In the realm of Longhu Mountain, nestled within the verdant embrace of the Northern Wilderness, a skirmish unfolded under the watchful eyes of fate. The mountain, though bereft of celestial omens or the blessings of time, held dominion over the land, its strategic advantage undeniable. Twenty-odd scouts, seasoned in the art of war, were dispatched into the heart of the mountain, their mission to unearth intelligence that could tip the scales of battle. Yet, the task was fraught with peril, for the mountain concealed six subtle beacons, their presence known only to the vigilant.
Under the command of Wei Jin, a former military officer who enforced a doctrine of outward laxity and inner vigilance, the outer reaches of the mountain bore but a single beacon. Initially manned by eight sentinels, the garrison swelled with eight more hastily summoned reinforcements. Half remained steadfast at their posts, while the other half patrolled the periphery, their movements masked by the melodic calls of birds, a clandestine means of communication.
One hundred and eighty able-bodied brigands from Longhu Mountain, divided into three battalions, were led by the formidable Nan Baoyu, a towering figure wielding twin gilded warhammers. His contingent, the smallest at thirty men, was a cadre of agile warriors, each armed with short blades and bows, their prowess reminiscent of seasoned light infantry. They advanced in a fan formation, their swift approach soon colliding with the cautious advance of imperial scouts.
The clash was immediate and brutal, the scouts’ blade work marked by the stark efficiency of the Beiliang military tradition—direct, functional, and unyielding. A burly brigand, though skilled, found himself outmatched by the scouts’ relentless ferocity. He danced through the underbrush like a forest ape, seeking to widen the gap and strike from a distance. Yet, the scout, undeterred by the threat, refused to be outmaneuvered. When a slash grazed his shoulder, he rolled, gritted his teeth, and loosed a bolt from his crossbow, the arrow embedding itself inches from the brigand’s face in a nearby tree. Startled, the brigand retaliated with a flurry of throwing knives, each finding its mark in the scout’s chest and thigh, leaving him gasping for breath.
The brigand, undeterred, crept forward like a serpent, denying the scout the chance to retaliate with his crossbow. As the last bolt was deflected by a deft roll, the brigand lunged, his blade severing the scout’s head in a single stroke. He kicked the lifeless body aside, whistling as he claimed his reward—fifty taels of silver and the promise of a night with the mountain’s most alluring maidens. Yet, his triumph was short-lived. Two crossbow bolts, almost simultaneous, pierced his chest and skull, felling him instantly.
The scouts, hidden among the trees, exchanged a signal, confirming the absence of further threats before continuing their silent advance. This was the art of the “Three Men Make a Tiger,” a tactic honed by the Beiliang scouts, whose origins were humble, their knowledge of military doctrine limited. Yet, their battlefield acumen was unmatched, their ruthlessness a testament to the countless souls lost to their blades.
Of the twenty scouts who engaged the first wave of brigands, eight fell, while nine were swiftly dispatched. The balance seemed even, but the true measure lay in the disparity of skill. Nan Baoyu, wielding his brute strength, accounted for three of the fallen, yet even the most skilled martial artists found themselves outmatched by the seasoned soldiers’ tactical precision.
Four scouts managed to circumvent Nan Baoyu’s defenses, two returning to Bishan County to report to Bai Shangque, while the other relayed the news to Su Zhen, the commander of the Yushui Garrison. Su Zhen, clad in gleaming armor, led nearly a hundred soldiers into the mountain, accompanied by half his complement of scouts. Upon hearing the report of casualties, his expression darkened, and he signaled his scouts to bypass the initial battlefield, pressing deeper into the heart of Longhu Mountain until they encountered the second wave of brigands.
Su Zhen’s command, a mixed force of infantry and cavalry from Yuzhou, was of middling repute, yet his scouts, trained in the White Horse Scout tradition, were renowned for their prowess. Despite the loss of nearly half his scouts, Su Zhen remained composed, his only gesture of defiance a ritualistic lick of his newly acquired Frostblade of the Steed, a blade synonymous with bloodshed.
