Under the guidance of the Taiping Order as the imperial tutor, the Northern Mang had made unprecedented progress in strategies to besiege colossal cities that were once deemed impregnable by cavalry. The first Liang-Mang War bore witness to this, with Dong Zhuo breaching the formidable Tiger Head City, the foremost frontier town of the Liyang border, and Zhong Tan conquering both the Bow and Crane Cities in the Hulu Pass of Youzhou. Moreover, the steppe cavalry, ever eager to swallow the Central Plains whole, had delved deeply into tactics to dismantle dense infantry formations over the years. The Spring Nabobo, Tuoba Qiyun, was particularly adept in this regard. Before formally enlisting, he had presented a ten-thousand-word memorial during a council of war, meticulously detailing cavalry-infantry combat, which earned high praise from the Northern Mang Empress, herself well-versed in military affairs.
Under the Taiping Order’s resolute advocacy, nearly every ten-thousand-man commander in the Southern Dynasty’s border armies was assigned one or two military advisors from the Western Capital’s Pivot Hall. Most of these advisors were young, remnants of the Spring and Autumn era brought north by the Hongjia migration, third-generation scholars whose families had settled on the steppes and pursued scholarly traditions. A few were young Khesig guards from the northern court, but they were rare. The majority of border generals dismissed these advisors as mere ornamental overseers, mere “embroidered pillows.” Yet, among the Southern Dynasty’s highest echelons, there were those who valued these youths—such as the great general Yang Yuanzan, who, unfortunately, had perished in the Hulu Pass of Youzhou. At the time, Yang had brought with him a hundred promising young talents freshly groomed by the Western Capital’s Pivot Hall, all of whom ended up as bleached bones in the enemy’s victory mound. Though the Empress later exchanged the corpse of Liu Jinu from Tiger Head City for Yang Yuanzan’s head and a few others, she was uncharacteristically stingy in posthumously honoring the fallen general, not even issuing a perfunctory edict to console his descendants. Rumor had it that the Empress had even pointed at the old marshal’s unblinking head in the lime box and remarked coldly to the Taiping Order beside her: “Old Yang deserved to die—he ruined a decade of my foundation!”
When five Southern Dynasty ten-thousand-man commanders gathered to debate whether to engage in battle, a low-ranking Pivot Hall advisor, based on scout reports, fervently advocated splitting their forces: thirty thousand cavalry to assault the corridor head-on, and twenty thousand to detour south and reinforce Old Woman Mountain. Only one of the five Northern Mang commanders agreed; the other four dismissed the proposal as overly cautious. The middle-aged cavalry general from Maolong Garrison, notorious in the Southern Dynasty for his violent temper, leaned down and pointed his whip at the young man’s nose, berating him as a “greenhorn who doesn’t even have his pubes yet” and sneeringly asked if he was a Northern Liang spy planted in their ranks. The sole elderly ten-thousand-man commander who supported the cautious proposal tried to mediate, but before he could speak, the other three commanders burst into mocking laughter. Steppe warriors, especially soldiers, held honor above life itself. The young man, whose father had died beyond the Northern Liang’s passes, flushed crimson with rage, nearly biting through his teeth. In the end, he volunteered to lead the vanguard cavalry. Before mounting his horse, he coldly declared, “When I die, I’ll watch from the underworld how each of you generals meets your end.”
The four ambitious commanders paid no heed. If a bookish youth with delusions of grandeur wanted to throw his life away, why stop him? But after just two thousand vanguard cavalry crashed into the enemy formation and were repelled, all the commanders began to sense disaster. They knew that abandoning their cavalry’s natural mobility to charge headlong into infantry formations was folly, and the first wave would inevitably perish. Yet even the eldest among them hadn’t anticipated the sheer resilience of that infantry formation.
