The two main commanders of the Northern Mang’s left and right wings, each leading five thousand cavalry, were nearly driven to madness. They had the rare opportunity to participate in a siege as cavalry, seizing an effortless first achievement. Though the merits of such a battle were destined to be minor, the ease of it was undeniable—far from the desperate struggle of the initial thirty thousand infantry who had to push forward to the city walls and risk their lives in a swarm-like assault. As flanking cavalry, their role was merely to perform symbolic volleys of arrows from horseback, aiding the elite infantry of the Southern Dynasty’s border towns in suppressing the rain of arrows from the city walls. Moreover, the Northern Mang already had archery positions and over two thousand catapults as their main projectile force, so the two cavalry units bore no real responsibility.
The Northern Liang Iron Cavalry had long discerned a pattern: the quality of the Northern Mang’s border troops—whether they were “elder armies,” “son armies,” or “grandson armies”—could be determined by the status of their commanding generals. Generals hailing from the Northern Court and stationed at the Southern Dynasty’s borders were usually decent but never outstanding, leading troops that were mid-tier at best, often “son armies.” This was partly because the Northern Court’s noble clans and powerful families disdained the Western Capital’s court, viewing few besides figures like Huang Songpu, Dong Zhuo, and Liu Gui as true officials. Additionally, the emperor’s policy of co-governing the Southern Dynasty with remnants of the Spring and Autumn era and the Long Pass nobility discouraged Northern Court elites from meddling in Southern affairs. As for Southern Dynasty native generals, their status generally reflected their family’s rank, with the Long Pass aristocratic scions being the most privileged—such as Wanyan Yinjiang, who personally led his elite Wanyan Cavalry to the battlefield at Old Woman Mountain in Liuzhou. His troops were the Southern border’s “elder army,” unmatched in both combat prowess and equipment. Next came the high-ranking families outside the Long Pass faction, deeply entrenched in Southern military and political affairs and highly familiar with the Northern Liang’s field cavalry, making them formidable opponents.
These two cavalry units were classic “son armies” of the Southern border, their families having pulled strings to attach themselves to the crown prince’s personal campaign, securing this cushy assignment of reaping rewards with minimal effort.
Who could have imagined that before even entering bow range, they would each slam into two iron nails, leaving them bloodied and heartsick?
The two cavalry units suffered nearly a thousand casualties without even drawing an arrow from their quivers, failing to so much as touch the walls of Jubei City. How could their commanders not tremble in fear?
On the far right of Jubei City’s battlefield, two men held the line.
Wei Miao of Nanzhao and Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool, two Central Plains grandmasters who had never met nor sparred before, coordinated flawlessly, leaving no gaps.
Wei Miao often fought the Northern Mang cavalry bare-handed, his strikes broad and decisive, each punch devastating enough to shatter both the arm and sword of an oncoming rider. The Northern Mang riders’ fine curved sabers might as well have been made of paper.
Chai Qingshan, renowned for his exquisite swordsmanship and profound sword energy, complemented Wei Miao’s brute force perfectly. The swordmaster soon abandoned flashy techniques, opting instead for precise thrusts and flicks. His sword’s energy extended no more than two feet, yet it was as if he wielded a five-foot blade, allowing him to strike riders’ hearts or slice their throats with ease, his sword never stained with blood.
Suddenly, Wei Miao shifted from his lethal, one-strike style to a more fluid approach, weaving between riders with nimble footwork, his shoulders and back slamming into horses with such force that they were sent flying. His rapid movements and spiraling internal energy created absurd scenes—horses flung sideways, backward, or even upward, turning them into unwieldy projectiles that disrupted the Northern Mang’s attempts to encircle them.
Any riders who slipped past Wei Miao to flank were met by Chai Qingshan, who refused to rigidly hold his ground. As the master of Dongyue Sword Pool, did anyone truly believe his sword energy was limited to two feet?
After two to three hundred casualties, the Northern Mang cavalry refused to retreat.
After five to six hundred, their commander gritted his teeth, hoping to exhaust the two martial artists through attrition.
