Far behind him, Hong Jingyan and his two thousand Rouran cavalry remained motionless. Hong Jingyan cared little for the dying words of a dead man, but he cared deeply—more than anything—for that man’s unintended remark.
Had it been Tuoba Pusa in his place today, Qi Dangguo would surely have been slain.
Back when Xu Fengnian journeyed beyond his body to the Northern Wilderness, passing through the Rouran Mountains, Hong Jingyan had avoided battle in that golden wheat field. At the time, he was utterly convinced his choice was correct. He sought both martial mastery and dominion over the realm—neither could be sacrificed. He wanted both the bear’s paw and the fish’s fin, to surpass Tuoba Pusa, to climb higher and go further, whether in the martial world or the imperial court. There was no need for reckless pride, no need to risk mutual destruction with a man already doomed to die.
Yet Hong Jingyan had never imagined that the knot in his heart—one he thought would unravel naturally once Xu Fengnian perished at the hands of Wang Xianzhi—would instead tighten further when that old bastard of the Martial Emperor City failed to kill the man surnamed Xu. It had become an ever-growing obstruction to his martial progress.
Hong Jingyan exhaled softly, his eerie, snow-white eyes staring blankly at the cloudless azure sky.
Once hailed by the Northern Wilderness as the most likely to surpass Tuoba Pusa, this grandmaster now told himself: *To temper my spirit, I shall begin by killing you, Qi Dangguo.*
Hong Jingyan withdrew his gaze and turned to issue orders to the battalion chiefs.
He commanded the two thousand cavalry to rescue the remaining thousand or so riders of the Dong family’s private forces—the smallest of the three battlefields—and then return directly to their base.
Though puzzled, the Rouran iron cavalry, born to obey military orders, complied without question and began their charge.
Hong Jingyan, still patiently observing the battlefield, suddenly furrowed his brow and murmured, “Truly, the heavens respond to mortal will. It seems my gamble was right.”
He turned eastward and sneered, “Xu Fengnian, you defy the will of heaven at every turn. But destiny favors me, not you.”
With a light tug on his reins, Hong Jingyan advanced slowly, his face alight with unrestrained satisfaction.
Across the three battlefields:
The two thousand white-feathered light cavalry clashed with two thousand of the Dong family’s private riders. Casualties were roughly equal, with only half surviving on either side. The two thousand Rouran cavalry, dispatched last, were precisely heading to reinforce this front.
On the second battlefield, the main force of white-feathered light cavalry, personally led by Yuan Nanting, had already secured victory. Dong Zhuo’s top cavalry commander, Agudamu, after slaying over twenty men with his own hands, ultimately fell to the blade of an unknown Northern Liang foot soldier. The two thousand Dong Zhuo cavalry, trapped and encircled, refused to surrender even after their commander’s death.
The third and bloodiest battlefield saw four thousand Rouran cavalry and six thousand Iron Pagoda riders tearing through each other’s formations no fewer than three times!
Yelü Chucai had fallen in battle.
His corpse was identified, his head severed and raised high by an Iron Pagoda officer on the battlefield.
Yet the Northern Liang officer who performed this act wore no trace of triumph—only grief and fury.
In the war between Liang and Mang, what use were prisoners?
And there *were* no prisoners.
Perhaps if the war dragged on—if the Northern Mang army breached the Jubei City beyond Liangzhou’s borders and pressed deep into Northern Liang territory—some might choose cowardice over death. Or if the Northern Liang cavalry stormed into the Southern Court, some might cling to life rather than face oblivion.
But such scenarios would only emerge after countless lives had been lost.
Unless one stood on the northwestern frontier, unless one witnessed the clash of these two armies firsthand, one might never comprehend the sheer magnitude of their sacrifice.
Thus, the greatest irony in the world was this: While the Central Plains of Liyang held little respect for Northern Liang’s three hundred thousand iron cavalry, their mortal enemies in the Northern Mang—despite their bone-deep hatred for the Liang border army—could not help but regard that army, in the depths of their hearts, as a foe worthy of respect.
Hong Jingyan’s lone figure advanced at a leisurely pace, as if calmly awaiting something.
