When the eight thousand elite cavalry of Dong Zhuo’s private forces moved according to plan, they were horrified to discover that their own *Malanzi* scouts had been decimated, with only Yelü Chucai and Lin Fu remaining, accompanied by a mere twenty or thirty riders—a devastating blow.
From then on, the Northern Mang found themselves in the embarrassing predicament of having lost their finest *Malanzi* scouts, while the Northern Liang’s *Younu* rangers still numbered in the hundreds. This meant that in the battle of reconnaissance at Dragon’s Eye, both sides had schemed meticulously, yet the Northern Liang had still come out on top.
The commander of the eight thousand cavalry, Agudamu, felt both furious and uneasy at the sight. The emperor had vowed to annihilate the Northern Liang’s *Younu* rangers, yet the outcome had been so unexpected. If he dared let even a single enemy escape today, he would surely face dire consequences!
The valiant general, whose name meant “vastness” in the steppe tongue, roared in anger and ordered the remnants of the *Wuyalanzi* and *Heihulanzi* scouts to skirt the edges of their formation and pursue the fleeing Northern Mang *Younu* rangers. Normally, in a skirmish between the steppe’s light cavalry and the Northern Liang’s *Younu* rangers, no matter the disparity in numbers, the Northern Liang’s superior horses would make interception nearly impossible. But today, the *Younu* rangers were truly at the end of their strength—arrows spent, horses exhausted, forced to draw blades in desperation. Thus, this last remnant of rangers, deep in the heart of Dragon’s Eye, stood no chance of escaping the fresh and relentless pursuit of eight thousand elite cavalry.
Agudamu nocked an oversized ox-horn bow, a rarity among Northern Mang cavalry, and steadied his breath and aim atop his galloping steed. Drawing the bowstring to its full arc, he released with a thunderous snap. The arrow shot forth like a bolt from the blue, piercing straight through the back of a *Younu* ranger with such force that it nearly struck a second rider. Smacking his lips in satisfaction, Agudamu scanned the fleeing rangers for a particular young face and bellowed with a savage laugh, “Men! Whoever brings me the head of *Younu* Captain Li Hanlin, I’ll make him a *Qianfuzhang* on the spot!”
The thunder of hooves and the swirling dust were drowned out by the wild laughter of the steppe cavalry.
As Dong Zhuo’s foremost cavalry commander, Agudamu, though not as esteemed as the two infantry generals under Dong Zhuo, had risen from humble origins to the rank of *Wanfuzhang* through accumulated merit. Having witnessed many grand battles and even met the emperor in the royal tent, he took pride in the old empress’s jest that his name—”vastness”—was auspicious, foretelling the Northern Mang’s conquest of a vast empire. He dreamed of one day riding along the Guangling River with his mentor Dong Zhuo, carving out territory so future generations could gallop freely across the fertile lands of the Central Plains, forcing the scholarly elites to tremble beneath the hooves of the steppe.
Despite his arrogant demeanor and the seemingly assured victory, Agudamu was far from relaxed. He ordered half his cavalry to hold back and dispatched two thousand riders to fan out on the flanks, wary of any Northern Liang ambush. Though unlikely—given the Northern Mang’s overwhelming numbers and the loss of strategic Hutong City—Agudamu, as one of Dong Zhuo’s trusted generals, knew the value of deception. His own rise had come from Dong Zhuo’s unpredictable tactics, which had once thwarted the seemingly unstoppable Liyang advance into the Northern Mang heartland.
Meanwhile, Li Hanlin, upon spotting the eight thousand Northern Mang riders, immediately ordered a retreat. Wei Musheng, the *Younu* captain who had been patiently observing from afar, knew his time to strike had come.
As the bloodied Li Hanlin passed him, Wei Musheng saluted silently from horseback, while the young captain, helmet lost and hair matted with blood and sand, managed only a strained smile. This rising star, once notorious in his homeland, now bore the scars of battle on his battered armor.
“Old Wei!” Li Hanlin suddenly shouted at Wei Musheng’s retreating figure. “If it’s too much, run with me! Don’t die here, damn it!”
Wei Musheng did not respond, leading his three hundred riders in a desperate rearguard action—not just to cover Li Hanlin’s retreat, but to buy time for Yuan Nanqing’s ten thousand White Feather Light Cavalry to arrive.
Though Wei Musheng and his men fought ferociously, they were hopelessly outnumbered by the three thousand elite Dong family cavalry. Yet their suicidal charge into the enemy ranks was so unorthodox—eschewing the usual fighting retreat—that even the dullest Northern Mang officers sensed something amiss.
