The antler-tailed beacon tower. Sima Zhenming calmly issued orders to his eleven subordinates. He, along with Guo Xi, the deputy commander of the beacon, and two other strong Ember Sentinel (beacon soldiers), headed toward the watchtower. The remaining seven were divided: five stationed at the first floor entrance of the beacon tower, tasked with shooting two to three volleys of crossbow bolts to slow the enemy advance. After that, they were to shut the gates tightly, ignoring everything else, and if anyone forced their way in, they were to draw their swords and fight to the death under the command of Deputy Commander Xue, the old man.
The remaining two were to take positions at the stairwell windows, waiting for the chance to shoot down Northern Meng cavalry. Sima Zhenming told them their task was simple: wait until the enemy drew near before killing, aiming only for close-range kills. There was no need to hope for long-range damage; missing a round or two was of no consequence.
After issuing his orders, Sima Zhenming glanced at the old man surnamed Xue before ascending the tower. The latter said nothing, only nodding silently.
Arriving at the watchtower, Sima Zhenming motioned downward with his hand, signaling the two soldiers armed with heavy bows and quivers to crouch low. Sima wasn’t sure whether there were elite Northern Meng archers among the cavalry, so he wanted to be cautious. He and Deputy Commander Guo Xi were skilled martial artists; even if they encountered archers, they could still dodge, avoiding being caught off guard and shot on the spot.
One hundred and twenty riders formed a neat charge line and began their gallop.
Sima Zhenming studied the heads of the charging horses and said calmly, “These are no ordinary scouts.”
Guo Xi, expressionless, had already drawn an arrow from his quiver and nodded.
Five hundred paces.
Sima Zhenming glanced at Guo Xi’s iron-bow and asked, “Two hundred paces?”
Guo Xi replied calmly, “No need for a volley. Two hundred paces can pierce armor. One hundred and fifty paces, three arrows in succession. Within one hundred paces, four arrows on the bow. If not aiming for continuous shots, two hundred and fifty paces can pierce heavy armor.”
Sima Zhenming snorted, “This beacon tower isn’t a fortress. We only have light crossbows, no heavy ones. Otherwise, you’d get to see the full power of Liang Province’s war crossbows.”
Four hundred paces.
Guo Xi gave a strange, quick glance at his commander, “I’ve seen the range of ballistae before. I’ve even seen some of the more powerful giant bows. Guo never said Liang crossbows weren’t strong.”
Sima Zhenming was left speechless.
Three hundred paces!
Guo Xi took a deep breath, then suddenly raised his bow and began drawing it back.
The former Western Shu exile’s lips curled slightly into a barely perceptible smile.
Two hundred paces!
Bang!
Almost simultaneously, a loud sound echoed from both the cavalry formation outside the antler-tailed beacon and the watchtower.
A tall Northern Meng rider fired an arrow, and Guo Xi’s arrow was aimed precisely at that same rider.
Guo Xi suddenly turned his head. An arrow grazed his cheek, carving a deep bloody furrow. His entire ear rang with a dull buzzing.
Meanwhile, the Northern Meng archer was pierced through the skull and fell from his horse.
The distance between the two sides was reduced by another fifty paces under the thunderous pounding of hooves.
Guo Xi released three arrows in quick succession.
Three riders at the front were hit. Two were pierced through the chest and fell from their horses, their bodies flying backward as their mounts continued forward, crashing heavily onto the yellow sand.
One rider leaned back sharply, nearly lying flat against his horse’s back, barely dodging the arrow.
Sima Zhenming also loosed a swift arrow, but it was deflected by a rider in a fur cloak who hadn’t even drawn his bow, using only his sword. Though the arrow was knocked off course, the Northern Meng nobleman’s curved saber was knocked from his hand.
Guo Xi said, “Kill the easy ones first!”
Sima Zhenming, dodging three arrows while shifting positions, gave a soft hum of agreement.