After over a thousand, the commander, who had never personally joined the fray, was red-eyed and desperate. He ordered his troops to abandon their sabers and charge at full speed, using their horses as battering rams.
Five hundred horses charged suicidally at the two grandmasters. Riders who survived dismounted and drew their swords to fight.
Elite troops fearless in death were not unique to the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry.
In the first Liang-Mang war, at Liangzhou’s Tiger Head City, Youzhou’s Gourd Pass, and Liuzhou’s Qingcang City, Northern Liang border troops fought desperately, and Northern Mang soldiers died just as heroically.
In the second war, from the Western Regions’ Miyun Pass to Liuzhou’s northern corridor, Old Woman Mountain, and Liangzhou’s left cavalry against the Winter Thunder and Rou Iron Cavalry, every battlefield saw both sides fight with breathtaking valor.
Thus, the Northern Mang firmly believed that conquering the Northern Liang was tantamount to conquering the entire Central Plains.
Meanwhile, the Northern Liang maintained that it wasn’t arrogance to dismiss the Central Plains’ so-called elite troops—whether the Two Liao Iron Cavalry or others—because in open terrain suited for cavalry, no amount of Liyang soldiers could withstand the Northern Mang’s hordes.
In a fireside chat destined to fade into history, the candid Elder Tan once jokingly asked his powerful friend what they’d do if the Xu family rebelled and allied with the Northern Mang to march south. Wouldn’t they become eternal villains, with the “Green-Eyed” ranking first and himself second?
The then-dominant Grand Secretary calmly replied with a seemingly irrelevant jest: “Let’s just hope our court’s esteemed officials don’t all find the waters of martyrdom too cold or lack ropes for hanging.”
Tan Wen remained in court, still the unshakable Elder, but after autumn that year, he gradually withdrew, rarely attending minor assemblies, growing increasingly reclusive and silent.
Thus, Grand Secretary Zhang Julu’s true stance on the Xu family’s separatist rule in the Northern Liang became even more enigmatic.
Meanwhile, as conflicts between Jiangnan’s aristocratic clans and Liaodong’s powerful families intensified, some upright scholars in Tai’an City began voicing shocking claims: that the so-called “old traitor” Zhang Julu not only monopolized power but secretly colluded with the Northwestern border army, nurturing a threat to cement his position.
Though few in number, these critics were influential, seen as long-suppressed talents finally speaking truth for the people.
By autumn of the third year of Xiangfu, even the Ministry of War, which had long opposed the Northwestern Xu family, didn’t hide the brutal victory at Miyun Pass. Yet, strangely, Tai’an City—from its lofty mansions to its bustling streets—remained silent. Most citizens only heard that the Xu family had won minor battles in Liuzhou, suffered a major defeat outside Liangzhou, and was soon to be besieged at Jubei City by hundreds of thousands of Northern Mang troops.
Tai’an City’s immediate concern was the Southern Campaign’s General Wu Zhongxuan, who, despite leading a hundred thousand elite troops, couldn’t halt the three rebel princes’ northward advance.
The Two Liao border army, under the Grand Pillar Gu Jian, remained idle.
Rumors said Tang Tieshuang, inheriting the “Gu Lu” legacy, would soon leave the capital with most of the Jingji elite to form a second defensive line behind Wu Zhongxuan. Once the two Liaodong Iron Cavalries rushed south, they would counterattack, driving the rebels back south of the Guang River. The so-called “White-Clad Military Sage” Chen Zhibao’s Shu infantry, Prince Yan’s barbarian troops, and the lone Prince Jing’an Zhao Xun were deemed insignificant.
To Liyang, the Two Liao border army—forged over twenty years at half the nation’s cost—was the true pillar, the stabilizing force at the imperial family’s doorstep.
How could the rebellious, militarized Xu family of the Northwest be trusted?
The Northern Liang, a land teeming with martial houses and starved of scholars, had no place alongside Tai’an City, the wealthy Guangliang, or the cultured Jiangnan.
Outside Jubei City, in perhaps history’s most lopsided battle, someone died.
The deceased was Cheng Baishuang, an old Southern Tang scholar who had nearly achieved Confucian sagehood. Alongside the blind zitherist Xue Songguan, he should have been the last to fall.
