The Northern Mang army’s central offensive was divided into three columns, with two gaps over sixty paces wide to allow cavalry to gallop through for orders or reinforcements, as well as to facilitate the passage of siege engines from the military workshops.
Each of the three columns was formed by over ten thousand infantrymen arranged in a square formation, anchored by a towering Northern Mang command banner four *ren* high. Had the Northern Mang emperor personally led the campaign, the banner would have been six *ren* tall by law. On this battlefield, the Northern Mang crown prince, acting as regent, commanded the army, and his banner also stood six *ren* high. Other illustrious generals like Murong Baoding, Helian Wuwei, and Zhong Shentong—high-ranking frontier lords of the steppe—were permitted banners five *ren* tall. Meanwhile, actual battalion commanders and leaders of elite armored divisions used four-*ren* banners, whether embroidered with their surnames or unit insignia, a practice unrestricted by the Northern Court or the Southern Dynasties.
Though the front lines of the three infantry formations faced interception by several Central Plains grandmasters, they largely maintained their formations and pressed forward. Each infantry square was spearheaded by elite soldiers wielding massive shields and clad in heavy armor, carrying no weapons. The steppe cavalry, renowned for their archery and horsemanship, had long been famed throughout the Central Plains since the days of the Great Feng Dynasty. If their mounted prowess was already unmatched, their dismounted archery was even more formidable. However, the three infantry formations had relatively few archers—only about a thousand each—while the bulk consisted of over five thousand siege infantry in light leather armor, carrying small round shields and *mang* swords, swiftly advancing with scaling ladders.
In the Northern Mang’s grand strategy, behind these thirty thousand men stretched a vast arc of two thousand four hundred catapults bombarding the battlefield. Flanking cavalry continuously suppressed the city walls with volleys, while behind the three main formations stood six thousand elite crossbowmen operating heavy repeating crossbows, *dahuang* crossbows, and ape-arm crossbows—weapons that had once dominated Central Plains battlefields. During the grand exodus of the Hongjia era, families whose members had overseen the imperial workshops of Dongyue and Nantang had offered crossbow-making techniques to the Northern Mang, earning them immediate promotion to high-ranking Southern Dynasty nobility by the delighted Northern Mang empress, swiftly rising above other remnants of the Spring and Autumn era.
Additionally, each of the three formations was equipped with over a dozen siege towers, each capable of concealing over three hundred archers and infantry. These mobile fortresses, draped in specially treated oxhide resistant to fire and even the formidable Northern Liang repeating crossbows, were nearly impervious. Once near the walls, the archers inside could engage defenders directly while deploying horizontal scaling ladders like suspended bridges, coordinating with the swarming infantry below and elite shock troops climbing embedded crossbow bolts—a three-pronged assault complemented by catapults, crossbow volleys, and flanking cavalry, making the defense nearly impossible.
Yet, due to the sudden emergence of eighteen individuals, the battlefield shifted away from the northern walls of the northwestern frontier fortress.
The young Prince of Liang spearheaded the charge, plunging deep into the Northern Mang army’s heart, with the white-robed Luoyang close behind. Though she did not strike, her presence allowed the new Liang king to fight without restraint, culminating in Xu Fengnian’s legendary feat of shattering two thousand armored foes. Wielding the *Two Sleeves Green Snake* and the *Sword Qi Rolling Dragon Wall*, his aura surged like a rampaging dragon, carving straight through the Northern Mang lines with the audacity of beheading a general amidst ten thousand troops.
Compared to Xu Fengnian’s earth-shaking onslaught, the Peach Blossom Sword God, Deng Tai’a, advanced with eerie calm. Once his Taia Sword left its sheath, it flickered unpredictably—now dazzlingly visible, now vanishing—like a dragon occasionally revealing its ferocity amidst thunderous clouds.
Before Deng Tai’a, Xu Fengnian and Luoyang had already torn through the enemy lines, followed by the Purple-clad of Huishan and the Scarlet-robed Xu Ying, leaving the Northern Mang formations in disarray. Few dared challenge this Central Plains grandmaster, who had once fought Tuoba Pusa to a standstill. When Li Chungang posthumously lent his sword to Deng Tai’a, though the duel ended inconclusively, the Northern Mang’s martial world acknowledged Deng Tai’a as the undisputed master of lethality. Some even claimed that while others might surpass him in cultivation, none could defeat him in a life-or-death battle—at best, both would perish. Now, having returned from his eastern pilgrimage, the Peach Blossom Sword God, who once roamed weaponless, now wore a sword at his hip. Who would dare provoke him?
