Chapter 221

“Bao Bai! Bao Bai!”

Quan Nan, one of the first sub-beastmen warriors to enter the battlefield, sprinted toward Qi Bai and Wei shouting his name. He looked like a little madman—his face and hair plastered with blood and dust, his fur armor caked and matted.

This little madman didn’t realize how avant-garde his appearance was. He shouted excitedly at Qi Bai, “We’ve found food on those people!”

Qi Bai immediately turned away from Zhu Qi’s corpse. “Where? Lead us there!”

The beastmen, who had just flopped down on the ground to catch their breath, were startled upright again by waves of exclamations from their comrades:

“There’s a deerskin pouch here!”

“And here, several over there!”

By the time Qi Bai and Wei arrived at the battlefield’s edge, dozens of rough deerskin sacks were piled into a little mound.

Qi Bai opened one at random—and finally cracked the first genuine smile of the day.

He handed the opened pouch to Wei. “See? We weren’t wasting our efforts today.”

Inside were packs of meat packed full—each chunk at least two palm-lengths big. A single pouch held nearly one hundred jin of meat.

Though the meat was burned black, rock-hard, and even smelled musty like old bricks—something neither the Heishan Tribe nor even the Ju Feng Tribe would tolerate as acceptable—it didn’t matter.

These supplies had been offered to them by the Sanghuo Tribe—unexpected provisions—and both Qi Bai and Wei despised them not one bit.

Burnt or not, it was still meat, and would fill their stomachs through the winter.

Qi Bai called over Hu Meng and Niu Yong, a pair of horned beastmen. “Follow their trail further—see if you can find the Sanghuo Tribe’s temporary camp.”

The two immediately replied. Qi Bai added: “Bring a few more with you. Don’t go too far—return before nightfall.”

“Understood!”

Everyone else, seeing how much food Quan Nan had found, felt their spirits lift and fatigue vanish.

Right—they always carried dried rations when venturing out. The Sanghuo Tribe were beastmen too; they would carry plenty of supplies, especially now in deep winter where prey was scarce.

Moreover, they had deployed roughly three thousand horned beastmen. Even after thirty to forty days of travel, they’d surely have substantial food left.

Everyone rushed into motion.

At the center of the battlefield, two small mounds quickly formed—one made of deerskin sacks, the other of fallen Sanghuo beastmen.

Beastmen revered the Beast God, believing wounded did not need burial—just leaving bodies in the wild meant the Beast God would reclaim them. A kind of cycle of life and return.

But that assumed few deaths. Now, hundreds—maybe thousands—lay scattered across the plains. Left as is, Qi Bai dreaded the site becoming a gibbet of disease as the dead decomposed.

This spot was only half a day from their tribe—leaving bodies piled here was tantamount to dumping them at their own door.

So Qi Bai directed that all Sanghuo bodies be collected and burned clean in one go.

The beastmen didn’t know his reasoning—they weren’t superstitious, just reluctant to have dead bodies add to their burden. Especially the workers who had once been Sanghuo slaves—they felt spite. These Sanghuo men died and still made trouble.

Shu Lin found an arrow shaft on the ground and placed it into his bamboo basket, muttering regretfully: “If only we’d used normal arrows at first—the fire arrows scorched much of the food.”

They’d used fire-tipped arrows for suppression early on, then switched to iron-headed regular bolts for pursuit—fire arrows were risky and heavy. The switch saved most of the food in those sacks.

Qi Bai himself carried a deerskin pouch. Since entering the fight, he’d been watching the Sanghuo honed beastmen closely.

While Sanghuo lacked the discipline of Heishan, they must have assigned roles. Those charging first were combat warriors—and took the brunt of the fire arrow hits.

What Qi Bai’s men were now clearing were likely Sanghuo’s supply units—explaining why so many food supplies ended up together.

Gathered together, the food filled fifty to sixty pouches. Estimates put it at more than 6,000 jin of meat.

Yet Qi Bai frowned.

That amount was a fortune for Heishan or Ju Feng—but for Sanghuo’s 3,000 warriors, it was barely enough for four or five days.

They lived thirty-plus days from Heishan. Typical armies turn back when their supplies fall below half. Sanghuo didn’t—they counted on seizing food from Heishan on their return.

Qi Bai snorted. Sanghuo had always been arrogant—sending such a huge force, thinking Heishan would be easy pickings. Now they face the consequences of overconfidence.

Others were less analytical—everyone happily loaded the meat sacks onto wagons for the return.

At that moment, a leopard beastman leaped back into the group so fast she skid to a stop on all fours.

Qi Bai waved. “Bao Yue—found something?”

Bao Yue, who had come with Hu Meng, was the only one returning. She seemed excited.

Transforming to human form, she said, “Bao Bai gege, over there in the forest—so many deerskin tents! Hu Meng and Niu Yong are tearing them down now. They told me to come tell you!”

Bao Bai marvelled at her speed. “You found it?”

Bo Yue had found their suspected temporary camp after Qi Bai’s hunch.

“Are there empty wagons available?”

The wagons that brought ballistae and wounded had been sent back. The few left had been for arrows—now they’d load meat.

Xiang Yu told Qi Bai: “No need for wagons—just deerskin. We horned beastmen can carry it back ourselves.”

They entered Sanghuo’s camp and saw at least 300–400 tents in the valley—everyone’s eyes lit up.

Qi Bai had guessed there’d be a camp nearby—leaders wouldn’t sleep outdoors.

But he hadn’t expected they actually settled and left everything behind. Precious goods carried, but supplies camped midway.

Meanwhile, in the dorm zone, lights blazed brightly.

Yang Luo hadn’t appeared during the day, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. He stood alone atop the wall, performing sacred ritual dances for the Spirit.

At first, he could see the battlefield—but once Sanghuo began to flee, he couldn’t see anything. Yet he couldn’t stop the rituals.

When the first ballista teams returned, they saw Yang Luo’s solemn motions from the wall.

That was their great priest—his frail body delivering their entire tribe’s plea to the Beast God.

No blood or injury had ever brought their eyes to wetness—but at that moment, even the roughest beastmen were tearing up.

It must’ve been Priest Yang’s prayers that invoked the beast god’s protection.

Those dozen ballista handlers waited until Yang Luo’s dance paused before crying, voice thick with emotion:

“Priest Yang! We won! Heishan Tribe has won!”

Yang Luo collapsed to the ground. He wanted to scold them—“You won! You’re supposed to rejoice—not cry! I’ve been dancing up here for hours!”

His dedication was unyielding—every move he placed utmost reverence, afraid the Beast God might withdraw support if his devotion wavered.

He had danced the whole afternoon and was fatigued, unable to lift his arms.

Though he hadn’t planned to scold them, the tears broke free.

“Victory is good,” he said quietly.

The wall’s bricks were frozen stiff. Sitting there, cold wind bit at the sweat on his neck.

Below the wall, Diao Lan clapped him on the shoulder: “Priest Yang, there are many wounded at the threshing ground—please come down and get herbs from the storehouse.”

Yang Luo rolled his eyes. Fine. He was just a stubborn cloth—can’t relax for a moment.