The wind whipped up the snow particles and hit the black iron armor, making a tiny crackling sound. Shen Yan tightened the spear in his hand, and the tip of the spear picked off the helmet of the last enemy soldier. The warm blood splashed on his frost-covered cheek, and instantly condensed into light red ice crystals.
"General! The rear is lost!" The roar of the personal guard was torn to pieces by the north wind. Shen Yan turned around and saw that the Chinese army's tent had been ignited with raging fire, and the commander's flag embroidered with the word "Shen" curled into charred strips of cloth in the fire. The enemy's cavalry came like a tide, and their iron hooves crushed the snow, crushing his last hope.
Leaning his spear on the ground, Shen Yan coughed out a mouthful of blood, and the ice edges on his cold armor trembled slightly as he breathed. He was the youngest general in the north of Dajing. He served in the army for seventeen years and was awarded twenty titles, but he failed to hold the last pass of the northern border. The enemy general's broadsword struck with a sound of breaking through the air. Shen Yan turned around to block it. The black iron gun barrel collided with the broadsword, and dazzling sparks burst out.