Five thousand strong bows and crossbows hidden behind the cheval de frise unleashed a torrential rain of arrows—expected. But when over a thousand of the two thousand charging cavalry still reached the wall of shields, only to be slaughtered instantly, even the battle-hardened commanders were aghast. Those two thousand riders were suicide troops, fully aware they were charging to their deaths. They had accelerated at the edge of the arrow storm’s range, their momentum at its peak when they struck. The force of a galloping warhorse was terrifying—yet over a thousand riders and their mounts fell to the long lances.
Six hundred horses were impaled outright.
The true horror lay in the second wave. Those unusually long lances displayed an unnatural resilience, bending but not breaking even after piercing horse after horse. Even the finest lances of the Southern Dynasty’s elite cavalry, like those under Dong Zhuo, Liu Gui, or Yang Yuanzan, couldn’t compare. The steppe cavalry knew their own lances, even those of the elite Winter Thunder riders under Orange Prefecture’s Jiedushi Murong Baoding, paled in comparison to these “unreasonable” weapons wielded by the monks of Liuzhou.
Though fear gnawed at them, the remaining cavalry couldn’t retreat without the recall horn. Unlike the Northern Liang’s iron discipline, the Southern Dynasty’s border army still punished deserters harshly—not just the individual, but their superiors and families.
As the two thousand charged, the Liuzhou infantry formation retreated a dozen paces in unison, shields and lances still unbroken, arrows still raining.
The young Western Capital advisor, barely out of his teens, died skewered on an upward-tilted lance, man and horse together—a grotesque, tragic sight.
Before death, he gripped the lance with his last strength, lips twitching soundlessly. Had he lived, he would have insisted on the detour and told those five glory-hungry commanders: *This is a long lance—flexible shaft, unbreakable base, razor edge. It’s the dream weapon of every cavalry commander in the Central Plains!*
The second wave of two thousand also perished, but they loosened the formation. A hundred riders crushed the first row of shield-bearing monk-soldiers, dying in sprays of blood. Two charges broke over three hundred lances.
An ancient poet once wrote of frontier generals: *Repelling foes mid-conversation*—simple yet vivid. The word “repel” was the masterpiece’s final stroke.
One mounted commander rose in his stirrups, staring dumbstruck at the distant carnage. Death wasn’t new, but this speed? Even in cavalry clashes, how long did a three-hundred-pace charge take?
The Maolong Garrison commander who’d mocked the advisor swallowed hard and whispered to the elder, “Should we retreat and detour sixty li to Old Woman Mountain?”
The old general, leading only six thousand, shook his head. “Breaking infantry is hardest at the start. These monks’ initial defense was their strongest. Once we pierce those lances, it’ll ease.”
The others hesitated. The old man added, “We could detour or even withdraw entirely, but if these monks are stalling us, it’s either because the Northern Liang has a trap at Old Woman Mountain or fears our encirclement. Charging through here is still our best choice. War means death. I’ll lead the next charge.”
Once a mediocre centurion under Huang Songpu, the old man had risen slowly until Huang became the Southern Court’s king, elevating him to command a mid-sized garrison. Unlike the other four commanders, who’d secretly accepted chests of gold, he’d refused bribes from three noble clans yet volunteered for Old Woman Mountain—not for wealth, but perhaps late-career glory.
As he rode forward, the Maolong commander gasped, “You’re charging personally?”
The white-haired general smiled. “Many under me are my grandsons’ age. As their commander, I must—”
A younger commander cut in, “By border law, if the commander dies first and we lose, all centurions and captains are executed.”
The old man chuckled, glancing south. “Six thousand won’t break that formation. Eight thousand of my garrison’s bravest are already here.”
Perhaps his last words.
Six thousand split into three waves.
After two charges, they shattered the shields and lances. The old general, blood-soaked, led the breakthrough—straight into eight hundred *modao* glaives!
These Northern Liang glaives, wielded by the burliest of Mount Lantuo’s monks, clad in both robes and armor, cleaved through men and horses alike.
Twelve hundred riders, including the old general, fell to these glaives making their battlefield debut.
The Northern Mang cavalry charged—and were repelled. Charged again—and repelled again!
