Ethan Brooks stood by the side of Grasshopper Lake wearing a marmot fur hat, watching as the bar-headed geese arrived right on schedule. Even someone as calm as he couldn’t help but cheer out loud, spreading his arms and spinning in the wind, as if to embrace these familiar or unfamiliar friends.

When the bar-headed geese landed in formation on Grasshopper Lake, it looked just like a squadron of planes touching down—no panic, no scrambling, their descent simple and orderly.

Ethan Brooks loved most to watch the bar-headed geese stretch out their two maple-red webbed feet as they slowly touched down on the water. Their feet would always leave a few ripples on the calm lake surface, and before the ripples could spread, the orange-red webs would slip into the water, pushing aside the waves and swallowing up all the ripples.

Next, the plump bellies of the bar-headed geese would touch the water, rushing forward in a hurry, then floating steadily on the surface.

With the joyful calls of the lead goose, more bar-headed geese arrived as expected, and the previously still, deathly quiet Grasshopper Lake instantly became lively.

It wasn’t just this alpine lake that became lively, but also the grasslands below it.

And Ethan Brooks was the dividing line between these two bustling scenes.

On one side, there was the joy and excitement of reaching the journey’s end; on the other, a noisy uproar fueled by boundless hatred.

Eventually, the bar-headed geese quieted down, but on the other side, the drumming began!

War had started.

On one side were the soldiers of the Great Tang Anxi Army’s Kucha Garrison; the other group was... hard to make out, but they were Hu people, anyway.

Normally, when the Hu fought the Tang army, they would use guerrilla tactics, ambushes, outnumbering the enemy, and if they couldn’t win, they’d run.

But today was different.

No one knew why these Hu suddenly became so brave, choosing to fight a pitched battle against the Tang’s regular troops, whose numbers were about the same as theirs.

Just look at the Tang army’s banners fluttering, their bright helmets and shining armor, their neat formations, and the way they began advancing with giant shields and long spears toward the chaotic mass of enemies.

Ethan Brooks already knew how this battle would end.

He was almost bored of seeing battles of this scale and style; the scenes of the Uyghurs fighting, where only the heavens knew who would win or lose, were much more interesting.

As for the Tang army’s battles, their unchanging victories held no anticipation for a spectator like Ethan Brooks.

Advance—kill—drop a marker—advance—kill—the enemy is wiped out, flees—collect the marker—cut off the left ear—string the ears—loot valuables—return to camp: this was the standard Tang army combat procedure, utterly dull. The Uyghurs were different. They would charge at the enemy on horseback, howling, and after killing the enemy, they’d leap off their horses, cut off the enemy’s head and hang it under the horse’s neck, grab anything useful from the corpse, then mount up again, the head swinging beneath the horse’s neck as they continued killing... until the enemy collapsed, or their own side collapsed and was harvested in the same way.

After killing the enemy, the Tang army would bury the bodies.

The Uyghurs were different.

Sometimes, the Uyghurs would place captured enemies on sharpened wooden stakes, tie two stones to their feet, and after a night, the stake would emerge from the enemy’s mouth. At that point, the enemy would be lying face up as if praying to the heavens, so this method was called—worshipping the sky.

Sometimes, the Uyghurs would slice the enemy into pieces, fry them in mutton fat, and share them with the families of fallen soldiers to taste. This also had a name—sacrifice.

Of course, chopping off the enemy’s limbs, or just three of them, and watching a lump of flesh squirm on the ground was also quite a sight, but this didn’t happen often, because the Tang people forbade it.

When Ethan Brooks first opened his eyes in this world, the Uyghurs were servants of the Tang army.

According to his mother, this was because the Uyghurs had been beaten by the Tang army seven or eight times, lost countless tribesmen, and even had their khan’s head taken to Chang’an for display, only then did they have the “honor” of becoming the Tang army’s servants.

From then on,

Whenever the Tang army went to war, the Uyghurs would do their utmost to help, asking only to fight, not for any reward. Sometimes, they would even pay out of their own pockets to help the Tang army fight other, bad, tribes.

They loved the feeling of victory, even relished it, though the Tang generals repeatedly warned them not to circle around on horseback or show off fancy moves during battle, but simply to hold up their round shields, protect themselves, and let their horses charge into the enemy to break their formation.

Still, they never changed, insisting that—Uyghurs should circle on horseback like hawks in the sky; otherwise, it wouldn’t show the true strength of Uyghur cavalry.

They had cut down the Turks far more times than they themselves had been cut down by the Turks in the past, and had also fought the other Tiele tribes much more often than before.

Since then, the Uyghur pastures had grown much larger, with more cattle and sheep, and even more herders.

With so many victories, but unable to show off under the Tang army’s restrictions, the Uyghur herders’ enthusiasm for watching battles was greatly dampened.

Gradually, people stopped paying much attention to the battlefield.