Thousands of miles from the icy Manchurian snows, on the Republic's barren western border, the sun bakes the earth mercilessly. Here, the wind carries not ice particles but fine sand that stings the eyes and coats everything in a monotonous brown. This is the domain of the warlord Ma Bufang, a slippery tyrant whose power is sustained by legions of fanatical Hui mercenaries and—it is often rumored—a supply of modern weapons from a mysterious Japanese military adviser.
It is in this harsh landscape that the "Desert Wolf" Cavalry Unit makes their home. Their camp is little more than a collection of battered tents pitched around a small, pitiful oasis, the only source of water for a hundred miles. Yet, amidst the hardships, their spirit burns bright. They are the spearhead of the National Revolutionary Army on this front, a family forged by heat, sand, and battle.
Captain Hu Yanzhen, their commander, sits atop an empty ammunition crate, cheerfully challenging one of his sergeants to a game of dice. The stakes: the week's ration of sorghum wine. There was a roar of laughter as Hu Yanzhen, with a little not-so-disguised trick of the wrist, won the final round.
"Hahaha! Fortune always favors the handsome, Sergeant Wang!" he exclaimed, slapping the sullen sergeant on the back. "Tonight, let us drink to future victories!"
His men loved him for this. He was not a commander who kept his distance. He was one of them, sharing their hardships, laughing with them, and most importantly, fighting in the front ranks with them. Beneath his frivolous and often outspoken demeanor lay a brilliant tactical mind and an unwavering loyalty to his men and the Republic.
Nearby, his beloved steed, Zhui Feng—Chasing the Wind—a majestic, jet-black Ferghana stallion, snorted in agreement. Hu Yanzhen had acquired the horse not from a military stable, but from a Russian merchant who had nearly frozen to death in a blizzard. Hu Yanzhen had found him, given him his own coat, and carried him to safety. In return, the merchant gave him his best horse. From then on, the bond between man and horse became legendary in their unit.
"Captain!" a calm, scholarly voice called out.
Hu Yanzhen turned. Lieutenant Zhou Qihang approached, his thin glasses looking slightly out of place amidst his sun-scorched face. Zhou was Hu Yanzhen's polar opposite in many ways. If Hu Yanzhen was a storm of emotions and intuition, Zhou was the calm, analytical brain at the center of the storm. A top graduate in the strategy class of the Eternal Flame Military Academy, he was often the one who had to translate his commander's wild ideas into workable battle plans.
"What's wrong, Zhou Qihang? Your face is so serious. Are you worried that I'll win all your wine too?" Hu Yanzhen teased.
Zhou didn't smile. "Our scouting report is back, Captain. The Ma Bufang supply convoy we're after will pass through Black Rock Pass in two hours."
Hu Yanzhen's face changed instantly. His jovial nature vanished, replaced by the focus of a predator. "Good. Gather the troops. Let's give them a warm welcome."
An hour later, a hundred horsemen from the "Desert Wolves" unit moved across the rocky plain in eerie silence. They hid themselves among the tall rock formations that overlooked the narrow pass, the dust their natural camouflage.
From his vantage point, Hu Yanzhen could see the convoy approaching—a few mule-drawn carts guarded by about thirty of Ma Bufang's mercenaries. They rode at a leisurely pace, confident that they were deep in their own territory.
"They underestimated us," Hu Yanzhen whispered to Zhou, who was beside him.
"That will be their last mistake," Zhou replied calmly, checking his Mauser C96.
Hu Yanzhen waited until the entire convoy had entered the pass. Then he raised his curved Shashka sword, its gleaming blade catching the harsh sunlight.
"FOR THE REPUBLIC!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the rocks.
That was the signal. Like hungry wolves, his units came out of their hiding places, attacking from both sides of the gap. The surprise was total. The mercenaries panicked, trying to form a defensive line, but it was too late.
The "Desert Wolf" cavalry crashed into them like a tidal wave.