Agudamu, after cleaving through two *Younu* rangers, roared in alarm, “Send scouts five *li* out! The Northern Liang bastards must have reinforcements! Slow the center—finish these three hundred and reform!”
But it was too late.
The Dong family’s eight thousand riders had few *Wuyalanzi* scouts left, most having joined Yelü Chucai’s ill-fated hunt. Agudamu had assumed no Northern Liang force could slip past their scouts in Dragon’s Eye’s open plains—but he had not accounted for the White Feather Guard, famed for their lightning strikes.
Yelü Chucai and Lin Fu, catching their breath behind the lines, watched the distant dust clouds with grim understanding. “At least eight thousand,” Lin Fu muttered through his bandaged face. “These madmen are truly fighting to the death.”
Yelü Chucai, his armor still bearing the scars of arrows, said coldly, “Whoever they are, they wouldn’t be here if they weren’t strong. What now, Lin? I won’t leave—these eight thousand are my brother-in-law’s lifeblood. Losing them would break him.”
Lin Fu hesitated, glancing at the pitiful remnants of his *Heihulanzi*. “In a battle of ten thousand versus ten thousand, my presence won’t change the outcome. General Liu’s twenty years of work… ruined by me.”
He laughed bitterly. “If I flee, dying here would be easier than facing the consequences.”
Yelü Chucai nodded. “If you die, the emperor will take his anger out on Old General Liu instead.”
Lin Fu suddenly snarled, “If that old turtle Murong Baoding had dared to march, with Hong Jingyan’s Rouran Iron Cavalry, this would’ve been a glorious victory!”
Yelü Chucai sighed. “Our land is vast, our armies numerous—but divided. Unlike the Northern Liang, who move as one.”
As Lin Fu and his handful of riders fled thirty *li*, they stumbled upon an unexpected but welcome sight: Hong Jingyan, master of the Rouran Iron Cavalry and the Chess Sword Poetry Manor’s foremost martial artist.
“General Hong!” Lin Fu exclaimed. “With your forces here, the heavens favor us! The Northern Liang has ten thousand riders in Dragon’s Eye—you won’t leave empty-handed!”
Hong Jingyan smirked coldly. “Empty-handed? Perhaps. But whether we claim glory or collect corpses remains to be seen. Do you truly think the Northern Liang sent only ten thousand?”
Lin Fu paled but pressed on, “Did you persuade Murong to join? With his forces, no Northern Liang trickery can save them!”
Hong Jingyan gave a cryptic smile and led his six thousand Rouran Iron Cavalry toward the battlefield.
Meanwhile, the Iron Pagoda—a hybrid of heavy and light cavalry—had set out even earlier than Yuan Nanqing’s White Feathers. Led by Qi Dangguo, one of Xu Xiao’s adopted sons, they charged ahead in full armor.
Since ancient times, a general’s banner was carried by the strongest warrior in the army. The Northern Liang’s banner-bearers had all been legends—Wang Jian, the “Slayer of Ten Thousand,” died at Yique; Chen Qiong, father of the Shu King Chen Zhibao, fell in the Jin-Liao War. None had lived to see titles or glory.
Now it was Qi Dangguo’s turn. Though only a fourth-rank *Zhechong Duwei*, he had insisted on leading the Iron Pagoda to Dragon’s Eye. The entire Huaiyang Pass command, even Chu Lushan and Yuan Zuozong, had opposed it—but Qi Dangguo would not be swayed.
He had missed the first Liang-Mang war and felt he had failed his adoptive father, the woman who had drummed at Xileibi, the strategist Li Yishan, and most of all, Xu Xiao’s heir.
Of Xu Xiao’s six adopted sons, two had been executed by the Butcher King. Though Chu Lushan had flattered the young heir, and Chen Zhibao and Yuan Zuozong had kept their distance, Qi Dangguo had always silently cherished the boy—even as he grew into a man who no longer needed his protection.
The year the heir returned from his three-year journey, it was Qi Dangguo who had ridden out in full pomp to welcome him, banner held high.
Now, as he led the six thousand Iron Pagoda—once the “Incomplete Armor Battalion,” now fully clad—Qi Dangguo left a letter in his tent:
*”I may die after Father, but never before the Young Master.”*
Even now, he still called the new King of Liang, Xu Fengnian, by that old title.
As the smoke of battle loomed ahead, Qi Dangguo turned and roared, “Men! The Iron Pagoda was once the Incomplete Armor Battalion. Now that we are complete—what shall we do?”
Six thousand voices thundered back: **”Fight to the death!”**
“Raise your spears!”
Across the desert sands, iron clashed and roared.
The Incomplete Armor Battalion was complete at last.
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