At one hundred and fifty paces, nearly all the Northern Meng cavalry launched a volley of arrows, and their aim was sharp. Even after changing positions, Sima still had to swat away several arrows.
Guo Xi, aside from the elite archer’s shot, barely moved, casually knocking away the incoming arrows with his iron bow.
Many arrows struck the wooden beam behind Sima Zhenming, vibrating violently with a buzzing sound like bees.
Several arrows even pierced through the wooden cage, striking with such force that they continued flying upward after passing through.
The two men stood as if in a storm of arrows.
One hundred paces!
Guo Xi drew four arrows from his quiver. The two crouching beacon soldiers stood up suddenly, found their targets, and drew their bows back even further.
A dull, suppressed cry of pain came from downstairs.
Someone had been hit.
Guo Xi continued his assault, killing two enemies with armor-piercing shots and wounding two more, though they were still capable of fighting. Still, it was enough to shake their morale.
One of the beacon soldiers on the watchtower successfully shot a Northern Meng rider in the neck, blood blooming like a flower.
The soldier, eyes wide with joy, turned to share the news with his comrade, but was immediately yanked down by Sima Zhenming.
As he fell, he saw his comrade named Shao Yuan also collapse nearby.
His face pierced by two arrows.
Even his shoulder bore another arrow.
Sima Zhenming roared, “Have you lost your mind?! Have you forgotten what I told you?! After one shot, you hide like a turtle!”
The soldier bit his lip, wiped his tears with his arm, and nodded firmly.
Less than fifty paces—this would be the last volley from the antler-tailed beacon.
Sima Zhenming, crouching and moving to a new position, killed another rider. Guo Xi, targeted by over twenty riders, was met with a barrage of arrows the moment he exposed himself. As he withdrew his bow, an arrow scraped off a chunk of flesh from his shoulder.
The archer who had barely escaped death moments ago stood up and was pierced by six or seven arrows.
The force was so great that his body was thrown backward, feet lifting a few inches off the ground. As he fell, he lay in a pool of blood, one hand trembling toward his waist.
But he never reached the brand-new Liang saber at his side—the one issued to the beacon just last year.
“A new bride!”
That was the cheer from everyone at the antler-tailed beacon when they received their new sabers.
Sima Zhenming’s eyes welled with tears. He lowered his bow, crouched, and gently closed the soldier’s eyes.
He turned and asked, “Dare another round?”
Guo Xi, already drawing his saber, nodded.
One hundred and twenty enemy riders, elite cavalry charging at full speed. Next would be the breach of the gates and the second round of fighting inside the beacon tower. Sima Zhenming knew better than anyone that the antler-tailed beacon was doomed to fall.
It all came down to how many Northern Meng savages they could take with them.
Sima Zhenming ordered Guo Xi solemnly, “I’ll go downstairs to guard the gate. Deputy Commander Guo, you stay here and take opportunities to shoot!”
As he turned to leave, Sima spoke without looking back, “Even if we all die, the antler-tailed beacon has already made its mark. On behalf of all the fallen Liang soldiers, thank you!”
Guo Xi remained silent, tightening his grip on the iron bow.
As Sima Zhenming was about to descend the stairs, Guo Xi spoke calmly, “My real name is Guo Zhen, but now I am Guo Xi, deputy commander of the antler-tailed beacon at the Gourd’s Mouth (Hulu Pass)!”
Sima Zhenming didn’t stop, only raising his hand into a tight fist.
Guo Xi wiped his face with his hand, drew an arrow from his quiver, stood, crouched, and without aiming deliberately, shot a Northern Meng rider who was dismounting outside the beacon.
The arrow pierced through his back and into the horse.
Reaching the ground floor, Sima Zhenming looked around. Two of the five soldiers downstairs were dead, and the soldier at the stairwell was also gone.
The enemy had lost eleven riders and six wounded.