Su Zhen’s ascent to the White Horse Scout was a testament to his experience, and though local regulations dictated the use of Frostblade of the Battle Stride, his superiors had turned a blind eye, allowing him to wield his preferred weapon. This favor, however, came at a cost, one he paid with the lives of two scouts. As he recalled the words of a seasoned sergeant, who had threatened to expel him for deceiving them about the inexperience of his men, Su Zhen’s lips curled into a smirk.
Beside him stood Feng Guan, the Bishan County magistrate, whose presence was tolerated with little regard for his discomfort. Su Zhen, unmoved by the magistrate’s plight, maintained a relentless pace, indifferent to the blisters forming on the man’s feet. The magistrate’s presence was tolerated, his share of the spoils assured, if only for the sake of Bai Shangque’s goodwill.
Two deputy commanders led a contingent of lightly armored infantry, their eyes fixed on Su Zhen, awaiting his command. Su Zhen, mindful of the four hundred conscripts from Qingcheng and Yushui, whose martial prowess was questionable, had chosen to remain at the forefront, entrusting the command of the conscripts to Bai Shangque and Song Yu, two young officers whose competence was undeniable but whose authority was yet to be recognized.
A hundred conscripts, trailing the scouts, soon encountered Nan Baoyu. The conscripts, though untested in the first skirmish, were eager for glory. Su Zhen, though disdainful of their presence, allowed them to engage, eager to gauge the strength of the brigands. The conscripts, led by four seasoned sergeants, were no strangers to urban combat, their tactics honed in the alleys of their respective cities. Their formation, though rudimentary, was sufficient to pose a challenge.
As Nan Baoyu, seated on a rock, counted his losses—nine men fallen without a single advantage gained—his frustration boiled over. The sound of approaching footsteps sent a scout fleeing in panic, his report incomplete. Nan Baoyu, aware of his limitations, rose to meet the threat, his warhammers poised to strike.
The conscripts, led by four veteran sergeants, formed a loose line, their arrows raining down like a deluge. Nan Baoyu, undeterred by the hail of arrows, charged forward, his warhammers a blur of golden light. The sergeants, recognizing the futility of a direct confrontation, engaged him in a dance of blades, their movements synchronized, their strikes coordinated. Yet, the tide of battle turned when Liu Yu, a disciple of Wei Jin, emerged from the shadows, his Peach wood sword a conduit for arcane sigils.
Liu Yu, a master of Talisman, unleashed a torrent of mystical energy, his sigils causing trees to topple and disrupt the conscripts’ formation. The brigands, emboldened by the chaos, pressed their advantage, their spirits buoyed by the knowledge that death was inevitable. The conscripts, though driven by the promise of glory, lacked the resolve of their adversaries, their morale faltering in the face of certain doom.
The four sergeants, though skilled, found themselves overwhelmed by Nan Baoyu’s relentless assault. One fell to a crushing blow, his skull shattered, while another succumbed to a fatal wound. Liu Yu, seizing the moment, joined the fray, his Peach wood sword a harbinger of death. The remaining sergeants, though wounded, refused to yield, their resolve unbroken.
In the end, only six conscripts returned to Su Zhen, their faces etched with the horror of what they had witnessed. Feng Guan, shaken by the carnage, could only watch in silence as Su Zhen, unmoved, signaled his men to fall in line behind the armored ranks.
High above, Xu Xiao perched on a branch, his gaze fixed on the unfolding drama. The skirmish at the front was but a prelude to the larger conflict, one that would test the mettle of all involved. Yet, the arrival of Huangfu Ping’s forces at the rear promised a turning point, his hundred scouts and a thousand elite infantry poised to tip the balance.
As Xu Xiao reflected on the events, a smile crept across his face. The resilience of the Beiliang scouts had rekindled his faith in the martial spirit of the realm. Though he possessed the strength to lay waste to the Northern Barbarians’ palace, the true challenge lay in safeguarding the northern frontier, a task that required more than the might of thirty thousand cavalry.
The battle for Longhu Mountain was far from over, but the seeds of destiny had been sown, their fruits yet to be reaped.
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