The battle was short, brutal, and efficient. Hu Yanzhen and Zhui Feng were at the heart of the battle, their swords slashing and dancing, while their guns blazing. Their lightning tactics, honed through dozens of skirmishes, gave the enemy no chance. In less than ten minutes, the battle was over.
As the dust settled, Hu Yanzhen's men inspected the carts. In addition to food and water, they found something disturbing.
"Captain, look at this," Zhou called, holding a small open chest.
Hu Yanzhen dismounted and approached. Inside the chest, neatly stacked, were several Japanese Type 97 grenades and boxes of Arisaka 6.5mm rifle ammunition. Far more advanced equipment than the outdated weapons that Ma Bufang's troops usually used.
"The rumors are true," Hu Yanzhen said, his voice cold. "The Japanese are well armed."
In one of the other carts, they found several villagers tied up, clearly kidnapped for forced labor. Anger flashed in Hu Yanzhen's eyes as he personally cut their ropes. This strengthened his conviction: they were not just fighting a warlord, they were fighting a barbarity backed by a foreign power.
They returned to camp in triumph, bringing with them much-needed supplies and a few prisoners. That night, the camp was in a festive mood. The bonfires were lit bigger, and the sorghum wine Hu Yanzhen had won was shared with everyone.
In the midst of the celebration, Hu Yanzhen took a moment to himself. He pulled a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket. He began to write a letter to He Xiang. He told her about the desert heat, about their small victory today, and teased her about the cold in Manchuria. How are you doing in the North, Brave Lady? Don't freeze. The letter was light and humorous, an attempt to reach out to a friend across the country, a reminder of the world beyond war and sand.
Just as he was about to fold the letter, a radio operator ran up to him, his face tight with concentration. "Captain! Urgent message from Lanzhou headquarters. Encrypted with the highest priority code."
Hu Yanzhen took the message and brought it to his tent. Together with Zhou Qihang, they deciphered it by lantern light. The message contained incredible intelligence: the exact location of a hidden artillery post owned by Ma Bufang, which had been raining down artillery fire on their supply lines for weeks. The intelligence included guard numbers, patrol rotation schedules, and even blind spots in their defenses.
Hu Yanzhen, still in the euphoria of the day's victory, felt his spirits soar. "This is it, Zhou Qihang! A chance to cripple them! We can end our supply problems once and for all."
Zhou Qihang, however, did not look enthusiastic. He reread the message over and over again, his brow furrowed in thought.
"What's wrong?" Hu Yanzhen asked.
"I don't know, Captain," Zhou replied quietly. "This intelligence… is too perfect. Too detailed. It's as if they wanted us to find it. How could Lanzhou headquarters have such accurate information on such a hidden post?"
The foreboding feeling that Hu Yanzhen had felt briefly returned, but he quickly dismissed it. "Maybe they finally got a good spy inside Ma Bufang's camp. We can't let this opportunity slip away just because of a little hesitation. Think of the lives we could save if the artillery was destroyed."
"I understand, Captain," Zhou said, though the doubt was still evident in his eyes. "But please, we must be extremely careful. This feels like bait."
"Every battle is a gamble," Hu Yanzhen said, patting his lieutenant on the shoulder. "And I like our chances this time. Prepare the troops. We set out at dawn."
Zhou nodded obediently, though Hu Yanzhen could see that he wasn't entirely convinced. That night, as the camp began to quiet down, Hu Yanzhen stared at the letter to He Xiang that lay on his desk. He folded it carefully and tucked it into his pocket. He would send it after this mission was complete, along with news of their great victory.
Under the silent gaze of countless desert stars, the fate of the "Desert Wolves" unit was sealed. The seeds of destruction had been planted, hidden within the promise of glorious victory. Wind and sand bore silent witness to the arrogance of a brilliant commander and the caution of a loyal lieutenant, both unaware that they were walking straight into a trap designed by a far more cunning and cruel mind.
Valley of Death
Dawn broke over the desert horizon, painting the sky a stunning palette of orange and purple. But the beauty felt hollow to the "Desert Wolves." A hundred horsemen moved in tense silence, the clatter of their horses' hooves muffled by the sand, the only sound breaking the stillness of the morning. Ahead of them stretched a narrow gap between two towering rows of rocky cliffs—the entrance to the valley where the enemy artillery post was reported to be located.
