Chapter Fifty-Four: Wolf of War (Part One)

In later times, there existed a shortcut from Gilgit to the Balti region—a trekking route developed by the tourism authorities of Pakistan. Since most of the area lay within the glacier belt, it became known as the "Ice Lake Trek." This path led southeast from the Hunza River, following the Nagar River upstream, and upon reaching the foot of Nanga Parbat, one would behold an expanse of glaciers stretching endlessly, as though the entire world had been transformed into white.

This was the Hispar Glacier region—a section traversed by the Karakoram Highway. When faced with harsh weather, disasters were common along this stretch. Liu Ji had traveled this route more than once; eventually, he could guide others without relying on any tools.

Now, he was leading a group of fifty men across this glacial expanse.

While May brought a hint of summer’s warmth to the Gilgit valley, just a hundred li away, the Hispar Glacier raged with howling winds and blizzards, like another world altogether.

The moment they skirted the foot of Nanga Parbat, Liu Ji realized the challenges ahead surpassed even his worst imaginings. Compared to his former impressions, the glacial region before him was vaster by far, nothing but a boundless whiteness. Without GPS, he had only his instincts, experience, the sun, and a compass of questionable accuracy to guide him.

Here, as in the desert, to lose one’s way meant becoming a natural mummy, perhaps to be discovered by future mountaineers and displayed as a museum curiosity.

The fifty men formed a single file, each with a rope tied around his waist, the other end fastened to the man ahead, linked one to the next. Step by step, they trod in the footprints of those before, sinking or rising with each pace.

Zhang Wujia walked last, dragging a sled laden with provisions and tents. They had twenty-five such sleds, two men per sled, each taking turns for an hour. Yet Zhang had already pulled his for nearly two hours, unawares.

The weight—some dozens of pounds—meant little to him. What truly troubled him was the dread of the unknown before them. No one had ever traversed this route; they had but two days to acclimatize to such weather and terrain.

It was sheer gambling with their lives—not one life, but fifty. There could be no carelessness.

Just as he prepared to take another step, the rope before him suddenly jerked twice. He stopped instantly, forcing his eyes open. Sure enough, the soldier ahead signaled a halt.

He drew his foot back, crouched low, and reached inside his fur robe to grasp the hilt of his saber, ready for any threat.

At the very front, Liu Ji mirrored Zhang Wujia’s actions. He crouched, feet staggered in a figure-eight stance, the soles of his hard boots screeching on the ice. Narrowing his eyes against the storm, he fixed his gaze on a distant silhouette.

It was an animal, one and a half meters tall and nearly two meters long, pure white except for its jet-black, beadlike eyes. Its slender jaws parted now and then to reveal razor-sharp fangs.

A Himalayan snow wolf.

Years of patrol on the Xiqiang frontier had familiarized him with this splendid creature. In those days, there was no fear—they were rare, protected by the state, and no threat to modern, well-armed special forces. Sometimes, they even left food in the wolves’ territory, hoping to save the endangered species.

But now it was the eighth century!

He no longer thought of snapping a photo to boast to his girlfriend. Instead, he prayed silently: let there not be a pack, let there not be a pack.

The snow wolf stared at him, curiosity gleaming in its eyes, as if weighing their intentions. Then, lifting its head, it let out a long, piercing howl.

Trouble.

Just as Liu Ji had this thought, the rope behind him jerked violently. Through the wind, a deep, urgent voice reached his ears:

"Enemy attack! Close ranks! Form up!"

Behind him were not inexperienced trekkers, but battle-hardened veterans of decades of war.

Under Zhang Wujia’s command, the fifty men quickly converged, splitting the twenty-five sleds into eight groups, each arranged in three rows facing different directions—not as barriers, but to limit the wolves' avenues of attack.

"Change formation! Spears in front, skirmishers behind, reserves in the center! Bows and crossbows at the ready..." Zhang Wujia, finishing his orders, realized he now stood beside Liu Ji. He paused. "Commander, is this arrangement acceptable?"

"You take command," Liu Ji replied without hesitation, preparing for battle alongside his men.

Beneath his fur robe, besides his standard saber, Liu Ji carried a long spear for support and a Tang army crossbow slung across his back. He handed the spear to a soldier, drew the sheathed saber, slipped it into his belt, and picked up the crossbow. Holding it upside down between his feet, he strained against it; with a creak, the internal spring was drawn back, cocking the bronze trigger.

From a sled, Liu Ji took a bundle of crossbow bolts—featherless, half a meter long, with deep blood grooves carved into their rhomboid heads, resembling gun tips. He loaded one into the crossbow, leaving only the gleaming arrowhead exposed.

The Tang’s finest ranged weapon—the Ambush Crossbow—could shoot as far as three hundred paces, and Liu Ji handled it as if it were a toy, his fingers caressing the polished rosewood stock. For a moment, he almost felt like a sniper.

Atop the crossbow was a simple sight called "Mountain Viewer," akin to the aperture of a bolt-action rifle, allowing for three-point alignment to correct the aim.

This was twelve hundred years ago!

Zhang Wujia, meanwhile, hurriedly directed his men. He himself simply unstrapped a long weapon from his back—a massive saber nearly two meters long, with a blade spanning a meter and a half.

Its shape was striking, like a sword photographed from the tip, with a three-edged point, sharply angular, the blade long and straight, gleaming cold and bright. The half-meter hilt was tightly wound with hemp cord. Nearly forty jin in weight, Zhang Wujia—over 1.8 meters tall—lifted it in one hand. Just standing there, he exuded an overwhelming presence.

The Sword of Mo—the Tang’s deadliest close-combat weapon. And its deadliness was no mere figure of speech.

In that instant, seeing Zhang Wujia draw and stand ready, Liu Ji suddenly understood why the snow wolf had become endangered.