Chapter 889: Zhongyuan and Beiliang

A squadron of fifty elite cavalrymen, strong and well-equipped, galloped northward at full speed.

These riders were armed with the finest standard-issued war blades from the Liyang court. The tightly packed white fletching peeking from their arrow quivers alone spoke volumes about their elite status—each arrow was tipped with sturdy, dense eagle feathers, a choice universally acknowledged among military strategists for providing superior wind resistance, ensuring greater accuracy. To compensate for the reduced range, however, archers needed exceptional arm strength, making such bows exclusive to the army’s finest. Among the border cavalry forces of Liyang renowned for their archery and horsemanship, the Northern Liang favored heavy crossbows over light bows, while the forces of the Two Liao and Ji North employed a mix of both. The Ji North cavalry, famed for their archers, leaned heavily toward bows, and this scouting unit, advancing rapidly northward, was trained in the Ji North tradition—half its riders hailed from beyond the Ji North frontier.

For over a decade, the Ji North had been under the iron-fisted rule of General Yang Shenxing, who prioritized infantry over cavalry, leading to a mass exodus of skilled mounted archers. Many sought connections and pulled strings to leave their homeland, securing minor officer positions in the heartland armies.

The leader of this scouting unit was a robust northerner from Ji North, who had left the border as a boy with his father. Now, long accustomed to the customs of Qingzhou, where his father had retired as a captain in the Qingzhou army, he had never lacked fine wine, delicacies, or beautiful women. Unlike the native Qingzhou soldiers, however, he had been relentlessly drilled by a father who never forgot the smoke of battle, honing him into an exceptional horseman and warrior. During the Qingzhou cavalry’s last deployment, where they suffered heavy casualties aiding Prince Zhao Ying of Huainan, he had been spared—his father’s critical illness forced him, the family’s sole heir, to stay behind. This time, the commanding general, a sworn brother of his father, held him in high regard, tasking him with assembling a unit of elite mounted archers. The previous night, the general had summoned him to his tent, ordering him not to stray too far from the main force with his scouts. If they encountered Northern Liang cavalry scouts, they were to disengage immediately and retreat intact. By the end of the conversation, the general even hinted that he might be allowed to withdraw his troops after the battle—a gesture that left him both grateful and resentful. Advancement for local military men was already arduous, requiring strict adherence to protocol, especially at the captain level, where family influence became crucial. With his background, he could expect, at best, to become a minor captain with modest authority in Qingzhou after decades of grinding effort—unless he could present undeniable battlefield achievements on the desks of the Ministry of War’s high officials. Whether those achievements came from the heads of Northern Mang barbarians or Northern Liang savages mattered little to him.

The snow had long melted, and the early spring fields were lush with greenery. Unnamed wildflowers clustered along the roadside, their tender yellow buds swaying gently in the warm breeze, painting a serene and peaceful scene—nothing like a battlefield.

The horses’ hooves sank into the soft earth like a man’s palm caressing a lover’s delicate skin, or like a courtesan’s fingers tapping on jade clappers in a brothel.

In another month, when the rapeseed flowers bloomed, the golden fields would stretch endlessly, filling the horizon.

According to prior intelligence, their main force still had about a day and a half before entering the danger zone patrolled by Northern Liang scouts. By then, the Qingzhou army would link up with the elite capital troops under Vice Minister Xu and General Yuan’s ten thousand Ji North cavalry, which would serve as the mobile strike force to pin down the Northern Liang army. No matter what, as long as they arrived on time to assist Vice Minister Xu in defensive operations, the Qingzhou army—scraping together fewer than five hundred cavalry—was unlikely to become the Northern Liang’s primary target. More likely, the two thousand Shu troops led by a young upstart would bear the brunt of the Northern Liang’s assault.

Yet, in this pleasantly intoxicating breeze, the squadron leader suddenly tensed and barked, “Enemy sighted! Northwest, six hundred paces!”

Only after his warning did the riders spot a few motionless black dots at the edge of their vision—easy to overlook at a glance.

The squadron leader’s pupils dilated with tension and excitement. Unlike his battle-hardened father, who had fought countless skirmishes along the Ji North border, he had earned the nickname “Tiger of the Forest” through his martial prowess in army tournaments, even surpassing his father in skill. But his father had often warned him that battlefield combat was nothing like the measured exchanges of military drills or the polite sparring of martial artists—life and death hung by a thread. He hadn’t taken it seriously until this campaign, when his father insisted he wear armor and carry a blade. His father, breaking precedent, even donned an old suit of chainmail smuggled out of the Ji North army years ago. In their family training yard, during a spar, his father—whom he had dismissed as a toothless old tiger—took a slash to the shoulder but still managed to press a blade to his throat, a hair’s breadth from decapitation. It was then he truly understood what his father meant by “trading wounds for death.” Later, as he bandaged his father’s injury, the old man solemnly told him that low-born border veterans like him had survived this long on one thing alone: luck. Countless aristocratic youths, confident in their flashy but impractical skills, had lost their lives—and often their heads—in their first battle.

