For a moment, the tunnel exit reeked of blood.
The soldiers, exhausted from a fierce battle, some still bearing unhealed wounds,
blood still flowing, lay not far from the tunnel exit.
The Twin Eagles soldiers, swords in hand, were the first to strike. A burly man with a face full of scars plunged his knife into the stomach of a young soldier beside him.
The young soldier barely managed to utter "You!" before blood gushed from his mouth, splattering onto the man's face.
The man didn't even blink; with a twist of his wrist, the blade shredded the internal organs.
"Rebellion! You bastards have rebelled!"
An old soldier with a broken leg tried to stand, leaning on his spear. He had barely managed to prop himself up when another Twin Eagles soldier slashed him in the neck from behind.
His head rolled on the ground, his eyes still wide open, staring at the night sky outside the tunnel.
Qing Chen stood in the shadows of the exit, arms crossed, watching all this.
One of the Twin Eagles soldiers was a little slow and was grabbed by the arm by the wounded soldier.
Qing Chen didn't even lift his eyelids, but simply flicked a short knife from his boot. The blade grazed the soldier's ear and plunged precisely into the wounded soldier's forehead.
"Stop dawdling, are you letting them call for help?" His voice was calm, but it made all the Twin Eagles soldiers move three points faster.
A quarter of an hour later, there were no survivors on the ground.
A dozen or so corpses lay piled up haphazardly, the blood staining the stone ground a dark reddish-brown.
Qing Chen kicked the foot of one of the corpses to confirm it was lifeless before saying to the Twin Eagles soldiers:
"Drag the bodies to the north cliff and throw them away. Cover the bloodstains with sand. Block the tunnel entrance with stones, leave no trace."
The soldiers didn't dare delay. Two men carried each corpse, hurrying towards the cliff edge.
Qing Chen crouched down and wiped the short knife he had just thrown with a rag.
He looked up at the sky; the moon had hidden behind the clouds, perfect time to travel.
After cleaning up the scene, Qing Chen led the soldiers of the Twin Eagles Society towards the vanguard camp.
The night wind whipped against his face, carrying the chill of the mountains, but he didn't feel cold.
His mind was still on Young Master Zhao's head, imagining the city lord's expression upon seeing it, and a smile involuntarily crept onto his lips.
After walking for about an hour, scattered torchlight appeared ahead; Qing Jie and his three sentries were waiting.
Seeing him return, Qingjie rushed to greet him, "Brother, you're finally back! Did everything go wrong?"
"What could possibly go wrong?"
Qingchen patted his shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers behind him. "How's the vanguard? Any unusual activity?"
Qingjie shook his head, his voice low. "Everything's normal, and the vanguard hasn't made any major moves. Their attacks seem rather restrained.
Niu Dali got intelligence that the vanguard is keeping a close watch on several key strongholds, as if they already know their location."
He paused, then added, "Also, the city lord's troops are camped twenty miles away, not even near Beiman Mountain. Brother, this is very strange."
Qingchen didn't speak, only nodded.
He knew this was all an act, and what he needed to do now was ruin it.
He pulled a set of night clothes from his bundle, made of black cloth, the stitching rough, yet perfectly blending into the darkness.
“You wait here.”
Qing Chen quickly changed into his night clothes and tied the cloth bag containing Young Master Zhao's head to his waist.
He crouched low and crept towards the vanguard camp, his steps as light as a cat's, making no sound on the grass.
Approaching the camp, Qing Chen lay down behind a small hill to observe.
The sentries on the camp wall were dozing, their spears leaning against the wall, and the occasional snores of soldiers could be heard.
“They're just hastily assembled soldiers, their vigilance and sentry duty are so mediocre,” he thought with a cold laugh.
They're practically natural cannon fodder.
Taking a deep breath, Qing Chen used his gecko-like wall-climbing skills.
His fingers dug into the cracks in the brick wall, his body clinging to the wall like a gecko, slowly climbing upwards.
The sentries on the wall were still dozing, completely unaware of someone above them.
Reaching the top of the wall, Qing Chen leaped lightly, landing in the shadows within the camp.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then walked towards the central flagpole.
The flagpole was two zhang (approximately 6.6 meters) tall, with the vanguard army's flag fluttering at its top, drooping in the night.
Qingchen untied a cloth bag from his waist; the blood at the opening had dried and was stiff.
He tied the bag to the flagpole, then pulled a wooden plaque from his pocket—carved on the road with a short knife, bearing the crooked inscription "Tomb of Zhao Erhe's youngest son."
He hung the plaque below the bag, and having done all this, he silently climbed down the camp wall and disappeared into the night.
As dawn approached, the vanguard army's camp was gradually illuminated by the first rays of sunlight.
A soldier responsible for fetching water passed by the flagpole, his eyes catching a glimpse of something hanging there. At first, he thought it was some odds and ends hung by another soldier, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was a bloodstained cloth bag.
"Hey, what's this?" he shouted, reaching for the cloth bag.
Soldiers nearby, hearing the noise, swarmed around.
One of the braver soldiers untied the drawstring of the bag, and a bloodied head rolled out, eyes still open, the blood on the face congealed into a purplish-black.
"This...this writing!" someone recognized the words, their voice trembling.
"That corrupt official Zhao Erhe, sacrificing his son to the flag..."
A deafening roar erupted in the camp.
The soldiers recoiled in fear, some even collapsing to the ground.
The news spread like wildfire, quickly reaching the ears of Captain Wang.
Hearing his confidant's words, his heart tightened, and he turned and left the tent, heading towards the flagpole.
Seeing the head and the words on the note, his face instantly turned deathly pale, as if struck by a heavy blow.
"How could this happen! The city lord dotes on his youngest son so much! It's all over, all over."
Lord Wang muttered to himself, countless thoughts flashing through his mind.
He was a trusted confidant of the city lord and knew that the vanguard was originally only meant to weaken some bandits, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
"Send the order! All troops prepare! Everyone, get ready to attack the mountain! Inform the city lord of the situation immediately!" Lord Wang shouted.
...
Twenty miles away, the military tent of the city guards was shrouded in a heavy atmosphere.
Suddenly, a series of hurried footsteps broke the silence.
A scout, covered in dust, knelt on the ground, presenting an urgent battle report with both hands.
The city lord opened the letter, his gaze sweeping over it quickly, his face grim.
Suddenly, a surge of anger rushed to his head. He abruptly stood up, slamming his fist heavily on the table, scattering ink everywhere.
"Damn it!"
He turned swiftly and ordered his personal guard, "Pass on my order: over two thousand soldiers are to prepare immediately and depart at top speed! Drop all baggage and head towards Beiman Mountain!"
The guard obeyed and hurried off.
The city lord didn't stop there. He summoned another messenger.
"You, mount the fastest horse. Get to the vanguard and deliver my order to their commander!"
Then, he forcefully wrote five large, blood-red characters on a piece of paper:
"Bloodbath Beiman Mountain!"
The messenger received the order without hesitation.
He leaped onto his horse, the thunderous sound of hooves echoing as he vanished from the tent in an instant.