Deng Tai’a did not actively slaughter Northern Mang infantry, advancing steadily instead. As soldiers fled south around him, he paid them no heed, focusing instead on locating Tuoba Pusa with his Taia Sword—a pursuit reminiscent of his thousand-mile chase of Xie Guanying, though the Northern Mang’s peerless war god, at the pinnacle of strength and skill, was no helpless prey but deliberately avoiding confrontation for greater schemes.
Unhurried, Deng Tai’a occasionally glanced around, his will manifesting in flashes of sword light.
Amid his formation, two streaks of red and purple wreaked havoc unchecked.
The Scarlet-robed Xu Ying flitted gleefully over soldiers’ heads, unfazed by becoming an arrow magnet. As volleys rained down, her crimson robe danced effortlessly through the storm, twirling gracefully as she caught arrows in her sleeves and hurled them back with playful disregard for accuracy. Over seventy archers fell to her counterfire, while more than two hundred infantry perished as collateral. Though her energy lacked sheer volume, its endurance was unmatched—she either bounded atop arrows mid-flight or lightly stomped on soldiers’ heads, crushing skulls like a child squashing oranges.
One infantryman, seeing the crimson streak approach, swung blindly, only to find his blade frozen mid-air. His comrades scattered like frightened beasts, leaving him stranded. Opening his eyes, he saw the scarlet-robed woman balanced on his blade’s tip, peering down before lightly tapping it—sending the hilt piercing through his chest. She backflipped, dodging arrows, then landed and lunged forward, her palm striking a soldier’s forehead and sending him flying, crushing three others in his wake.
When an arrow shot toward her throat, she stopped it with a fingertip, letting it exhaust its momentum before catching it. Smiling, she eyed the archer—a seasoned warrior now drawing his sword, joined by a dozen others. Xu Ying beckoned him mockingly.
This man was a prized veteran of the Southern Dynasty’s frontier forces, one of four thousand elite “Qiexue troops” hidden among the infantry, each formation concealing a hundred. Unluckily for him, he was their captain.
As he signaled for reinforcements, Xu Ying waited eagerly.
If Xu Ying fought like a playful child, then Xuan Yuan Qingfeng’s slaughter was unmatched—perhaps only surpassed by the young prince who shattered two thousand armored foes.
The Daxueping’s Xuan Yuan Qingfeng rampaged with utter arrogance. Unlike Xu Ying’s aimless wandering, she targeted the most conspicuous obstacles—the massive siege towers.
The first tower snapped like a bisected giant under her charge. The second saw her tear through its oxhide, slaughtering all three hundred inside before emerging atop its watchtower. A stomp later, it collapsed.
The third tower fared slightly better—shaken by her palm strike, it swayed precariously before she ascended, her aura flinging soldiers to their deaths. Glancing toward the city’s drum platform, she paused, lost in thought until arrows interrupted her. With a flick of her sleeve, they reversed course, impaling four archers.
Still unsatisfied, she toppled the tower onto its neighbor, then turned her attention to the Northern Mang’s counterattack—elite cavalry surging toward the flanks to intercept Central Plains grandmasters like Yu Xinlang and Wei Miao, while shadowy figures in black, armed with diverse weapons, emerged from the army’s depths.
The Northern Mang’s hidden martial forces had finally mobilized.