Hu Yanzhen rode Zhui Feng in the vanguard, his Shashka sword hanging at his side. Beside him, Lieutenant Zhou Qihang looked pale in the dawn light. The doubts of the previous night had not yet faded from his face.
"Intelligence says this valley is the only way in and out," Zhou said in a low voice, more of a statement of fact than a question. "That makes it a perfect strangulation point, Captain."
"It also means they won't expect us to be crazy enough to charge head-on," Hu Yanzhen replied, trying to inject some confidence that he himself was beginning to doubt. The bad feeling was back like a buzzing fly. But the urgency of the situation—and a little pride from his previous victory—propelled him forward. "We'll get in and out before they know what hit them."
He motioned to Zhou. "Remember the plan. Once we're through this gap, you split up. Draw their attention from the left flank. I'll lead the main attack straight for the cannons. Speed is key. We crush them and disappear like ghosts."
Zhou nodded, his eyes serious. "Understood, Captain. May the God of War be with us."
Hu Yanzhen tried to smile, his trademark confident smile. "The God of War? He always favors the brave, Zhou Qihang!"
They passed through the narrow rock gap, the dust growing thicker, as if the valley were trying to swallow them. As planned, Zhou split off with half the troops, turning left to take a circuitous route along the base of the cliff. Hu Yanzhen took a deep breath, raising his gleaming Shashka sword.
"CHARGE!" he roared, spurring Zhui Feng forward. His men's war cries echoed through the rocks, a sound filled with courage and blind faith in their commander.
The artillery post, located in a sheltered hollow, looked exactly as described in the intelligence report. Several old howitzers—perhaps Qing-era relics or war booty—were guarded by about fifty soldiers. They seemed surprised by the sudden attack, running frantically for their weapons.
The fighting was swift and brutal. Hu Yanzhen's men, with the advantage of cavalry mobility, charged through the unprepared enemy defenses. The clang of swords clashed with the crackle of Mauser C96 and Hanyang 88 rifles. Hu Yanzhen, at the forefront, fought like a possessed god of war. A single slash of his sword sent two enemy soldiers flying from their horses. His pistol blared, felling a sniper who had been targeting him from atop a rock.
In less than thirty minutes, the artillery post was captured. Victory was in the air. The soldiers cheered, the adrenaline of battle still pumping through their veins. Several of the cannons were badly damaged in the fighting, and the rest they blew up with the dynamite they had brought. The explosions shook the valley, sending echoes bouncing off the cliffs.
But the victory felt too easy. Too quiet afterward.
"Report the situation!" Hu Yanzhen ordered, his breath coming in short gasps, sweat dripping down his face and uniform.
"Five of our men down, Captain. Ten slightly injured," a sergeant reported. "Twenty enemy dead, the rest fled."
"Lieutenant Zhou?"
"His troops are combing the area, Captain. They've managed to lure out most of the enemy patrols."
That was when Hu Yanzhen felt it. The foreboding feeling that had been a whisper before was now screaming in his mind. He looked around. The valley was too quiet. There was no sign of significant enemy reinforcements, and the dynamite blasts would have been heard for miles around. They should have been surrounded by now.
Unless... they had been surrounded from the start.
Suddenly, from the cliffs on either side of the valley, the distinct crackle of Maxim machine guns shattered the silence. Not just one, but several. Their positions were perfectly placed, creating a cross-section of killing zones. Bullets rained down on them like deadly hail.
"TRAP! RETREAT! GET OUT OF HERE!" Hu Yanzhen shouted, the horror of the situation hitting him like a physical blow.
This was no ordinary artillery post. This was bait. The entire place was a grave prepared for them.
The remaining troops, who had just celebrated their victory, were now thrown into panic. Horses neighed in fear. Some soldiers fell before they could react. Hu Yanzhen saw that the Zhou troops, who had just regrouped, were also caught in the hail of gunfire from the other side. They had nowhere to run.