The old man died of exhaustion.
Wei Miao, Chai Qingshan, Lou Huang, and Yu Xinhua blocked five thousand Northern Mang elite cavalry.
Wu Liuding of the Wu Family Sword Tomb, his swordmaid Cui Hua, and Xu Yanbing with his spear held the left wing’s ten thousand troops at bay.
Nanjiang’s Mao Shulang, Longgong’s Ji Liu’an, and Wudang’s Yu Xingrui were trapped in the right wing’s infantry and two reinforcing cavalry units, which also included nearly a thousand Spiderweb assassins and Northern Mang martial artists.
In the center, the red-robed Xu Ying and Luo Yang, who had returned from the enemy’s depths, barely held back the tide with Sui Xiegu’s sword energy supporting them. Though Luo Yang had devastated the Northern Mang’s archery positions, the two thousand catapults along the vast arc remained largely untouched. Focusing on them would risk Xu Ying and Sui Xiegu being overwhelmed by the endless infantry and cavalry pouring through the broad corridors.
Originally, the center had boasted an unprecedented lineup, but with Xu Yanbing and Yu Xingrui diverted to the flanks, Xu Fengnian occupied with Tuoba Pushi, and Deng Tai’a confronting celestial beings to ensure the young warlord could fight unhindered, Luo Yang faced an impossible task. Had she been free to act, she might have destroyed half the catapults and retreated unscathed.
But now, the battle’s fate hung by a thread.
Earlier, Xue Songguan plucked the strings with her Finger Profound technique, while the elderly scholar with frost-touched temples, wielding his vast righteous aura, jointly blocked wave after wave of catapult assaults and arrow storms.
Whether it was the massive boulders hurled through the air or the locust-like swarms of arrows, their deadliest aspect was not their overwhelming force, but their sheer density and relentless speed. At the time, Xue Songguan sat cross-legged, her ancient zither resting on her lap, its surface speckled with crimson bloodstains, its strings snapped one by one. The blind female musician’s fingers were a mangled mess, silently testifying to one undeniable fact—she, never known for physical endurance, was nearing her limit.
Thus, Cheng Baishuang urged Xue Songguan not to push herself, insisting that this old man should shoulder the burden. In his words, there was absolutely no reason for a young woman like her to bear such a heavy responsibility. A woman of her age should be tending to her husband and children—that was the true beauty of life.
Not only that, but when the elderly scholar sensed that his old friend Ji Liuan and two other grandmasters on his right were in peril, he decisively ordered Xue Songguan to go assist them, ensuring that the massive Northern Mang infantry wouldn’t reach the walls of Jubei City too soon.
The young blind musician hesitated. Though she couldn’t see the old man’s withered appearance, how could she, ranked among the top three in the Finger Profound realm, fail to sense his flickering life force, the aura of impending death?
She knew full well—if she left, the old man would surely die.
She couldn’t bear it.
Though their meeting had been brief, and their joint battle had been fought without questioning each other’s motives, Xue Songguan had already come to regard this elderly gentleman from the distant lands of the former Southern Tang as family. Perhaps, like the old scholar Zhao Dingxiu, he was a bit stubborn, filled with a scholarly pride unfamiliar to her, but at heart, he was a kind and benevolent elder.
“Lady Xue, do not delay the battle!”
Cheng Baishuang took a deep breath, forcibly swallowing the blood that had risen to his throat. Seeing the woman rise with her zither, he forced a gentle smile and said in a calm voice, “Lady Xue, once there was a southern literary giant exiled to my homeland. Before he died in a foreign land, he left behind many poems that never gained wide acclaim. Among them, there are two lines I must share with you: ‘Devour three hundred lychees a day,’ ‘This journey’s marvels crown my life.’ Lady Xue, if you ever get the chance, you must visit. Even if you care not for the scenery, know that lychees, as expensive as gold in the north, cost mere pennies where I’m from…”
Here, Cheng Baishuang suddenly stomped his foot, channeling his energy deep into the earth. He raised his arm and swept his sleeve, like a master calligrapher wielding his brush across pristine paper. Then, as if recalling something amusing, he burst into laughter. After catching his breath, he said slowly, “Lady Xue, if you haven’t yet found a sweetheart, perhaps consider a scholar for a lifelong companion. Though they may often speak in flowery phrases, at least you’ll never need to buy vinegar for the household.”