The squadron’s deputy galloped up, his voice trembling slightly. “Squadron Leader Jiang, what’s the call? Fight or retreat?”

The squadron leader exhaled and narrowed his eyes. “Truth is, command’s orders are clear—no unauthorized engagements. Even if we wipe out those four or five Northern Liang savages, it might not earn us any favors.”

The Qingzhou scouts maintained a steady pace, neither charging nor halting, gradually closing the distance with the small Northern Liang patrol.

Perhaps infected by the squadron leader’s calm, the previously nervous deputy also steadied himself. Though they were facing the reputedly finest scouts in the world—the Liangzhou rangers—they had a full squadron of fifty-one elite Qingzhou cavalrymen. Earlier, the deputy had grumbled about the absurdity of scouting in such a large, conspicuous formation, but now, the command’s excessive caution seemed a blessing in disguise. Four or five enemy heads, divided among them, would still be a significant merit—especially since they belonged to the supposedly invincible Northern Liang cavalry. No matter how stingy command was, promotions for him and the other two deputies seemed assured.

With a vicious grin, the deputy stared at the five motionless riders three hundred and fifty paces away. Were they frozen in fear? As the distance closed, he confirmed there were only five enemies with no hidden reinforcements. Unable to resist, he chuckled. “Squadron Leader Jiang, five Northern Liang heads might not be much, but every little counts. Three for you, one for me, and one for Old He!”

The squadron leader shook his head. “This is just the beginning. There’ll be bigger battles and greater merits ahead. I’m young and can wait, but you and Old He—if you don’t earn enough this campaign, you’ll retire as lowly deputy lieutenants. Even if you don’t complain, I’d be outraged on your behalf. So take one each, and split the rest among the men.”

The nearly forty-year-old deputy clasped his fists. “No false modesty here—I’ll remember this!”

Three hundred paces separated the two scouting parties.

A narrow-road encounter.

But just as the Qingzhou squadron leader ordered his men to draw their bows, the five Northern Liang scouts abruptly turned their horses and began retreating—calmly, effortlessly.

Deputy He, the most hot-tempered among the Qingzhou scouts, had missed promotions due to drunken mishaps and insubordination. Otherwise, he would have long been a proper captain, crossing from petty officer to official rank. Without that, no matter how brave or skilled, he’d never earn the respect of Qingzhou’s civilian officials. This skirmish had him more eager than Squadron Leader Jiang or Deputy Song, his contemporary. He wished his horse had four extra legs. Though no longer young, he was still formidable, his arm strength terrifying. His bow, a rare three-hundred-pound strongbow in the Qingzhou army, could sustain thirty shots—far beyond the twenty-shot limit of ordinary archers, whose arms and bows would falter.

The Northern Liang rangers’ retreat emboldened the Qingzhou scouts.

Deputy He dug his heels into his horse and roared, “Kill the enemy!”

The five Northern Liang scouts showed no panic, but no matter how hard the Qingzhou riders pushed their mounts, the distance remained steady at about a hundred and fifty paces—well beyond bow range.

Someone in the Qingzhou ranks shouted, “Kill the savages!” Soon, similar cries of “Kill the Northern Liang savages!” rose in waves.

The five Liangzhou rangers turned their heads almost simultaneously.

Squadron Leader Jiang felt an inexplicable unease.

What followed both worried and reassured him. The worry: battle was imminent. The reassurance: the already outnumbered enemy sent one rider galloping away, leaving only four to delay pursuit.

The four Liangzhou rangers wheeled their horses around.

It was an indisputable fact that horse bows had shorter range than foot bows. The Qingzhou army did possess light crossbows, but they were scarce. Over a decade of peace in the heartlands, coupled with the Qing faction’s dominance in Jing’an’s military and political affairs and figures like Wen Taiyi’s influence in court, had made life in Jing’an—especially Qingzhou and Xiangfan—comfortable and insular. With no wars and greater reliance on naval power, the Qingzhou army’s already limited stock of quality crossbows had gradually become playthings for the sons of officials. To the Qingzhou cavalry who had handled them, these crossbows were valuable but too rare, finicky to maintain, and—critically—inferior in range to horse bows.

At about a hundred paces, the Qingzhou scouts drew their bows, only to be stunned when the four enemy riders raised their crossbows almost simultaneously!