"TO THE GAP! BREAK THROUGH!" Hu Yanzhen tried to rally his remaining men. He knew that if they remained in this valley, they would be slaughtered.
Zhui Feng, his loyal steed, was wounded in the leg, but he still tried to carry it forward, neighing in pain. Hu Yanzhen felt a burning sensation on his left shoulder as a bullet grazed it. He ignored it, continuing to swing his sword, clearing a path for his terrified men.
Amidst the chaos, his eyes caught movement on one of the cliffs. There, standing quietly as if watching a theatrical performance, was a man in a neat uniform. His face was pale, and a cold smile played across his lips as he watched the carnage below. Beside him stood Ma Bufang himself, laughing heartily. It was him. The Japanese military advisor so often mentioned in the vague intelligence reports.
Hu Yanzhen's eyes met the Japanese man's for a moment—a look that was cold, calculating, and filled with unspeakable contempt. In an instant, Hu Yanzhen saw it all: the sinister intelligence behind this trap, the arrogance of the mastermind, and the unfathomable hatred.
"Damn you!" Hu Yanzhen growled, but he knew his priority was to save as many of his men as possible.
They were fighting desperately to get out of the valley of death. Every inch of ground had been paid for in blood. The agile cavalry were now easy targets in the locked-down terrain. Hu Yanzhen saw Lieutenant Zhou, in a final act of heroism, try to shield a wounded young soldier with his own body. A volley of machine-gun bullets slammed into Zhou's chest.
Hu Yanzhen watched him collapse, Zhou's eyes still on him, as if he wanted to say something, a final, unspoken warning. His usually calm face was now filled with pain and regret.
"ZHOU QIHANG!" Hu Yanzhen shouted, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed to shreds.
With the remnants of his troops, about thirty lucky and battered men, Hu Yanzhen managed to break out of the encirclement. They left more than half of the "Desert Wolves" unit dead in that cursed valley, their bodies and their horses lying under the cruel gaze of the rock cliffs.
They continued to gallop their horses, not daring to stop, not daring to look back. They fled from the echoes of screams and gunfire, fleeing from the Valley of Death, a name that would be forever etched in the history of their unit with blood and tears.
Embers in the Ashes
Night had fallen, but true darkness had fallen long before the sun had set. The remnants of the "Desert Wolves" unit, now only a third of its original strength, had found shelter in a hidden oasis that an old shepherd had pointed out to them years ago. Here, under the shade of a few languishing date palms, the silence was heavier than any sound of battle.
There were no campfires tonight. No laughter or jokes. The surviving soldiers sat in groups, some nursing their wounds in silence, others staring blankly into the darkness, their eyes replaying the horrors of the Valley of Death. Every face carried the same burden: survivor's guilt. Why did I live while he died?
Hu Yanzhen sat alone, leaning against a rough palm tree. The wound on his shoulder had been bandaged with dirty bandages, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the wound in his heart. He had failed. As a commander, the greatest failure was not to lose a battle, but to lead his men into slaughter. Their faces—the ones who laughed, the ones who complained, the ones who believed him—flashed through his mind like ghosts.
And above all, the face of Lieutenant Zhou Qihang. The smart, loyal Zhou who had warned him. "This feels like bait, Captain." The words echoed in his ears now, an accusation that stung more than any bullet. He had ignored Zhou's caution for the sake of his own arrogance, and the price of that arrogance was the lives of dozens of his best men.
The guilt gnawed at him, threatening to swallow him in despair. He gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. The seething anger at the Japanese advisor and Ma Bufang mixed with an equal loathing for himself.
An old soldier, Sergeant Wang—the man he had lost the dice game with yesterday in a life that felt like a century ago—approached him with hesitant steps. He said nothing, only handed him a small, dirty leather pouch.
"Captain," Sergeant Wang said softly, his voice hoarse. "These… are Lieutenant Zhou's belongings that we managed to salvage."