Xue Songguan, now with her back to the old man, did not turn around. She merely nodded firmly before darting away.
Cheng Baishuang withdrew his gaze, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed.
At this moment, the elderly man with snow-white hair could no longer conceal his exhaustion, the flickering embers of his life.
Though every sweep of his sleeve sent waves of agony through his meridians, the old man remained serene, murmuring to himself, “Yet I feel my song stirs ghosts and gods, who’d know I’d starve and fill a ditch? Thus, I cannot… Refrain from longing for my homeland, yet light new fire to brew fresh tea. But I cannot…”
Cheng Baishuang sensed the majestic rain of swords descending above him.
The elderly man, barely clinging to the last wisps of energy in his dried-up dantian, lacked the strength to turn his head or open his eyes. He could only vaguely sense the sword rain falling upon the Northern Mang infantry on Xue Songguan’s side. A faint smile of contentment graced his face.
“A nation’s misfortune is a poet’s fortune. My first wish—that future generations never need border poems, never produce great poets. My second wish—that future scholars live in joy, forgetting sorrow, unaware of aging, unaware of aging…”
Cheng Baishuang raised his arm one final time, his scholar’s robes billowing, his sleeves wide.
*”Why return so late?” the child tugs my sleeve and asks.*
*Why return so late?*
As his arm fell limply this time, the old man’s lips moved faintly, never to lift his arm again.
Facing the hundreds of thousands of Northern Mang troops, his back to Jubei City—the northwestern gate of the Central Plains—the old man bowed his head in silence.
※※※
During Cheng Baishuang’s lifetime, not a single boulder or ballista bolt from the Northern Mang breached Jubei City.
Who dares say scholars are useless?
※※※
Sui Xiegu, standing closest to this remnant of the former Southern Tang, did not turn his head. He sighed softly.
Originally, within a twenty-zhang radius centered on his position, over a hundred thick, bowl-sized sword qi wove a deadly net. Suddenly, the sword qi expanded another ten zhang, adding sixty more strands. Eighty-some shield-bearing infantrymen, cautiously attempting to flank, were instantly slaughtered—their fates worse than being torn apart by five horses.
Ji Liuan, the blood-soaked guest elder of the Dragon Palace, cleaved a heavily armored Northern Mang centurion in two with a single stroke. He whirled around and roared, “Old bookworm!”
In that instant, seven or eight spears thrust toward him. The blade master Mao Shulang strode forward, cutting down over a dozen steps to stand before Ji Liuan. With a horizontal slash, his immense sword qi bisected the Northern Mang soldiers.
The Great Daoist of Wudang, Yu Xingrui, shouted, “Bold vermin!” His peachwood sword flashed, piercing the necks of three Spiderweb assassins flanking Mao Shulang—a single stroke, like an immortal’s flying sword claiming heads.
On the far left of the battlefield, Yu Xinlang and Lou Huang, fellow disciples of the Martial Emperor City, advanced side by side—one wielding a standard Liang blade, the other the famed Shu Dao sword. With Xu Yanbing guarding their rear against the infantry, these proud disciples of Wang Xianzhi could focus solely on carving through enemy lines.
With a half-step Martial Saint anchoring their rear, free from concerns of interception, they could concentrate solely on slaughter. Yu Xinlang and Lou Huang surged forward even more unstoppably than Ji Liuan’s trio.
Lou Huang’s swordplay was brutally straightforward—like a woodcutter splitting logs. Whether facing Northern Mang cavalry or their steeds, his blade left no corpse intact.
