Chapter 54: Into the Lion's Den: The Trap on the Grasslands

The great victory at Wild Horse River was like a shot of boiling hot blood injected into the veins of the 150,000-strong Ming army.

The triumphant news reached the central command, and even Xu Da, the usually composed veteran general, could not conceal the joy on his face. Standing before the massive sand table, he gazed at the three arrows symbolizing the Ming forces, now deeply embedded in the heart of the grasslands, his spirit soaring.

“Khubilai Temür is already a lost dog! Issue my orders: all three armies, travel light and fast, pursue at full speed! We must annihilate them completely beneath Helin City!”

With the general’s command, the entire army suddenly quickened its pace. The thirst for victory made everyone momentarily forget the hidden dangers of this vast grassland.

Lan Yu’s eastern army surged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, leading the charge.

But as they pressed on, something felt off.

In the first few days, Fan Tong’s vanguard battalion could still occasionally “harvest,” capturing and plundering here and there, living with a certain gusto. Yet now, they had gone five days without seeing a single living soul, not even the shadow of a yurt.

The grassland had become terrifyingly empty.

As far as the eye could see, only withered yellow grass and a gray, hazy sky stretched out, as if the whole world had lost its color and vitality. Occasionally, abandoned campsites appeared, but all supplies had been burned to ashes, wells filled in, and even cattle droppings meticulously cleaned away.

A scorched earth policy.

Those four words pressed heavily on everyone’s hearts like a massive stone.

The soldiers of the vanguard battalion no longer felt their initial excitement; the heavy armor became a torment after long marches. Their war beasts under them grew listless, snorting irritably and pawing the ground restlessly.

“Damn it, have these Tartars emptied the entire grassland?” One deputy commander in Lan Yu’s personal guard wiped sweat from his brow and cursed irritably.

Lan Yu sat on his horse, brows furrowed. Though brave, he was no fool. This eerie calm smell of misfortune. But the central command’s orders were absolute, and General Xu had issued a deathly edict. He could only grit his teeth and push forward.

He glanced back at the black-armored figures trailing behind—a sight that brought some comfort. No matter what lay ahead, with Fan Tong’s “live bandit” battalion, they could always tear a path through.

But at this moment, Fan Tong’s plight was far less easy than Lan Yu imagined.

He was grumbling as he gnawed on a piece of jerky as hard as stone, cheeks puffed out.

“Damn it, this trip’s a loss! Didn’t get much loot, but we’re nearly eating through our own reserves!”

Wu Mang leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Boss, the cattle and sheep we took from those tribes are almost all gone. If we keep running like this, we’ll have to eat grass.”

Fan Tong shot him a glare. “Eat your head! You won’t starve to death!”

Though cursing, his heart was heavy. Luckily, he had the foresight to stockpile enormous supplies in that “food pouch.” Otherwise, just feeding over a thousand mouths would have broken him.

On the other side of the column, Zhu Di reined in his war beast and swung down from the saddle.

Ignoring the surrounding clamor, he crouched, pinching a handful of soil and sniffing it. Then he carefully examined the scattered hoofprints on the ground.

Moments later, he stood and looked up at the sky.

Several black hawks circled beneath the high clouds, lingering without dispersing.

His expression instantly turned grave.

“Boss.” Zhu Di approached Fan Tong, his voice low and mournful as the wind across the grassland. “Something’s wrong.”

“What is it?” Fan Tong, seeing his serious face, dropped his usual flippancy.

“We’re being herded like sheep.” Zhu Di pointed at the ground. “These hoofprints look chaotic, but their direction is consistent—they’re guiding us. And their retreat was too clean, as if they deliberately swept the battlefield.”

He paused, then gestured at the sky. “And those hawks—they’re waiting. Waiting for a feast big enough to satisfy them.”

Fan Tong followed his finger to the small black dots suspended overhead—ominous death tokens hanging above him, sending chills down his spine.

He was no great general, but he had one key strength: he trusted professionals. Especially this one—a future Yongle Emperor.

“Fuck!” Fan Tong spat a curse, slamming the jerky onto the ground. “They’re really playing us for pigs!”

His jowls twitched, a fierce light flashing in his small eyes.

“Wu Mang!”

“Here, boss!”

“Order the whole battalion to battle readiness! Everyone fill your water bags, sharpen your weapons, tighten your armor straps! No camping tonight—rotate watch shifts, sleep in your clothes!”

“Bao Nianfeng!”

“Boss!” Bao Nianfeng hoisted his great axe, responding in a deep voice.

“You and your men feed all our war beasts well, especially the Bull Demon King—give it the best grass and double the beans! I have a feeling we’ll need it to break through!”

Fan Tong’s commands spread like electric shocks through the vanguard battalion.

The soldiers, once lax, stiffened at their captain’s unprecedented sternness. They had fought many battles with him and knew that, despite his usual joking manner, he never played around when it mattered.

The camp’s atmosphere shifted instantly from exhaustion and irritability to a tense, deadly stillness.

No more complaints—only silent checks of weapons and mutual tightening of armor straps.

Even the air seemed frozen.

Night fell.

The grassland nights were bitterly cold.

The wind grew stronger, cutting across faces like knives.

Within the wind came a faint, elusive scent.

Not the fragrance of grass, nor the earth’s aroma, but a subtle tang of blood mixed with the musky stench of livestock and the sour sweat of humans—a unique scent present only when a great army gathers.

Fan Tong stood on a gentle slope, sniffing hard. Behind him, Zhu Di’s hand rested on the hilt of his blade, his eyes sharp and scanning the surrounding darkness.

“They’re here,” Zhu Di’s voice was nearly lost in the wind.

Fan Tong said nothing, quietly unfastening the palm-sized gray “food pouch” at his waist.

He plunged his hand in, fumbling until he pulled out a roasted lamb leg thicker than his arm.

He tore off a large chunk, stuffing it into his mouth, chewing forcefully.

Only by filling his belly could he find strength to kill—or to run.

Then, suddenly, on the dark horizon, a faint spark of fire appeared without warning.

Next came a second, then a third…

In the blink of an eye, thousands of torches flared from all directions, forming a massive fiery dragon that encircled their lone, isolated force at the center!

In the glow of the flames, countless shadows flickered, the glint of blades and spears merging into a vast sea of death.

After a suffocating silence, a deafening roar and the pounding of war drums shattered the night!

“Dong! Dong! Dong!”

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

The sound seemed to tear the night sky apart!

The soldiers of the vanguard battalion turned deathly pale.

They had fallen into a trap! A deadly snare woven by tens of thousands of elite grassland warriors!

In every direction lay a dead end.