Hu Yanzhen took the pouch with slightly trembling hands. It felt heavy, not because of its contents, but because of the weight of the memories it held. He untied the strap. Inside was a small notebook with worn corners, a few silver coins, and a crumpled piece of paper folded neatly.
"Before he died," Sergeant Wang continued, his eyes glistening with tears, "Lieutenant Zhou had muttered... 'last message... from headquarters... the numbers are strange... Captain... be careful...'"
Hu Yanzhen stared at the old soldier. Zhou's last words. A warning even as he breathed his last breath. Hu Yanzhen nodded, unable to speak. The sergeant stepped back respectfully, leaving him alone with his lieutenant's last relic.
He opened the notebook. Inside were strategy notes, observations of the terrain, and a few verses of poetry written in beautiful calligraphy. On the last page, there was a rough sketch of He Xiang laughing, drawn from memory, with a small note below it: "I wonder if the snow in the north can cool his spirits." Hu Yanzhen's heart felt tight. Zhou was a good friend.
Then, he unfolded the crumpled paper. Several lines of irregular numbers stared at him. A code. This must be what Zhou meant. "…the last message from headquarters… the numbers are strange…" The headquarters that sent them to the valley of slaughter. Had Zhou smelled something foul even before they set off? Had he copied this code, sensed something was wrong?
This was no longer just a riddle. This was a testament. The key to understanding the betrayal that had taken the lives of so many.
The anger that had been mixed with guilt now began to find focus. His sadness did not disappear, but beneath it, a cold ember of determination began to burn. He would not let his men's sacrifices be in vain. He would not let Zhou's final warning go unheeded.
He picked up a dry twig and, under the pale light of the desert moon, began to try to decipher the code in the sand. He wrote down the numbers, trying various simple substitution methods. The night was long and frustrating. Every attempt failed to produce anything but empty words. But he did not give up. Every time fatigue and despair tried to creep in, he only had to close his eyes to see Zhou's dying face, and his spirit would be rekindled.
He knew he couldn't figure this out overnight. He needed more information. He needed a name. The name of the Japanese advisor.
Dawn was breaking when he finally stopped. He hadn't cracked the code, but he had found a small, recurring pattern, an anomaly that might be a starting point. It was a small glimmer of hope in the thick darkness.
He stood up, stretching his stiff body. He looked at the remnants of his men, sleeping from exhaustion. They looked like lost children. They had lost their leader, but their leader must not lose himself.
He walked to his horse, Zhui Feng, who stood patiently despite his wounded leg. From his saddlebag, he pulled out the letter he had written to He Xiang. A letter filled with jokes and boasts that now felt so empty and embarrassing. He almost crumpled it into a ball, but stopped himself.
No. He wouldn't crush it. He folded it carefully and tucked it into his breast pocket, next to Zhou's coded note. The letter was now a reminder. A reminder of who he had been before the valley had taken his innocence. A reminder of a lighter world, a world worth fighting for. A reminder that somewhere out here in the desert, there were comrades still fighting. Maybe someday, he could send that letter. Someday when he could send good news, or at least, news that he had found justice for those he had lost.
The embers inside him had now become a focused fire. He knew what he had to do. They could no longer operate as an assault unit. They were wounded, battered, and exposed. They had to disappear, regroup, and change tactics.
He walked to the center of the camp and woke Sergeant Wang.
"Sergeant," he said, his voice calm but full of newfound authority. "Wake everyone. We move out in an hour."
"Where to, Captain?" the sergeant asked, his eyes still heavy with sleep and grief.
"To the south," Hu Yanzhen replied, his eyes on the lightening horizon. "There is an old Ming fortress in the Qilian Mountains. It is a place forgotten by all. There, we will lick our wounds. And from there… our hunt will begin."
The war on the western frontier had entered a new, darker and more personal chapter for Hu Yanzhen. He was no longer just a commander following orders. He was a survivor seeking the truth, a hunter stalking traitors. The ashes of defeat still tasted bitter in his mouth, but within him, the embers of vengeance had begun to burn.
____
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*****to be continued chapter 3