Before Sima could speak, the gates were smashed open, and the enemy poured in.
Sima Zhenming stepped forward, swinging his saber in a downward arc at a tall Northern Meng brute, carving a deep, bloody gash across his face and chest.
Blood splattered Sima’s body. In an instant, he switched to a two-handed grip and drove the blade into the chest of the next brute, roaring, “Deputy Commander Xue, take everyone upstairs and help Guo Xi defend the stairwell!”
Sima charged forward with a crashing strike, knocking three brutes outside in a single sweep. Taking the chance, Old Man Xue led three soldiers toward the stairs, but one of the enemy who had already entered the beacon hurled his saber, burying the blade deep into the soldier’s thigh.
The soldier rolled down the stairs—a youthful face still bearing innocence. He was the young watchman who had first spotted the enemy.
Pale-faced and leaning against the stairs, fear filled his eyes. But in that moment, the boy who usually spoke softly to his seniors shouted with all his might, tears in his eyes, at the two above, “Don’t worry about me!”
He raised his crossbow and fired at the charging brutes.
A muscular brute looked down in disbelief at the arrow protruding from his chest, only the fletching visible.
The boy was hacked to death.
Sima Zhenming, after killing two more Northern Meng youths, was caught by an old brute with a lightning-fast lunge. The next moment, his throat was gripped, and his back slammed into the beacon wall.
Bleeding from all seven orifices, Sima Zhenming slowly raised his blood-dripping Liang saber.
The old man sneered, twisted his wrist, snapping the young Liang soldier’s neck, and casually flung the body to the left.
The corpse was tossed carelessly onto a stone tablet by the hidden second-tier master of the Northern Meng.
According to Liang Province’s tradition, stone tablets were placed in front of beacons, inscribed with the names of soldiers and stored weapons.
Sima Zhenming, the newly appointed commander of the antler-tailed beacon.
His blood stained the stone tablet.
His predecessor, the man who had once told him to wash his ass upon first meeting, was named Hu Lin.
He was the one who died before the deputy commander of Jiming Fort, Tang Yanchao.
Before Hu Lin resigned as beacon commander to become a commander, he had secretly sought out Sima Zhenming once. He stood there, struggling, scratching his head, clearly unable to bring himself to apologize. Indeed, for old soldiers like them, saying such words was more painful than being cut with a blade.
In the end, they simply laughed it off.
In the end, they both died.
On the watchtower, the Northern Meng master killed two more soldiers who had drawn their sabers, catching an arrow from the beacon’s top archer mid-air with his bare hand. The old man twirled the arrow between his fingers, looking at the two remaining ants with disdain.
The short, old man surnamed Xue said calmly, “You’re the last of the Guo family. You can still escape. I’ll hold them off for you.”
Guo Xi discarded his iron bow, slowly drawing his bright saber, saying, “The Guo family is gone.”
The old man surnamed Xue, who had not once lifted a weapon during the entire battle, remained silent.
More than forty members of the Guo family had perished after Chu Luxian’s thousand riders conquered Shu. Except for him, the former mid-level official of Western Shu known for his frivolity, they were all gone.
Some died in battle, some took their own lives, some were murdered.
Women and children poisoned by male family members.
How could he not hate the Xu family, not hate Northern Liang?
But so many years had passed.
Old Man Xue didn’t know when he had begun to forget many memories—Western Shu’s skyward The Plank Road (plank roads), the endless bamboo sea, the most beautiful mountain in the world.
He had grown fond of being called “Little Xue” by the young men of Northern Liang.
He had grown fond of the heavy snows never seen in Western Shu.
He had grown fond of standing high, closing his eyes, and breathing in the scent of wind and sand.
The old man asked softly, “Are you sure?”
Guo Xi nodded, suddenly grinning, “Uncle Xue, I never dared to tell you before, but this Liang saber… feels damn good in the hand!”
The old man glared, feigning anger as he cursed, “You brat!”
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