Over the years, the grandmasters who once dominated the martial world of the Northern Wilderness have met rather tragic fates, especially after that large-scale incursion to assassinate the main generals of the Northern Liang border army. The losses were severe—the Moral Sect, the Chess Sword Music Manor, the Tipping Mountain, and the Princess’s Grave, these four great sects all suffered devastating blows. Particularly the Princess’s Grave and Tipping Mountain, if not for the continued support of the Northern Wilderness, they would have long been wiped out in the Liyang martial world, where relations with the imperial court are more distant. Without their pillars and core strength, they would have either been carved up by opportunistic factions or crushed by inexplicable enemies. The Chess Sword Music Manor didn’t fare much better either—Hong Jingyan, the master bearing the poetic title “Night Watch,” fell in battle; Huang Baozhuang, known as “Mountain Fading Green,” or rather, the White-Clothed Luo Yang, defected from the manor. The manor’s lord also perished far from home alongside that group of Northern Wilderness grandmasters who secretly infiltrated Northern Liang’s borders. With only the Peace Decree and the Crown Princess, whose poetic title was “Cold Maiden,” barely holding the fort, this deeply rooted sect might soon crumble like the siege tower beneath Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s feet—just one forceful step, and two centuries of accumulated prestige would scatter like monkeys fleeing a fallen tree.
Xuanyuan Qingfeng watched as those three distinct groups, oddly fixated on charging southward, completely ignored the young prince and the White-Clothed Luo Yang, who were deeply embroiled in the battle. This inexplicably irked the Purple-Clothed Lady of Huishan, her aura growing increasingly frigid.
She continued demolishing siege towers one after another, then caught sight of a thousand-strong cavalry unit approaching from the south. The Purple-Clothed Lady darted toward them.
The leading cavalry officer was struck on the helmet by Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s palm, his body shattering mid-flight before crashing to the ground.
Now standing atop the still-galloping warhorse, Xuanyuan Qingfeng gazed down imperiously at the stunned riders.
This cavalry unit was none other than the famed Winter Thunder Iron Cavalry, painstakingly forged by the Orange Province’s military governor—the very force that had dragged Northern Liang’s Left Cavalry into the mire.
Xuanyuan Qingfeng didn’t know who Lu Dayuan, the Left Cavalry’s first deputy commander, was, nor had she heard of the Winter Thunder Cavalry’s renown in the Southern Dynasty. She merely glanced at the bewildered riders before shifting her gaze to a smaller group of seventy or eighty horsemen—among them a dashing white-clad swordsman, a colorful-robed woman fluttering in the saddle, and an elderly man meditating as his body swayed with the horse’s gait. Without exception, they were all seasoned martial artists.
The leaderless Winter Thunder Cavalry didn’t descend into chaos. The nearest officer viciously thrust his iron spear toward Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s abdomen.
She didn’t linger to engage the thousand-strong cavalry. With a light tap of her toe, she rose just enough to evade the spear, then slid down its shaft. Before the officer could react, she kicked his face with her instep, sending his head flying in a gruesome spectacle. Yet Xuanyuan Qingfeng held back, allowing the humiliated cavalry to continue southward as she gracefully soared and landed in the open space between the Winter Thunder Cavalry and the smaller group of martial artists.
Her movements were effortless, like strokes from a master painter’s brush.
After Xuanyuan Qingfeng’s rampage, Xu Yanbing, who had remained largely inactive, suddenly spoke to Deng Tai’e’s retreating figure: “Preventing Tuoba Pusa from taking advantage of the chaos—I fear that task must fall to you, sir.”
Deng Tai’e didn’t turn around, replying with a carefree laugh, “Deng will not disappoint Brother Xu.”
Xu Yanbing, gripping the treasured iron spear “Fresh Cutter” from the Listening Tide Pavilion, offered no words of gratitude to the Peach Blossom Sword God’s solemn vow. He simply clasped his fists and departed.
Turning, Xu Yanbing strode toward the silent Sword-Eating Patriarch and said gravely, “Master Sui, I must trouble you to assist in escorting the prince back to the city.”
Sui Xiegu cast a sidelong glance at the former disciple of the Spear Immortal Wang Xiu but neither agreed nor refused.
Xu Yanbing didn’t press the matter. He moved to aid the young Sword Crown and Sword Servant of the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum. Wu Liuding and his servant Cuihua were still facing an entire ten-thousand-man infantry formation alone, though not yet in mortal peril, they were heavily surrounded by armored soldiers. Strangely, despite witnessing the Sword Crown repeatedly falter in perilous situations, the Sword Servant’s Suwang Sword remained sheathed, as if unwilling to share his burden. Meanwhile, the young Sword Crown, fearless as a newborn calf, charged recklessly forward, seemingly intent on cutting straight to the Northern Wilderness Crown Prince’s banner.
