Over the millennia, if one were to select the ten most awe-inspiring scenes in the annals of warfare, perhaps aside from the thousands of catapults besieging cities during the fall of the Dafeng Dynasty and the epic clash at the Western Ramparts between Liyang and Dachu, the remaining eight would undoubtedly be the thunderous charges and brutal collisions of cavalry—swift as the wind, vast as iron tides—galloping across thousands of miles, their golden spears and armored steeds embodying the ferocity of tigers devouring the horizon.
As the two powers with the most formidable cavalry in the world today—the Northern Mang Dynasty, boasting the largest numbers, and Northern Liang, renowned for its peerless frontier riders—clashed near Qingcang City in Liuzhou, the battlefield witnessed a crimson bloom of carnage. Nearly 100,000 horsemen, drawn from the four garrisons of Longyao Province and the elite Longxiang Army, collided in a spectacle of blood and steel.
Under Xu Longxiang’s decisive command, the Longxiang Army—the most formidable force among Northern Liang’s independently flagged divisions—split into three echelons and plunged into battle without hesitation. The four border garrisons of Northern Mang—Wazhu, Ligu, Maolong, and Junziguan—arrayed themselves on the left flank of the Longguan infantry, bracing for the first wave of 10,000 Longxiang riders led by Wang Lingbao. Though the garrison commanders couldn’t fathom why their supreme commander, Liu Gui, had taken such a reckless approach—completely isolating cavalry and infantry, leaving no defensive barriers between them—none dared question the orders of the Northern Mang’s god of war, Tuoba Pusa.
Having suffered grievously in the Xiangfu era, the four garrisons steeled themselves against the Longxiang Army’s terrifying charge. The flat terrain outside Qingcang City, once part of the old Northern Liang frontier, was ideal for large-scale cavalry maneuvers, yet the garrisons still prepared meticulously. Junziguan’s lancers formed the vanguard, Wazhu’s heavily armored riders held the center, and while some had suggested deploying Ligu and Maolong as flanking forces, Liu Gui’s orders overruled them—any thinning of their formation risked collapse under the Longxiang onslaught, leaving the exposed Longguan infantry defenseless. Thus, the weakest, Maolong’s riders, became the rearguard, while Ligu’s swift horsemen—second only to the Qiang tribes in mobility—split to cover both flanks.
Even with their numerical advantage—nearly 40,000 riders, excluding Liu Gui’s personal guard—the four garrisons had no choice but to proceed with caution, a humiliating necessity.
As a mournful yet resounding horn blast shook the battlefield, Wang Lingbao’s 10,000 Longxiang riders advanced steadily, their disciplined approach unsettling even the seasoned warhorses of Junziguan’s cavalry.
Wang Lingbao’s force consisted solely of lancers—no archers to disrupt enemy formations. This meant one thing: they would either shatter the Northern Mang’s cavalry and infantry lines in a single charge or die trying.
A cavalry force losing momentum amid dense infantry formations was as doomed as a clay idol crossing a river—this was an all-or-nothing gamble.
Glancing back at his men, Wang Lingbao saw each rider had forsaken their bows, armed only with a spear and the signature Liangdao at their waists. He nearly reminded them never to abandon their lances before breaking through the enemy infantry, but held his tongue—such a warning felt superfluous.
The 10,000 riders, mounted on Northern Liang’s finest steeds, pressed forward.
Suddenly, Wang Lingbao raised his spear, tilting its tip skyward. In unison, the entire force lifted their weapons. Opposite them, Junziguan’s cavalry began their advance.
Exhaling softly, Wang Lingbao thought, *Let me die in the saddle.*
The Longxiang deputy commander leveled his spear and spurred into a gallop.
As they charged, the formation subtly shifted—the center accelerated while the wings lagged slightly, forming a wedge aimed like a dagger at the enemy’s heart.
Behind them, Deputy General Li Mofan watched intently, stroking his mount’s mane. His 5,000 riders, also armed with spears, waited in reserve—though unlike Wang Lingbao’s vanguard, they carried light crossbows and quivers, each holding forty arrows, a hallmark of Northern Liang’s elite White Feather Guards.
Li Mofan observed as the front lines of both forces clashed—many riders failing to pass each other, instead meeting death in a tangle of fallen men and horses.
Cold-eyed, he muttered inwardly, *Old friend, we made a pact. If you die before reaching Longguan’s infantry, I won’t bury you—even if I live.*
On the battlefield, Junziguan’s riders—threatened by Liu Gui with disbandment if defeated—shook off their initial trepidation and fought with unprecedented ferocity, holding the line against the Longxiang onslaught.
Li Mofan wasn’t surprised. Few men truly feared death, but on the battlefield—especially between Liang and Mang—hesitation meant swifter demise. This was the first lesson every Northern Liang recruit learned: Northern Mang’s savages showed no mercy to the timid. Newcomers might not grasp it at first, but after witnessing comrades fall to arrows, blades, and spears, survival hardened them into veterans. Fear of death remained, but they learned to fight through it. In the vast theater of war, there was no room for sentiment—only blood, sacrifice, and the unbreakable bond between brothers-in-arms who died so others might live.
Li Mofan hefted his heavy spear and glanced toward Liangzhou.
*Marshal, I’ve always been a difficult man—proud, arrogant, even contemptuous. In the Central Plains, I’d have been cast aside. Yet in Northern Liang’s peerless cavalry, I rose to a third-rank general, wielding the finest blades and riding the swiftest horses. Across these boundless northwestern deserts, leading ten thousand amid the bones of fallen comrades, I’ve lived a life more storied than most could in ten lifetimes.*
In this grand era, let heroes die gloriously on the battlefield, let schemers plot in the halls of power. Some seek fame, others profit, righteousness, or vengeance—each pursues their own ends, some succeeding, others failing. But all, friend or foe, leave their mark.
These words were spoken by Li Yishan.
Li Mofan, a man reviled in the Central Plains, found it fitting that even he could play the part of a hero, unflinching to the last.
Raising his spear as the wind howled, he whispered, *”Then let us meet death with open arms.”*
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