Yu Xinlang sheathed his nearly shattered Liang blade and drew the ancient Fu Ji sword, which had been trembling restlessly in its scabbard. His movements remained effortless, flickering like a hare, elusive as a ghost. Each strike claimed a life. Though his killing lacked Lou Huang’s terrifying spectacle, even Xu Yanbing, sensing the subtle shifts in his aura, was astonished. Truly worthy of being Wang Xianzhi’s first disciple—Yu Xinlang was on the verge of breaking through mid-battle, naturally and seamlessly. A hair’s breadth from stepping into the realm of terrestrial sword immortals. Even if not a true terrestrial immortal, once he stabilized this realm, he would far surpass ordinary Finger Profound or Heavenly Phenomena swordsmen who merely grasped a stroke or two of immortal-level techniques. He might well become the next Deng Tai’a.
Yu Xinlang’s sword tapped a Northern Mang rider’s brow. Without glancing at the falling corpse, he leaped onto the horse’s back and called to Lou Huang ahead, “Another thousand elite Northern Mang cavalry approach—and a hidden top-tier expert.”
Before Lou Huang could respond, Yu Xinlang laughed and dashed forward. “Let me greet him first!”
On the far right, just as Chai Qingshan and Wei Miao were switching positions, a figure streaked down like a meteor. A thunderous fist hammered Chai Qingshan’s chest as he tried to retreat. Though the famed swordsman instinctively blocked with his blade, edge outward, hoping to deter the intruder, the fist smashed into the sword without hesitation!
Caught mid-breath and exhausted from prolonged battle, the East Yue Sword Pool’s leader was caught off guard—his own blade cutting deep into his chest. Fortunately, Wei Miao lunged forward, yanking Chai Qingshan back by the shoulder while blocking the Northern Mang grandmaster’s second strike.
Chai Qingshan was flung back over a dozen zhang, a bone-deep gash across his chest, blood soaking his robes.
Wei Miao, gripping the fist with his left hand, was a fraction slower to counterstrike with his right—having just saved Chai Qingshan from his own blade. That split-second delay allowed the cunning assassin to seize the advantage.
A fist crashed into Wei Miao’s forehead. He stomped down hard, refusing to retreat even half a step—such was the iron will of Nan Zhao’s greatest fighter!
Wei Miao traded blow for blow!
Both staggered back three steps!
Wei Miao’s fist struck the man’s chest, while another punch slammed into his own head. Blood trickled from his ears.
Through blurred vision, the silver-armored Northern Mang general sneered, “Fists of Wei Miao, peerless under heaven? You’re exactly who I came to kill!”
As the towering general spoke, Chai Qingshan desperately mustered his energy to aid Wei Miao—only for the blind musician’s voice to ring out: “Above you!”
A second Northern Mang assassin descended like a specter, utterly silent, devoid of any aura—a true wraith.
The silver-armored general’s “opening” had been a ruse. This was the true killing move in their meticulously orchestrated trap!
Chai Qingshan leaped back.
As Xue Songguan shouted her warning, her palm viciously swept the zither’s strings!
Yet what followed filled the blind musician with fury—the assassin ignored his chest’s grievous wound, as if numb to pain. His slender, willow-leaf-like four-foot sword, devoid of sword light or aura, descended straight toward Chai Qingshan’s brow!
Northern Mang’s “Willow Cutter”—the truly relentless Li Fengshou!
At death’s door, Chai Qingshan still mustered what might be his final sword thrust—aimed straight for the assassin’s heart.
The East Yue Sword Pool’s leader only hoped to pierce that heart before his own end.
*If I must die, let me take one more with me.*
By all rights, Li Fengshou should have beheaded Chai Qingshan, while the silver-armored general’s fists crushed the disoriented Wei Miao—a flawless double victory.
But at that moment, Chai Qingshan realized with shock that though the blade had carved a bloody furrow across his forehead, just a bit more force would have split his skull. Yet the assassin inexplicably held back?
Simultaneously, the silver-armored general—none other than Northern Mang’s Juzhou Commander Murong Baoding—stood frozen, as if immobilized by divine magic, wasting his golden opportunity.
Chai Qingshan’s eyes widened. Even this battle-hardened swordmaster found the scene utterly surreal.
The Northern Mang assassin hung suspended, arms limp, his willow-leaf sword clattering to the ground.
“Willow Cutter” Li Fengshou was being held aloft by the neck—by someone behind him!
Murong Baoding dared not move, uncharacteristically docile.
