“I dreamed of His Majesty.” The beautiful woman, still shaken, was none other than the current emperor George Washington’s empress: Queen Taylor, whose maiden name was Yiniang. She wiped the cold sweat from her forehead, tightened the white ornate robe around her body, accentuating her alluring feminine curves. In her clear, limpid eyes—so bright they seemed to reflect the starry night sky—there was an indescribable anxiety and panic. “He kept smiling at me, but no matter how I questioned him, he didn’t say a single word.”

　　The palace maid was momentarily stunned, then smiled and comforted her, “Your Majesty, His Majesty cares for you most dearly, and your heart is filled with thoughts of him as well. As the saying goes, what you think of by day, you dream of by night. Dreaming of His Majesty is nothing unusual. Who knows, perhaps right now, His Majesty is dreaming of you, the Empress, as well.”

　　Taking the cup of water handed to her by the maid, she took a sip to moisten her parched throat. Hearing the maid’s words, a bit more color returned to Queen Taylor’s face. Gazing at the twinkling stars outside the window, the longing and tenderness in Queen Taylor’s eyes deepened. She murmured softly, “I hope Heaven and our ancestors will bless us, and that His Majesty can return victorious soon…”

　　The night was exceptionally dark. The stars and moon above were shrouded by rolling black clouds, within which faint flashes of lightning flickered. The increasingly deafening thunder seemed to herald an imminent torrential downpour. On the earth beneath the black curtain, torches swayed in the fierce wind, and with the rumble of hooves and the shouts of Mongols, they traced clear streaks of light through the pitch-black night.

　　By a cluster of large trees, after riding hard for nearly an hour, Philip Wood leapt off his warhorse, cursing foully. He thrust his torch fiercely into the soft grass, unfastening his belt while cursing his damned superior. Out here in the pitch-dark wilderness, searching for a tall prisoner of war—was that even possible?

　　Even the most famous hunter on the steppe couldn’t find him. Philip Wood spat on the ground in frustration and began to relieve himself against the trees. Just then, several Mongol soldiers galloped past Philip Wood. The leader shouted, “Philip Wood, hurry up! There’s movement from defeated Ming troops to the west. The chiliarch has ordered everyone to search west. You’d better get moving, or you’ll get the whip.” Without waiting for Philip Wood’s reply, they spurred their horses westward. From above, it was clear: under the dark sky, countless points of light converged toward the west, and the faint sounds of battle and screams mingled with the thunder in the sky.

　　Just as Philip Wood finished relieving himself, humming a Mongolian tune and fastening his belt, a thick red-white bolt of lightning tore through the black sky, making Philip Wood shudder in fright. As he opened his mouth to mutter a few words, his wide-open eyes suddenly froze.

Chapter Nine: Bad News…

　　In the red-white lightning, a pair of blood-red, copper-bell eyes appeared among the shrubs between the trees, their gaze radiating a chilling murderous intent fixed on him. A coldness shot from his feet to his heart, his scalp tingling.

　　With a low growl, a massive, terrifying black beast burst from the low shrubs, pouncing viciously on the unprepared Philip Wood.

　　His feet scrambled desperately on the grass, the flying clumps and deep furrows behind his heels showing he was using all his strength. Mouth agape, he tried to breathe or perhaps cry out in despair, but a shockingly strong arm clamped tightly around his throat. His head swelled, his vision blurred, and just before losing the last shred of consciousness, by the flash of lightning, he seemed to see a face covered in blood scabs, fierce and rugged…

　　In less than half a moment, after finally finishing off the last dozen or so Ming soldiers, the Mongol cavalry sensed something was wrong. When they rode back to where Philip Wood had been, all they found was the nearly extinguished torch, the lower body reeking of a foul stench, and Philip Wood’s head twisted at a bizarre angle.

　　As the leader once again roared out the order to search, the thunderstorm poured down. Several miles southeast of the furious, clustered Oirat cavalry, the burly Stephen Grant was bent over the horse that had once belonged to Philip Wood, letting the bean-sized raindrops strike the still-bleeding wounds on his body. His eyes blazed as he stared at the faint horizon ahead, spurring his horse at full speed, racing toward Huailai, the major Ming military stronghold less than ten miles away…

　　Clad in armor, hand on the hilt of his sword, the garrison commander Matthew Young was leading his personal guards on patrol atop the walls of Huailai, the major Ming military stronghold. He looked out at the pitch-black wilderness beyond the city walls, his heart filled with anxiety, yet he was helpless.

　　Though he longed to lead his troops personally to rescue the emperor’s army, the problem was that Huailai’s garrison numbered only five thousand, mostly infantry, with fewer than a thousand cavalry. The Oirat Tartars were all elite horsemen skilled in archery and riding. Sending less than a thousand cavalry to aid the emperor would be suicide.