The morning breeze swept in from the southeast, stirring dust from the tent flaps and brushing the faint scar on Li Song's forehead. Standing at the far end of the camp, he wore a tattered robe barely holding together. A cloth satchel, oil flask, and dry biscuits hung at his waist; a quiver and wooden-handled knife were strapped across his back with camel-hide ropes.
But what lay before him wasn't the familiar banners of the Central Plains—it was a battlefield in another world.
This was his first mission as a warrior-in-training, leaving the Khalid tribe's encampment and heading toward the ruins of Heran Fortress.
To the tribe, it was a minor scouting mission. But for the "son of a foreign tribe," it was a trial by fire—his first real taste of desert warfare. Though not yet assigned to a combat unit, he had orders to travel with the arrow squad and the supply team—repairing quivers, patching water skins, and hauling gear along the frontline.
But Li Song knew this wasn't just about the enemy's strength. It was a test of his own.
The night before they departed, sleep eluded him. Leaning against his camel's saddle, he replayed memories from five years ago—his first true battle.
He had been stationed along the western border, in a fortified tower between Suzhou and Guazhou. That winter, snow blocked the passes, and raiders struck by night. They torched the granaries, stormed three camps, and in the chaos, three hundred soldiers fought till dawn—only thirty survived. He remembered gripping a sword in one hand, a bow in the other, slashing through night, day, and back into the snow.
Back then, swordplay and archery were survival itself. Even before the war, he had mastered close combat and arrow formations. His bow drew eight stone—modest—but he could fire three arrows in rapid succession, each capable of piercing a throat. In that battle, he alone held the southern granary, killed five enemies, saved seven wounded comrades, and led a thirty-mile breakout.
The court rewarded him: twenty taels of silver, and a title—Captain of the Fire Brigade. But he knew the truth: only because so many had died was the title his. In the borderlands, rank meant nothing. Only skill spoke on the battlefield.
That experience carved into him a quiet, unflinching resolve.
Khalid's military was unlike the Central Plains'. It resembled a nomadic clan more than a formal army. Fighters were raised in families, grouped in tens and hundreds, led by blood and bound by the elders and stars.
There were no war drums—only eagle whistles. No gilded armor—only curved swords and short bows. Horses went bareback, trained from birth. Scouts roamed the sands, and sorcerers read the stars to plan strategy. Formations bent with the terrain, never chained to fixed rules.
At first, Li Song found the lack of order unsettling. But the longer he marched with them, the more he saw its strength. These warriors could vanish by day and ride by night, survive on salt water for three days, and share what little food they had without a whisper of dissent. True discipline wasn't born of rules—it was born of belief.
On the third night, battle erupted.
Scouts had reported that the enemy occupied the ruins of Heran—outnumbered but well-trained. They were a breakaway band of the Western Crusaders known as the Holy Mountain Warriors—stealthy, ruthless, deadly in close quarters.
Just after sundown, they came—riders on black horses crashing into the eastern flank, loosing fire arrows that engulfed three wagons in flame. Chaos tore through the camp.
But the real strike came from the south.
Amid the confusion, flashes of steel lit up the dunes. The enemy commander—who had disguised himself as a merchant and infiltrated the camp days ago—now led a devastating ambush. The Green Tent's center collapsed. Banners burned. Three squad leaders fell. Two dozen guards vanished.
Li Song's arrow team was hit hard. His comrade Basid took a broken blade to the neck—blood spraying like a fountain. Dragging him behind the weapon pile, Li Song drove his bow handle into an attacker's skull, then sprinted for Khalid's tent.
But it was too late. The tent was in ruins, the canvas charred, and a horse screamed in the fire.
He pried open a half-burned beam and dragged Khalid's unconscious body out, shielded them behind a fallen stone wall, and drove arrows into the ground around them to form a makeshift barricade. Then he rallied nearby soldiers, organizing defenses through the smoke.
The fighting raged until dawn. Of 300 men, barely 100 could still stand. The rest were dead, wounded, or scattered. The enemy withdrew before sunrise, hauling off rations and gear.
That night, Li Song realized: they weren't just fighting soldiers. They were fighting a force driven by faith and conquest.
By midday, Khalid awoke.
"Weren't you afraid of dying?" he asked quietly.
"I was," Li Song replied. "But on the battlefield, there's no time to be afraid."
Khalid nodded. "You're not one of us by blood. But you fight like a warrior."
The elders praised his deeds. Two of them proposed he be named Son of the Green Tent, granted a copper messenger plaque, and allowed to train with the scouts.
Li Song didn't thank them aloud. He only bowed.
"I'll earn that trust with my life."
Three days later, a rider arrived. A Crusader envoy brought a letter, signed by Raymond de Montfort, a young knight offering talks at the Belen Well—to negotiate use of a spring and exchange wounded soldiers, under what they called the Pact of the Border Well.
The letter named Li Song: "the Eastern soldier."
Some said it was a trap. Others argued it was a chance to learn the enemy's intent.
Li Song stepped forward.
"I'll go."
"You're not one of them either," Khalid said.
"I know how to read their words," Li Song replied.
After a long pause, Khalid placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you survive, I'll give you your true name."
The moon was pale. Smoke still clung to the sand. As Li Song packed, an old warrior entered his tent.
It was Tulu—over fifty, scarred across the eye, once hailed as a Master of the Longsword, still honored across the tribe.
"You're going to the Well of Belen," he said, sitting down with a rasping voice.
Li Song nodded.
Tulu tossed him a piece of salted meat.
"You saved Khalid. You saved us. But don't forget—wearing a green turban doesn't make you one of us. Out there, no one asks what you believe. They'll only see if you're weak or strong."
Li Song chewed slowly. "I understand."
Tulu looked at him for a long while. "Do you know why I'm still alive?"
Li Song met his eyes.
"Because I never trusted fate. The gods don't protect us. The sword does. I've heard the stories—you shooting birds from the sky, breaking arrows in the snow. Just remember: the day you put down your sword, is the day you'll never lift your head again."
Li Song gave a faint smile. "I never planned to."
Tulu rose and gave a final pat on his shoulder.
"If you make it back, find me. I'll teach you our real swordwork—Eagle Step Style."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll carry your name. And I'll tell the warriors in Hexi—you died like a man greater than you lived."
Tulu left. The wind whispered through the tent like a fading memory.
Li Song wrapped himself in a camel-hair cloak, gripped his short sword and messenger plaque, and looked west—toward the ruins of Heran, glowing faintly in the dusk.
He knew this was just the beginning.
The real war had yet to start.