Even though he could clearly see the man’s back.
That figure in violet-gold python robes!
The Northern Liang Prince who had torn through the clouds to return—Xu Fengnian.
The young warlord’s fingers clamped like talons, utterly annihilating Li Fengshou’s internal energy.
The limp assassin grinned grotesquely.
In that split second, Wei Miao and Chai Qingshan moved—but far too late.
Both top-tier grandmasters knew that even at their peak, they couldn’t have stopped this third Northern Mang “assassin.”
The young prince’s back absorbed an unimaginable impact. Shifting his stance slightly, he was sent hurtling toward Jubei City’s towering walls.
Wei Miao and Chai Qingshan retreated hastily—only to find their attacker wasn’t pursuing.
The man stood still, glaring at the base of the walls and sneering, “So eager to die!”
*You, Xu Fengnian, instead of hiding safely above the clouds under Deng Tai’a’s protection to stabilize your energy, dared descend to save others?!*
Murong Baoding glanced at the man beside him, emotions churning.
Though allies of equal standing, he couldn’t help but tense—as if facing a dire threat.
Murong whispered, “What of Willow Cutter?”
The towering figure wreathed in eighteen golden dragons said nothing.
Murong’s eyes darkened, but he pressed no further.
Beneath Jubei City’s walls, in the cool shadows, Xu Fengnian—back to the battlefield—still gripped Li Fengshou’s throat, pinning the mangled assassin against the stone. His face was a ruin, his body all but shattered.
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Last time being bisected didn’t kill you. But this time, surely?”
The Northern Mang assassin, whose true identity was both secret and illustrious, cracked a bloody grin. “Me? I’ve long been worse than dead. Having you as company in death? Not a bad deal.”
Xu Fengnian nodded.
Li Fengshou closed his eyes, as if relieved—finally free. Gasping, he murmured, “Rest assured… this time I’m truly dead… But let me share one last secret. No need for Tuoba Pusa to avenge me. I, Li Fengshou… can do it myself. Xu Fengnian, believe me?”
Xu Fengnian twisted his neck with a snap and grinned, “Guess?”
Casually tossing aside the corpse, Xu Fengnian turned and gazed up at the sky.
He knew what Tuoba Pusa was waiting for.
The celestial suppression meticulously planned by the Northern Wilderness had two purposes. First, to erode the fate of his Northern Liang—something the celestial immortals cared about most. Then, as a secondary goal, to shatter his physical form, adding another feather to the cap of the Northern Wilderness’ Martial God.
But they hadn’t anticipated that Zhao Changling and a host of banished immortals would descend upon Northern Liang, bolstering its fate so significantly. Moreover, when Deng Tai’a arrived wielding the Tai’a Sword and severed the celestial beam with a single strike, the pillar of light—meant solely for Xu Fengnian—was forced to withdraw prematurely.
As for where the other half of the celestial decree had gone, Xu Fengnian neither knew nor cared. But it was undoubtedly tied to this now-dead remnant of Li Fengshou. Likely, Li Fengshou had served as the trigger—whoever killed this illegitimate son of Li Mibi would invite the next wave of suppression. Xu Fengnian was certain that even if he hadn’t actively sought to kill Li Fengshou, this madman would have stretched out his neck for the blade. Perhaps Li Fengshou’s deeper identity was that of a banished immortal, his past life either a fallen monarch whose kingdom Xu Xiao had destroyed or someone tracing back even further, to the era before the Great Qin. In any case, it was an ancient grudge too convoluted to untangle over lifetimes. Xu Fengnian had long since stopped caring—debts piled high no longer weighed him down. But since there would be no next life, he’d settle them all in this one!
Step by step, Xu Fengnian emerged from the shadows.
From the city walls to the streets below, all watched as this king of a different surname from Liyang tore off his python robe!
His garments were white as snow.
Just like when he first rode out of Liangzhou in white!
No longer shackled by the title of some damned Liyang vassal, the young man flashed an inexplicably radiant smile before raising his head and declaring to the heavens:
“Xu Xiao’s trueborn heir, Xu Fengnian, stands here—begging for death!”
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