In contrast, the renowned saber master Mao Shulang and the Dragon Palace’s guest advisor Ji Liu’an fought more cautiously, even managing to significantly slow the enemy’s advance. It made sense that Yu Xingrui, the current Wudang Sect leader’s master, chose to support them—not only did it hinder the Northern Wilderness’s assault, but the Sword Crown’s recklessness made intervention difficult. The Wu Family Sword Mausoleum’s rigid traditions were well-known, and even as a benevolent elder, Yu Xingrui hesitated to interfere, lest his efforts backfire.
Amid the formation, Wu Liuding’s vision blurred with sweat. Wielding two captured sabers, he had just repelled a dense assault from over a hundred Northern Wilderness soldiers. For a swordsman of his caliber, the weapon in hand mattered little. He took the chance to gasp for air, shaking his head and wiping his face with his sleeve before grinning at the path ahead.
The adage that duels between masters hinge on a single breath holds true—but only when both sides are evenly matched. On the battlefield, such precision is irrelevant. No matter how tightly the Northern Wilderness infantry and archers coordinated, they couldn’t deny the young Sword Crown moments to catch his breath. Yet this didn’t mean Wu Liuding had become a legendary one-man army. Even grandmasters, barring Land Immortals, had finite reserves of energy. Each breath was merely a brief respite, and the rate of depletion far outstripped recovery.
Unlike pure martial artists like Wang Xianzhi, Tuoba Pusa, or the late Huishan Patriarch Xuanyuan Dapan, swordsmen—whether focused on sword intent or technique—inevitably had frailer physiques. Thus, throughout five centuries of martial history, the fastest ascents belonged to prodigious swordsmen—first the Spring and Autumn Sword Saint Li Chungang, now the exiled immortal Chen Tianyuan of the Taibai Sword Sect. In contrast, figures like Wang Xianzhi and Xuanyuan Dapan, though ultimately peerless, climbed the martial path far more slowly.
History claims no true one-man armies on the battlefield—so why is Northern Liang’s Xu Longxiang the sole exception?
It’s not due to his lofty realm, but his innate Diamond Body. A grandmaster facing thousands may catch his breath repeatedly, but as his energy dwindles, sheer numbers will inevitably exhaust him.
Wu Liunding, the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum’s most gifted prodigy, understood this well.
Yet he pressed on alone.
Bending over, he exhaled heavily, his expression tinged with melancholy. “Cuihua,” he murmured, “I don’t think I’ll ever catch up to that Xu guy in this lifetime. He’s probably already hacked his way to the Northern Wilderness banner, while I’m still… miles away.”
Cuihua gave a soft hum, offering no consolation.
Wu Liuding sighed. “It’s infuriating. Back in the reed marshes outside Xiangfan, I could’ve taken down the Northern Liang heir with one hand, right?”
Cuihua’s lips curled gently. “Probably.”
Wu Liuding fell silent, tightening his grip on the sabers.
Suddenly, he felt a hand lightly rest on his head.
A man’s head and a woman’s waist—how could they be touched so casually?
Yet Wu Liunding didn’t mind.
The ever-quiet, unassuming Sword Servant ruffled his hair, then gazed into the distance. “I’ve always wondered why you insist on competing with that young prince,” she said softly. “But since you’re willing to admit defeat now…”
Wu Liunding shook his head fiercely. “I’m not admitting defeat!”
Cuihua withdrew her hand, reaching instead for the hilt of Suwang on her back. “There’s something I’ve kept from you.”
Wu Liunding whirled around, his face a mask of dread. “Cuihua, don’t say it! If you tell me you secretly like that Xu guy, where am I supposed to cry?!”
She glared at him before slowly drawing the sword. Passing him, she murmured, “I might already be a Land Sword Immortal.”
Wu Liunding’s jaw dropped.
Beyond the formation, Xu Yanbing didn’t rush to break through. Instead, he planted his spear into the earth—an unexpected move from the Spear Immortal’s disciple, a grandmaster seldom mentioned in Liyang’s martial world.
He took a step forward, the spear now at his back.
As if declaring to the ten-thousand-man formation:
“Xu Yanbing of Northern Liang stands here. None shall pass this spear.”
※※※
At the rear of the eighteen city-defending grandmasters stood the blind zitherist from Western Shu, Xue Songguan.