Across the three battlefields, corpses littered the earth, and warhorses whimpered.
In the martial world, fearing death was the surest way to avoid it.
On the battlefield, fear of death had no place.
In one man’s world of rivers and lakes, life and death were matters of utmost gravity.
On a battlefield built upon mountains of corpses, life and death were the smallest of trifles.
As Hong Jingyan slowly entered the sight of the combatants, drawing ever closer to the clash between the Iron Pagoda and Rouran cavalry, the first to react were the seven or eight Fushui operatives who had been tracking this Northern Mang elite from the start. They swiftly withdrew from the fray and galloped away. Then, nearly a hundred Iron Pagoda riders near him simultaneously charged to intercept.
Yuan Nanting, after wrenching his saber free from the chest of a Dong Zhuo private rider, looked into the distance and said gravely to the personal guard commander at his side, “Something’s wrong. That man intends to strike at the Iron Pagoda. We must stop him at all costs!”
The guard, discarding his blood-soaked helmet, grinned. “General, I’ll take a few hundred riders and head over!”
Before Yuan Nanting could respond, the guard commander—a veteran who had fought beside him for years—had already rallied a nearby squadron. Turning back, he flashed a toothy grin. “General, truth be told, you’re getting old. Best not slow us down!”
Yuan Nanting bent over, half-laughing, half-fuming. “Bullshit!”
Before the general could stop him, the guard was already leading several hundred white-feathered riders into the fray.
Yuan Nanting tried to follow but was blocked by a remaining guard who refused to yield.
“Move!” Yuan Nanting barked.
The young guard, though intimidated by his general’s fury, clenched his teeth. “The commander gave me a look. He won’t let you risk yourself.”
“Who outranks whom?!” Yuan Nanting roared.
The stubborn youth muttered under his breath, “The county magistrate isn’t as immediate as the local official. The captain always tells us that on the battlefield, sometimes his orders trump even yours.”
Yuan Nanting bellowed, “Move! Or I’ll have you packing your bags and kicked out of the White Feather Guard!”
The young man’s eyes reddened, his face set in defiance. “If I’m not afraid of death, what else is there to fear?”
Yuan Nanting nearly swung his saber in fury, startling even himself. He lowered the blade with a sigh and muttered, “Damn brat.”
Seeing the audacious rider about to turn toward what would become the day’s fourth battlefield, Yuan Nanting shouted, “Get back here!”
The young soldier hesitated.
The White Feather commander gazed into the distance and murmured, “Call it my selfishness, but even one life spared is a victory.”
Yuan Nanting remembered well the words once spoken by the Grand General: *Xu Xiao fears nothing in this world—except hearing a man speak his name. Because once a name is remembered, the debt owed when that man dies becomes unforgettable, branded into memory for life.*
Exhausted, Yuan Nanting panted heavily, surveying the battlefield. The White Feather Guard’s raid had been a tactical triumph, yet his heart was filled with boundless sorrow.
At Qingliang Mountain, the nameless gravestones would soon bear countless new names.
Suddenly, Yuan Nanting stiffened, his eyes widening as he turned.
From the Iron Pagoda ranks, a single rider burst forth from the still-raging slaughter.
A towering figure, gripping an iron spear.
Amid the desert sands, his warhorse was black, his armor drenched in red.
Qi Dangguo charged without hesitation toward that distant rider. He knew—the Northern Mang brute named Hong Jingyan had come for him.
After leading three devastating charges into enemy lines, Qi Dangguo’s body swayed unsteadily, his spear arm trembling violently.
Yet before the man hailed as the Northern Mang’s second-strongest, the sovereign of the Rouran iron cavalry—
Sweat and blood mingled on his resolute face as Qi Dangguo pressed forward.
In that moment, the burly man faintly recalled his youth, when his adoptive father—himself still young—had told him: *No matter how formidable a man’s physique, no matter how Herculean his strength, there comes a time in battle when even the mightiest warrior can no longer steady his blade or spear. But so long as breath remains, the heart must never waver. The moment a man fears death, the King of Hell comes knocking.*
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