Matthew Cooper’s personality was straightforward, and he mocked, “Weren’t you going to die in the Han Empire? Why did you come along!?” He was being carried on Samuel Harris’s back, yet he spoke without the slightest sign of breathlessness or embarrassment.

That man originally didn’t want to answer, but seeing Samuel Harris also turn his head back in curiosity, he grudgingly replied, “Even a rough fellow like you understands ‘to survive after being driven to death’s door’—how could someone like me, well-versed in military strategy, not know the principle of ‘more die, fewer survive’!” Even as he ran, he managed to raise his hand in a bow. “Warrior Harris, I am Gongsun Hong of Dai Commandery. I hope you’ll look after me in the future!”

Samuel Harris gave a bitter smile. He didn’t even know if he could survive himself—how could he look after a stranger he’d barely exchanged a few words with? Whether or not John Morgan could see, he gave a slight nod as a token response. At this point, they were less than ten meters from total darkness, and behind them, the Huns’ horns sounded again and again, the shrill screams amid pounding hooves echoing through the sky...

……

Chapter Four: Endless Yellow Sands

Since the Han dynasty, no fewer than hundreds of thousands of Han people from the border regions had been captured by the Huns, but very few actually made it to the grasslands. Those who survived were usually Han women and children; the strong men, on the other hand, died in great numbers along the way. Their corpses stretched from the northern frontier of the Han court all the way to Mount Yuanshuxu. The Han people living in the border regions called this road the “Ghost Gate Road”—meaning: there is no return.

……

Samuel Harris could feel waves of burning pain coming from his injured left rib. After running for so long, his body was severely dehydrated, and his throat was unbearably dry. He had wanted to stop and take out the gauze from his chest pocket to bandage himself, but the current situation didn’t allow it.

He ran at the front, with Matthew Cooper and the others behind him. They had been sprinting through pitch darkness for over ten minutes.

In the darkness, it was impossible to tell direction or see anything. After being tripped up several times, they could only silently get back up. Even with mouths full of sand and mud and chins scraped raw and bloody, no one dared cry out in pain. The only sounds accompanying them were the constant swish of sand underfoot and their own heavy, labored breathing.

Samuel Harris had chosen an extremely desolate escape route, and the terrain was very complex, full of undulating slopes. Fortunately, there were many sunken basins, and because visibility was so low, they had not yet been discovered by the Huns.

Here, there was almost no sign of green grass or forest—only endless yellow sand and desert. Occasionally, a withered tree would loom in the darkness, its twisted trunk and the howling wind enough to terrify anyone at first glance.

The Huns were expert hunters. Under the dark sky, every so often a shrill scream could be heard from afar—Han people fleeing, caught and killed. The screams were getting closer and closer to Samuel Harris and the others. In order to survive, no one needed to be urged; everyone ran for their lives.

Running long distances over uneven slopes was extremely exhausting, and the five of them were getting more and more spread out. Samuel Harris was not a good leader—he was unfamiliar with everything here—but as one of the Republic’s elite paratroopers, he had an excellent sense of direction, and the group kept heading northeast.

There was another sound of someone falling, followed by David Clark’s sobs—so desperate and hopeless. David Clark tried several times but couldn’t get up. He was completely spent, his chest tight and uncomfortable. Even though he was breathing as hard as he could, he just couldn’t get enough air, and his throat felt like it was on fire.

John Morgan suddenly saw Samuel Harris, running at the very front, come to a sudden halt and sharply turn around, as if wanting to come back. This made him break out in a cold sweat—at a moment of life and death, there was no time to waste. In his view, there were two burdens in this group: the frail David Clark and the injured Matthew Cooper.

When Samuel Harris stopped, the whole group stopped as well, doing their best to keep their heads below the top of the slope.

Suddenly, a horse’s neigh came from the south, drawing their attention. George Baker crawled up the slope on his belly and saw several points of fire flickering in the distance, which made his heart pound and nearly cry out in alarm.

Samuel Harris looked at David Clark. In the darkness, the figure who kept sobbing was still crawling forward. In the quiet night, the small sobs were clearly audible.

“Don’t hesitate. The little scholar is already dehydrated, and the Huns are closing in. If we don’t move now, we’ll die here!” The speaker was John Morgan.

Samuel Harris knew John Morgan was right, but his instincts told him something was off. He looked at the figure still crawling forward, and a thought struck him. Ignoring the others’ attempts to stop him, he rushed toward David Clark. “You all go ahead, don’t stop. I’ll catch up in a moment.”

John Morgan’s face was full of anger as he took off running. He looked down on the indecisive Samuel Harris and was already thinking of escaping on his own. George Baker also started running, leaving only Matthew Cooper still lying on the ground.

As soon as Samuel Harris crouched down beside David Clark, he was grabbed tightly by a pair of hands. He didn’t say a word, but picked up David Clark and started running again. It wasn’t that he was too soft-hearted to leave David Clark behind, but if he did, their position would be exposed. If the Huns found David Clark lying on the ground, they would search the area, and if they followed the footprints, no matter how far the others ran, it would be in vain.