At this range, horse bows were already pushing accuracy limits, and armor penetration was nearly impossible unless striking the face. Thus, Qingzhou cavalry doctrine dictated first shots at seventy paces.

Deputy He, the unit’s strongest archer, loosed the first arrow.

At eighty-five paces, his bow drawn full, the arrow shot forth with a thunderous crack, flying unnaturally straight—a testament to his terrifying strength.

The Liangzhou ranger instinctively leaned aside, the arrow meant for his chest grazing his armor instead.

Deputy He’s confidence wavered.

At eighty paces, the four Northern Liang riders not only raised their crossbows but fired.

A dull *thud*—a Qingzhou scout drawing his bow suddenly toppled backward, an arrow embedded in his forehead.

A young scout, firing a weak shot in panic, saw a black speck before his throat was pierced. Dropping his bow, he clutched his neck and fell.

Squadron Leader Jiang tilted his head slightly, an enemy arrow grazing his cheek and drawing blood. But the Qingzhou army’s elite showed no tremor as he released his shot.

*Thwack!*

A Northern Liang rider twisted aside but still took the arrow deep in his shoulder.

Deputy Song dodged an enemy bolt and fired a precise shot, only for his target to duck flat against his horse’s neck.

The four Liangzhou rangers—the wounded one, the dodger, and the two who had already scored kills—fired their second volley even as the Qingzhou leaders nocked their next arrows.

None of the four targeted Squadron Leader Jiang or his deputies. Instead, four more Qingzhou riders fell, each shot fatally through the face or throat.

Panic spread among the Qingzhou scouts. Their aim deteriorated, and the Northern Liang savages proved unnervingly adept at evasion. Only Deputy He’s godlike archery felled one Liangzhou scout. Neither the squadron leader nor Deputy Song’s arrows found their marks.

Squadron Leader Jiang’s shot was masterful—rather than aiming for a kill, he targeted the horse’s head. But the Northern Liang squad leader’s horsemanship was shockingly superb. A slight tug on the reins, and his mount—seemingly reading his mind—swerved, leaving the arrow to only carve a chunk from the squad leader’s thigh, leaving him combat-ready.

No longer able to suppress his awe at the enemy’s skill, Squadron Leader Jiang bellowed, “Steady! If you’re unsure, aim for the horses!”

He knew that at forty paces, their next shot would be their most powerful—and likely their last.

The three remaining Northern Liang riders, along with the dismounted one—who had rolled to absorb the impact—fired their third bolts. The fallen scout knelt, steadying his aim.

Deputy He, bloodlust blazing, muscles bulging, drew his bow with a roar: “Die, savages!”

But what happened next left the Qingzhou scouts disoriented and breathless. The three mounted Northern Liang riders, after firing, needed no command—their horses subtly adjusted their charge paths, the difference between life and death a hair’s breadth.

This taught Squadron Leader Jiang two things:

What it meant to be a border veteran.

And what it meant to ride a Liangzhou steed.

The Qingzhou scouts, having loosed their last arrows, drew their sabers with a collective roar and charged.

The Liangzhou scouts, having fired one more volley than their foes, silently unsheathed their blades and surged forward.

Three against forty-one—the vastly outnumbered sides, one screaming, one silent, collided head-on.

Squadron Leader Jiang and Deputy Song, fighting side by side, failed to stop the Northern Liang squad leader. Not because the ranger outmatched them—in a one-on-one, either Qingzhou officer would likely prevail, especially on foot, where Squadron Leader Jiang held the advantage. But as both sides’ horses reached full speed, the Liangzhou mount suddenly accelerated again, displaying a terrifying, unfamiliar burst of power. This let the squad leader evade both blades, taking only a slash to the back from Deputy Song before cleaving through the Qingzhou formation. A single, fluid swing sent a Qingzhou rider’s head soaring.

The “two armies” passed each other.

Only the squad leader emerged from the melee, slowing his horse, turning silently and alone to prepare another charge.

The two other Northern Liang riders, each having slain three foes, died mid-charge.

The earliest fallen, the wounded scout, even in death fought on foot—shooting one rider dead, spearing another, before a Qingzhou horse rammed his chest, dropping him into a pool of blood.

Teeth gritted, Squadron Leader Jiang glanced at the sole surviving Northern Liang rider, then at the dying scout a dozen paces ahead.

*Three Northern Liang savages took fifteen of my men. Fifteen!*

Furious, the Qingzhou squadron leader drew his bow again, aiming at the bleeding, dying scout.

A mere dozen paces.

The arrow pierced the scout’s skull.

On the ground, the eagle-feather fletching quivered.

The heartland’s hatred for Northern Liang wasn’t limited to scholars’ curses.