Yet this seemingly distant young woman bore the heaviest burden.
Alongside Cheng Baishuang, who had reached the Grand Celestial Phenomenon realm, she intercepted wave after wave of arrows raining upon Jubei City. Even the massive stones hurled by over two thousand catapults—some as large as houses—were shattered midair by this mere Finger Mystic realm musician.
The thunderous boulders, capable of embedding seven feet into the ground, were effortlessly dispersed by her slender fingers, like spring breeze melting frost.
Xue Songguan now sat cross-legged, her zither resting on her lap.
Four strings had snapped—the first plucked apart, the next three broken by different techniques.
Her trembling fingers dripped blood onto the instrument.
She knew her sacrifice was worthwhile. Though an assassin by trade, unversed in warfare, every arrow volley she intercepted meant fewer Northern Liang border troops would die before the enemy reached the walls.
Slowly, she raised her head, sensing the elderly Confucian scholar who had quietly approached. She knew him—Cheng Baishuang, a scholar of fallen Southern Tang, now a martial grandmaster of the southern borders.
“Miss Xue,” he said kindly, “you’re still young. There’s no need to push yourself so hard. Earlier, you acted too swiftly for me to intervene without disrupting your energy flow. Let me take over now, while you support where needed. How does that sound?”
Xue Songguan shook her head firmly.
Unsurprised, Cheng Baishuang continued smashing boulders with his sleeves while gently persuading, “Miss Xue, as someone two generations your senior, allow me to speak plainly. I don’t know why you’re here or for whom, but since we fight side by side, it’s neither reasonable nor proper for a woman to die first. Don’t you agree?”
The blind zitherist smiled faintly, reminded of the old tutor who loved lecturing Su Xiu.
Some scholars, regardless of age, retained a touch of endearing naivety.
She remembered Su Xiu once angrily asking the tutor why he hadn’t died for his country. The old man had retorted, “A scholar’s duty is advising rulers in court—that’s true devotion. Battlefields are for warriors. If I, Zhao Dingxiu, feared dying in war, what fault is that?” Su Xiu had been left speechless, while the tutor walked away, his The Back Figure lonely yet unyielding.
Cheng Baisuang chuckled playfully, “Miss Xue, a rare gem like you, so refined within—how could you not marry? Wouldn’t that deprive some fortunate man in this world of his greatest blessing? Ah, if only this old man were thirty or forty years younger, I’d surely compose elegant verses and famed prose in your honor. ‘Fair maiden, a gentleman’s delight,’ as they say.”
Xue Songguan flushed with embarrassment.
Cheng Baisuang then composed himself. “Now, let this half-scholar of an old man exert some effort. What say you, Miss Xue?”
Xue Songguan was at a loss for words.
The aged Confucian scholar Cheng Baisuang took a deep breath.
The sages of old once declared, *”Though ten thousand stand against me, I shall go forth.”*
And so it fit this very moment!
※※※
Suddenly, the heavens and earth bore strange omens!
A pillar of light, thick as a mountain peak, descended from the sky, completely engulfing the land a mile ahead of the Northern Wilderness banner.
It was like a snow-white waterfall cascading from the Ninth Heaven down to the mortal realm!
At that moment, Tuoba Pusa finally appeared, standing mere yards away from Deng Tai’a’s flying sword. The Northern Wilderness’s God of War cast a frigid gaze toward the Peach Blossom Sword God. “I came here merely as bait. Truth be told, there was never any need for me to intercept Xu Long Xiang—Heaven’s Will itself shall suppress him.”
Deng Tai’a’s expression turned solemn and grave as he gazed at the unrelenting pillar of light striking the earth, imbued with an authority beyond mortal ken. He fell into deep contemplation.
Tuoba Pusa sneered. “Deng Tai’a, why don’t we seize this chance to settle our score—life or death?”
Deng Tai’a slowly withdrew his gaze and finally regarded Tuoba Pusa directly, only to shake his head with a mocking smile. “It’s not my turn.”
Tuoba Pusa then turned to look.
Before the dust-choked Northern Wilderness banner, faintly visible from afar, a thin black line seemed to emerge between the pillar of light and the ground.
Beneath Heaven’s suppression…
A man straightened his back and rose!
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