Chapter Eighteen: The Retreat of the Turks

The sky was gloomy, and the biting wind gradually subsided once more.

Yet the chill brought by the snowfall lingered, creeping relentlessly into the skin, intensified rather than dispelled by the stillness.

Li Kong’s eyes snapped open. He cast aside his fur cloak and gazed toward the Turkic encampment across from him.

Within the camp, the bonfires had all but died; only a few embers flickered faintly amid the falling snow, casting sporadic glimmers of light.

What puzzled Li Kong was the utter lack of commotion within the Turkic ranks. By rights, they should have discovered the corpses in the main tent by now.

“Did I really spend half the day in this frozen wasteland, enduring the cold for so long, only to kill two insignificant men?”

The thought left Li Kong deeply frustrated. Even though, at this point, neither Tuli nor Jieli could possibly mount another attack on Jingyang, it still felt like a wasted opportunity, an unfulfilled purpose gnawing at his heart.

But now the enemy had stirred. Aside from those who had perished in the numbing cold, the rest were moving about within the camp, turning over and patrolling ceaselessly. Any further action was now impossible.

He did not know how long he waited before a pale line appeared in the eastern sky. Instantly, the world plunged into utter darkness, but in the next moment, a sliver of dawn spilled over the land. The snow reflected the light, and Li Kong’s vision finally cleared.

“What is this…” As his sight returned, Li Kong suddenly noticed something odd within the Turkic camp: some soldiers appeared to be controlling others. A few still wandered freely, but they were a rare minority—perhaps less than a tenth of the whole.

About half an hour later, the earth had settled into a dim, ashen daylight—hazy still, but no longer an obstacle to movement.

The Turkic camp began to break up. In truth, little more than gathering their scattered belongings and driving the horses together. The entire process was swift; within a quarter of an hour, the Turkic soldiers had assembled in full. What astonished Li Kong, however, was that after forming up, they marched northward.

Yet, after enduring the merciless cold of the previous day, both men and horses were utterly spent. The column moved sluggishly, drained of vitality, and the strange events in the night had only worsened their condition.

Perhaps to mislead the Tang forces behind them, the Turks maintained perfect order, giving no outward sign of disorder.

Seeing this, Li Kong suddenly understood. His assassination attempt last night must have had its effect. The current situation was likely the result of one survivor acting preemptively, taking control of the others.

With this realization, Li Kong hesitated no longer. He turned and hurried toward where his horse was tethered.

To his silent dismay, the previous night’s snow had killed his steed outright. The white horse lay motionless on the ground, its body stiff with cold. The sight filled Li Kong with a sense of waste—such a fine animal, lost for nothing. If he were in the city, at least… well, roasted horse meat might not be so bad.

He shook off the thought. In this era, horses were precious military resources, and to kill one without dire need was a grave offense.

With a resigned sigh, he set out on foot, making his way back to Jingyang.

Meanwhile, atop Jingyang’s city wall:

Li Shimin, accompanied by Li Ji and others, stood high, scanning the distance, ready to meet the Turkic assault.

The thick snow piled atop the battlements had buried their ankles; every step crunched loudly, and the biting cold seemed to shoot straight from their soles to their skulls.

“Your Majesty!” A guard rushed over, leaping off his horse at the base of the wall and calling out, “The Turkic army has retreated!”

Joy flashed in Li Shimin’s heart. He said quickly, “Gentlemen, the Turks cannot withstand the cold and have withdrawn. Who among you dares follow me to pursue and strike them?”

Hou Junji, Cheng Yaojin, and the other fierce generals were eager to give chase.

But Li Jing interjected, “Let us first assess the situation. If this is a Turkic ruse to lure us out, a reckless charge could be nothing short of suicide.”

His words fell like a bucket of cold water on the already chilled assembly, sending a collective shiver through them—not from the cold, but from fear.

If only the generals were at risk, it might be acceptable; after all, death in battle is a general’s lot. But with Li Shimin himself present, the stability of the Tang dynasty was at stake. Should disaster befall him, the empire they had fought so hard to build would plunge into chaos, and hidden factions would rise to seize their chance. Even if Tang survived, it would be a hollow victory.

Li Shimin, though chilled, was unwilling to let such an opportunity slip by. Gritting his teeth, he declared, “Come, let us go and see for ourselves.”

Moments later, the group led three thousand cavalry out of Jingyang, heading straight for the former Turkic camp.

On the other side, Jieli was caught between anger and confusion. How could it be that he went to sleep, only to wake as a murderer?

It was true he had wanted Tuli dead, but to have been so inexplicably used as a pawn stung his pride beyond bearing. Worse still, he had lost his own general, Zhishi Sili, in the process—a loss that made his frustration almost unbearable.

Glancing at Ashide Wumeichuo, who followed him with eyes burning with hatred, Jieli could already foresee the storm awaiting them on the steppes.

But internal strife was preferable to being annihilated here by the Tang. Moreover, though Tuli had considerable prestige, his tribe was not united, and no matter how capable Ashide Wumeichuo might be, it would take months to mount a counterattack. Jieli, meanwhile, might seize this chance to unite all the Eastern Turks under his rule.

At that thought, Jieli’s eyes narrowed, and the killing intent in his gaze toward Ashide Wumeichuo deepened.

The official road stretched on, blanketed in snow. If not for the stubborn tufts of dead grass lining either side, Li Kong would have worried about straying into a ditch.

The snow had become light, but still fell in a soft, persistent whisper. Occasionally, a flake would drift into his eyes, the cold biting at his tear ducts, bringing involuntary tears that froze to shards on his cheeks—a sensation both painful and oddly exhilarating.

Fortunately, his stamina was strong. The constant movement kept the cold at bay.

Suddenly, the ground trembled violently ahead. Raising his eyes, he saw tens of thousands of cavalry charging through the snow, the great yellow imperial banner billowing at their head.

Li Kong’s eyes lit up. He hastily tore off his scarf, moved a dozen paces to the left, and began to wave it vigorously…