Chapter 57: Take Him Alive

The wind and snow in the northern frontier grew increasingly fierce, and the battle flags of the Black Tiger Army fluttered violently in the cold gale.

The barbarian tribesmen who had been so arrogant and domineering just a few days ago were now retreating in total disarray, their encampments relocating overnight in a pathetic display of a desperate, lingering gasp for breath.

The Black Tiger Army launched another offensive.

Zhao Ang stood upon a hillside, behind him stood the battle-ready elites of the Black Tiger Army, and before him lay a sizable core encampment of the barbarians.

The sound of war drums outside the camp resembled the chilling winds of doom, striking terror into the hearts of the barbarians.

"Your Highness, this is their final barrier," Yang Mu rode closer, lowering his voice to report. "If we can breach this camp, the barbarian commander Abulu will have nowhere to run."

Zhao Ang did not reply immediately. He narrowed his eyes, gazing at the fluttering wolf-head war flag above the distant barbarian camp, the corners of his mouth curving slightly upward.

"Abulu?" Zhao Ang raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful mockery in his tone. "I heard he is a fierce warrior among the barbarians? Tsk, this battle is starting to get interesting."

Zhang Shan eagerly rode closer, grinning broadly as he said, "Your Highness, why don't you give this subordinate a chance? Let me lead the charge in there, and I guarantee I'll bring Abulu's head back to you!"

Hearing this, Zhao Ang let out a soft chuckle and turned to glance at Zhang Shan.

"Zhang Shan, don't be so eager to snatch the credit. As for his head, it's fine if we can bring it back, but I prefer live ones. A living Abulu is far more useful."

Zhang Shan scratched his head, smiling sheepishly. "Your Highness is right. Then I'll lead the men in and catch him alive!"

Zhao Ang nodded, his gaze falling once more upon the distant camp as his voice dropped low.

"Pass down the order: surround them from three directions, and give them no breathing room. Before tonight, I want to see Abulu kneeling before me."

At Zhao Ang's command, the three columns of the Black Tiger Army lunged toward the barbarian encampment like a violent storm. The sound of war drums shook the heavens, and amidst the flashing arcs of drawn sabers, the desperate resistance of the barbarians still failed to stem the tide of the Black Tiger Army's overwhelming assault.

Zhang Shan charged at the very forefront, his long spear sweeping and thrusting like a windmill, while the five hundred elites behind him cut like a sharp blade directly into the enemy's central command. Meanwhile, Yang Mu led another detachment to flank from the side, completely severing the barbarians' retreat.

On the battlefield, cries of agony and battle shouts intertwined, the sound of blades cleaving flesh was as piercing as the bitter wind, and blood stained the snow, flowing into red rivers.

Zhao Ang stood on horseback upon the hillside behind the battlefield, looking down from afar upon it all. His expression remained calm, yet a profound chill lingered in his eyes.

"Your Highness, the barbarian left flank has collapsed!" An imperial scout galloped over, reporting in a loud voice.

The corner of Zhao Ang's mouth hooked upward, his voice light and unhurried. "Press the attack. Do not give them a moment to catch their breath."

A moment later, Zhang Shan galloped back, covered in blood, and reported excitedly in a loud voice, "Your Highness! We've got Abulu surrounded. He's putting up a desperate fight inside the commander's tent. Shall I lead the men in and take him?"

Zhao Ang shook his head and replied lazily, "No rush. Such a big fish needs to struggle enough before you haul it in; only then is it fun. Order the entire army: surround them without attacking, and keep a close eye on him—don't let him slip away."

Zhang Shan acknowledged the order and departed. The Black Tiger Army swiftly adjusted their tactics, forming an airtight encirclement around the central command tent where Abulu was hoarded.

Night fell, and the fires blazing across the barbarian camp dyed the sky crimson.

Inside the commander's tent, the barbarian general Abulu stood amidst a pile of corpses, his face stained with blood and his hair disheveled. He gripped a blood-stained broadsword, his eyes burning with madness and unyielding resentment.

"Zhao Ang!" Abulu roared through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and desperate. "If you have the guts, come face me in single combat! Why send these lackeys to hem me in?"

At that moment, a clear, resonant laugh echoed from outside the tent.

"Abulu, is your life really worth so little that it requires me to do the work myself?"

Zhao Ang rode forward slowly, accompanied by a few guards.

A careless smile hung on his face, yet his eyes carried a bone-chilling frost.

Abulu froze for a fraction of a second, then burst into frantic laughter. "Zhao Ang! Even if you win, you will never understand—the northern frontier belongs to the barbarians! You southerners will never completely conquer this land!"

Hearing this, Zhao Ang raised an eyebrow and slowly dismounted from his horse.

He walked up to Abulu, looking down at him from above, his tone calm yet sharp as a blade.

"Conquer? Abulu, I, Zhao Ang, have never sought to conquer anyone. I only know that whoever stands in the way of the Zhao family must die."

Abulu's expression froze instantly. He stared fixedly at Zhao Ang, as if searching for the slightest flaw in the young man's composure, but all he found was a pair of eyes as cold and piercing as winter stars.

"Take him away."

Zhao Ang waved his hand coldly. Several Black Tiger Army soldiers pinned Abulu to the ground, bound his hands behind his back, and dragged him out.

After the battle concluded, Zhao Ang sat on a weathered, dilapidated chair inside the camp, holding a cup of wine and smiling benignly at the prisoners before him.

"Abulu, welcome to my camp," Zhao Ang sipped his wine, his tone frivolous. "Next, it depends on whether you can leave here alive."

Abulu stared at him coldly, gritting his teeth in silence.

Yang Mu stepped forward and said in a low voice, "Your Highness, these barbarian generals have always had stubborn tongues. Perhaps we should..."

Zhao Ang waved a hand and smiled, "No rush. The stiffer their tongues, the more terrified of death they truly are. We have plenty of time to play with him slowly."

He stood up, stretched his limbs, and let his gaze turn fierce and profound in the cold wind.

"The game of the northern frontier has only just begun."

Seated on the hastily pieced-together, battered chair in the center of the camp, wrapped in a thick black cloak, Zhao Ang watched the embers flicker in the brazier beside him. The firelight painted his face half-bright and half-shadowed. With his legs crossed slightly and a cup of wine held in his hand, his demeanor was as relaxed as if he were simply appreciating the snow and engaging in idle conversation, rather than having just emerged from a battlefield soaked in life and death.

The howling wind swept past the canvas of the tent, carrying with it distant waves of wails and shouts—the dying struggles of the barbarian captives.

At this moment, the barbarian chieftain Abulu was pinned forcefully to the ground, his hands bound tightly behind his back with coarse hemp rope, his entire body drenched in blood. He panted heavily, his hair a mess, bearing several shocking blade scars across his face. His glare remained fixed on Zhao Ang, burning with resentment and madness, like a dying wolf.

"Zhao Ang, if you want to kill me, just kill me! Stop putting on these airs of profound wisdom!" Abulu gritted his teeth, his voice hoarse yet imbued with fierce defiance.

Hearing this, Zhao Ang merely took a light sip of his wine, set his cup down on a nearby small table, and lowered his gaze to look at Abulu. The corners of his mouth tilted up into an ambiguous, half-smiling expression.

"Kill you?" Zhao Ang drew out the syllables, his tone dripping with nonchalance.

"What fun is there in killing you? Abulu, a defeated barbarian general like you is nothing more than a stinking corpse once dead. Where is the value in a dead man compared to a living one?"