Night descended, and the wind from the northwest lashed the desert with grit and frost. The moon was veiled behind thick clouds, casting the world into a heavy, ink-black darkness. Outside the Battsah encampment, Li Song and Bai lay low behind a pile of collapsed rubble, their breath shallow, eyes fixed on the enemy's firelit sprawl.
The camp unfolded like a grid of flickering light. Torchbeams danced on iron and leather; grain piles loomed like mounds, flanked by creaking wooden carts. The central command tent still trailed smoke from its chimney, encircled by five watchtowers. Armor glinted in the flames. Over a dozen patrolling sentries moved in pairs, their spears gleaming, their pace shadowed by the low growl of war dogs.
"Southeast slope—" Li Song murmured, pointing to a dim pocket near the base of the ridge. "Those clay jars hold dried rations. Burn half and Raymond's army stalls for three days."
Bai concealed a compact crossbow within her sleeve. "We eliminate the southern patrols first. Any premature clash will bring the whole camp down on us."
Wrapped in their cloaks, they moved like drifting shadows through the wasteland—over dry wells, shattered arches, and thorny ground. They bypassed two mounted scouts and arrived at the foot of the hill. Two enemy soldiers slouched by a post, half-asleep with spears resting on their shoulders.
Li Song crept forward. In one smooth motion, his bone-carved staff cracked against the first sentry's neck. The man collapsed without a sound. Bai's dagger flashed in the dark, slicing across the second's throat—blood sprayed, then silence returned.
With the outer sentries down, they advanced toward the grain depot, weaving between shadows and obstacles. Li Song tossed a flask of black oil into the dried brush. Smoke began to curl upward. Bai leapt onto a grain cart and loosed three quick arrows, taking down two guards who had rushed in from the outer camp.
Suddenly, a war horn howled—sharp and urgent. Chaos erupted.
More than a dozen foot soldiers charged out, metal clanging as their commander raised a double-bladed axe and roared, "Intruders! Stop them!"
Li Song met the charge, wielding his bow as a quarterstaff, smashing it into a soldier's chest. As the man reeled, Li Song's sword cut upward, tearing across the man's throat. Blood burst out like a fan. Bai flanked from the opposite end, darting behind the carts and slashing camel reins. The frightened beasts bolted, crashing into the supply stacks, scattering sacks and crates.
Five enemy officers emerged from the command tent, mounted on black horses, armed with round Byzantine shields and long spears. Their horses thundered forward like a storm.
"Scatter!" Li Song ordered, ducking into position. He drew his bow and fired four arrows in swift succession. Two riders fell mid-charge. The rest faltered, hesitant to push through the smoke.
Bai had climbed onto a broken parapet. With a steady hand, she hurled a flask of fire oil into the grain stores. Flames exploded upward, scorching the night air and throwing the enemy ranks into disarray. The commander barked orders furiously, but thick smoke and panicked horses shattered the cohesion of their lines.
Seeing the confusion, Li Song charged in once more, his blade glinting like a flash of white fire. He slashed through a soldier's wrist, then ran two more through with swift, silent thrusts. He ducked behind overturned carts, using them as cover, stabbing upward in close quarters—each strike fatal, each motion precise.
Bai stayed along the camp's edge, raining hidden weapons down on scattered soldiers. She vaulted over tent poles, twisted midair, and hurled a knife into the forehead of a charging officer. She landed and turned in one smooth motion, slicing down another enemy who lunged toward her flank.
From the base of the hill, they could see half the camp engulfed in flames. Watchtowers had collapsed, and shrieks filled the night. Li Song, sword slung over his shoulder, breathed like a storm wind. Bai's right sleeve was slick with blood, but her gaze remained cold and steady.
Back at their own camp, Li Song removed his quiver. Only three arrows remained. He looked down grimly. Bai wiped the blood from her arm and said flatly, "Two soldiers can't hold off a hundred—but we've done the damage."
Li Song stared at the sky. The stars shimmered above. "The next strike," he muttered, "must be colder—and final."
The camp was already awake. Drums had sounded during the skirmish, and not a soldier slept.
In the central tent, Tu Lu stood before the fire, arms folded. He listened as Li Song and Bai laid out the results of the night raid and proposed a bold move: strike from the west while the enemy reeled from the blow.
Tu Lu's brow furrowed. After a long silence, he spoke: "You have three days. No results—military law applies."
Li Song and Bai bowed, voices firm: "Understood."
Starlight bathed the shattered walls. The wind howled beyond the canvas. The embers of the raid still glowed behind them. And above it all, the moon hung like a curved blade over the sleeping desert.