—
At Old Woman Mountain, two charges had left Liuzhou’s ten thousand cavalry at four thousand, with the newly formed Direct Charge Battalion reduced from six thousand to under fifteen hundred. The flanks, the Dragon Elephant Army, fared better, retaining thirteen thousand.
Huang Songpu’s Southern Expedition Army, initially sixty thousand, still fielded forty-eight thousand.
This “exchange,” where Liuzhou seemed to fare better, was precisely what the Northern Mang’s imperial tutor had hoped for: *In Liuzhou, a small loss for our main force is a great victory.*
Barring surprises, two more such exchanges would erase the Dragon Elephant Army’s peak strength of thirty thousand and the newly flagged Direct Charge Battalion from history.
From the mountaintop, Liuzhou’s commander Kou Jianghuai, facing this dire strait, made no miraculous adjustments. He merely ordered the three thousand reserve cavalry under the prefectural office to join the main force behind Qifu Longguan for a third charge.
Huang Songpu, in turn, prepared his six hundred heavy cavalry.
His sole concern was that, thus far, the Northern Liang’s Liuzhou cavalry had borne the brunt of casualties, while his own elites and the Wanyan cavalry had suffered more than the B-tier troops. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have committed his heavy cavalry, reserved for claiming Kou Jianghuai or Xu Longxiang’s head.
Chen Xiliang couldn’t help asking, “One more charge, and Liuzhou’s cavalry is finished. Shouldn’t we pause?”
Kou Jianghuai shook his head. “No. At this point, it’s about momentum. Even if Yuan Nan’s White Feathers or Ning E’s Iron Pagodas could arrive now, I’d still order two more charges. Otherwise, even if Xie Xi’lui’s monks hold the fifty thousand Southern reinforcements, Huang Songpu could escape with twenty thousand, merge with the northern corridor’s remnants, and render our three prior battles—and this one—meaningless. Worse, I’d have dragged Qingyuan Garrison’s three armies into Liuzhou’s quagmire.”
Chen sighed but said no more.
Kou suddenly turned. “When Fengxiang Garrison’s defenders publicly denounced Xie Xi’lui, you wrote *‘Not against military law, but against reason.’* I thank you.”
He made it clear he was thanking Chen personally, not on Xie’s behalf. In truth, Chen’s measured critique, though milder than Prefect Yang Guangdou’s harsh words, had actually shielded Xie from the backlash. Had Chen openly defended Xie, it would have inflamed the Liangzhou cavalry and Youzhou infantry further, making even the young prince’s intervention difficult. Ultimately, if Xie became a pariah, fellow outsiders like Kou and Yu Luandao would suffer collateral damage.
Chen smiled wryly. “This was all the prince’s doing. Thank him next time you’re at Jubei City.”
Kou scoffed. “Why thank *him*? As king, this is his job. Next time I’m at his palace, I’ll be generous not to demand command of the Northern Liang cavalry.”
He then self-deprecated, “Though I’d probably lose to Yuan Xiong. The worst part of the Northern Liang is how every commander’s a martial monster. Back in Guangling, my swordsmanship was decent—good for court squabbles. Now? Useless.”
Chen managed a faint smile.
Below, Xu Longxiang had slain three hundred foes personally—and that was while maintaining formation. Unrestrained, he’d have shattered the enemy commanders’ morale.
Kou’s gaze shifted to the largest B-tier cavalry formation. He murmured coldly, “Fatten them for slaughter.”
—
Three cavalry forces entered Liuzhou.
Shi Fu, Liangzhou’s general, led Qingyuan Garrison’s eight thousand not to Old Woman Mountain, but to the corridor—not to rescue, but to block any Southern reinforcements, be they twenty or thirty thousand. To Shi, Xie Xi’lui and the monks were already dead.
Ning E’s Iron Pagodas, decimated at Dragon Eye Plains, had been rebuilt to four thousand with the prince’s eight hundred White Horse Volunteers and elite guards from Liangzhou’s officers. Now, they galloped to cut off Huang Songpu’s retreat.
The last force was pure light cavalry—two
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