
The entire tribe instantly descends into chaos; women scream while hugging children, men frantically seek weapons, cattle and sheep scatter, knocking over piled luggage.
“Don’t panic, warriors, follow me to kill the enemy.”
Tiyal draws his saber, shouting loudly for tribesmen to prepare to fight, but his voice is soon drowned by hoofbeats.
The white armored cavalry’s speed is extremely fast, charging into the tribe’s outskirts in the blink of an eye.
Like a sharp blade, easily tearing through the tribe’s defenses.
“Kill~”
Li Xiao wears cotton armor, fully armed, his cheeks tightly wrapped by ear guards, revealing only a resolute and cold face.
His ruthless gaze sweeps over this tribe.
Under the war horse’s powerful charge, his hooked scythe spear instantly pierces the chest of a leather-armored Basaigan soldier.
The so-called leather armor is like paper before the wootz steel-forged hooked scythe spear.
Beside him, Er Hu, clad in full pockmarked armor and appointed by Li Xiao as heavy cavalry centurion, is like a fierce tiger unleashed from its cage.
Wielding a two-meter-plus iron caltrop, charging and killing.
Every swing brings the dull crack of breaking bones and shrill screams.
A Basaigan soldier raises his saber to block, but Er Hu smashes his skull with one strike, brains splattering, staining his armor red.
“Hahaha, exhilarating.” Er Hu’s mad laughter echoes on the battlefield.
At this moment, he is like a god of slaughter, rampaging unstoppable on the battlefield.
Several Basaigan soldiers try to surround him, but he sweeps them flying with a backhand strike, two men’s chests caving in, spewing blood from mouths as they fall lifeless.
Er Hu’s laughter grows wilder: “Come on! Bring more, let me kill to my heart’s content.”
Meanwhile, the Basaigan Tribe people are mounting a desperate counterattack.
Bater takes advantage of a white armored soldier fighting, rushes behind him, and slashes at the white armored soldier’s back with his saber.
But the moment he strikes, sparks fly from the cotton armor, the shock cracking his tiger mouth with intense pain, nearly unhorsing him.
“Their leather armor… can’t be cut through!”
Bater’s face is dazed, incredulous.
Unable to believe the scene before him.
But the next second, after this white armored soldier dispatches the enemy in front with his hooked scythe spear, he suddenly turns his head.
Facing the white armored soldier at close range, Bater sees only a youthful face, seemingly still a child.
But his eyes are as cold as death, as ferocious as a vicious wolf.
Without hesitation, he draws the cavalry saber from his horse’s side with his other hand.
Directly slashing at Bater’s neck.
“Clang~”
Bater draws his saber to block, but a shocking scene appears again.
His own saber snaps instantly upon collision.
While the opponent’s blade only slows slightly, still chopping toward his neck.
“Pfft~”
Blood sprays out, instantly dyeing Wei Xuan’s white battle armor red.
But his eyes show no disturbance, merely saying in a stiff tone: “Your blades are too soft.”
Since the day Sanhe Fort was massacred, the once sunny youth had died.
The surviving Wei Xuan has only one belief: kill more Geluolu People to avenge his relatives.
Thus, for the past half year, he has madly honed his martial arts, improved his riding and archery skills, and trained his killing techniques.
With this reckless will, he has emerged from a group of battle-hardened veterans, donning this white armor.
On the other side, old Qimuge stares at the slaughter in the tribe, stunned in place, watching the white armored cavalry reap lives like death gods, his eyes full of despair.
A white armored cavalryman charges on horseback, his spear aimed straight at his chest.
Qimuge doesn’t dodge, merely looks up at the sky, murmuring: “Allah, is this Your will?”
The next instant, the spear pierces his chest, blood staining the grass.
In the sunset’s afterglow, the Basaigan Tribe’s felt tents collapse one after another, firelight and thick smoke obscuring the sky.
Tiyal swings his saber, trying to organize a final resistance, but a hooked scythe spear pierces his shoulder, sending him crashing heavily to the ground.
He gazes at the burning tribe, eyes full of pain and unwillingness.
Screams come from beside him too—that is the fiercest warrior of the Basaigan Tribe, also Tiyal’s confidant general.
At this moment, he is hoisted mid-air by three white armored soldiers using hooked scythe spears, the sound of barbs piercing cowhide armor mixing with cracking bones, especially clear in the twilight.
Then, he sees his young wife, holding their son not yet one year old, running out from the tent.
Preparing to mount and flee with the help of a female slave.
But the next second, a white armored cavalryman charges on horse, instantly throwing his lasso like a viper coiling around her waist, dragging her to the ground.
The woman struggles desperately, to no avail; the infant slips from her arms, falling into the burning haystack.
“No~”
