Xu Fengnian’s existence was like a reef in the river—though it stirred massive waves, it ultimately couldn’t halt the relentless surge of the flood.
On the battlefield directly north of Hutou City, the cavalry on the flanks of the infantry phalanx had already suppressed the city walls with several volleys of arrows, their archery skills honed to perfection. The shield-bearing infantry at the forefront planted their shields with a thunderous crash outside the city, while the archers behind them braved the rain of arrows from the walls to unleash their first round of upward shots. Amidst the exchange between shield bearers and archers, the scaling ladders and siege towers suddenly accelerated through the gaps in the phalanx. As the latter drew more attention from the Northern Liang crossbowmen, the archers under the shield bearers’ cover continued their upward volleys without pause. Meanwhile, the Northern Mang elite soldiers, acting as death squads, began their frenzied charge—unburdened by heavy iron armor, clad only in lighter leather, each wielding a shield in one hand and a Mang blade in the other. These warriors, who had conserved their strength during the phalanx’s advance, erupted into a full sprint once they were within a hundred and fifty paces of the walls. They were about to assume one of the bloodiest roles in the annals of warfare: human ants, swarming up the walls like insects.
Almost simultaneously, nearly a hundred scaling ladders were hoisted high by Northern Mang soldiers and planted into the gaps between the battlements. The dozen or so towering siege towers, nearly as tall as the city walls, lived up to their name—once halted, they formed a direct confrontation with the fortifications. Now, like beasts baring their fangs, the thick oxhide coverings, euphemistically dubbed “veils” by the Southern Dynasty’s remnants of the Spring and Autumn era, were violently torn away. Hidden within these towers were archers, each a master marksman of the grasslands, far surpassing the accuracy of those who had earlier created a curtain of arrows behind the shield bearers. Their goal was simple: to maximize casualties among Hutou City’s defenders, who had taken cover in the dead angles of the upward assault.
Between the towering siege engines, iron-clawed scaling ladders clung to Hutou City’s colossal walls like tenacious parasites. Meanwhile, the vanguard infantry who had initially positioned these ladders began their perilous climb, gripping their compact yet formidable shields. Though smaller than those carried by dedicated shieldbearers, these defenses surpassed the flimsy gear of the suicide squads. These men harbored no delusions of cresting the battlements—their sacred charge was to forge a crimson path for the death squads at their heels, offering flesh, blood, and breath to purchase each precious inch of vertical conquest.
In the distance, Dong Zhuo was flanked by a contingent of elite cavalry, their armor gleaming—not the gaudy, impractical kind, but the real deal. Each rider carried a large bow, a light crossbow, and a war blade, with an iron spear hanging from their saddle. These were the Kheshig Iron Guards, the elite retinue reserved solely for the royal families of the Northern Mang’s Yelü and Murong clans. The Northern Mang’s sole heavy cavalry unit, never before seen in battle, was handpicked from these very guards, a testament to the empire’s extraordinary reliance on them.
Two hundred Kheshig cavalry escorted a young man and woman. The man, clad in a light-yellow python robe, had rugged features but a sickly pallor. He sat awkwardly atop a sweat-blood steed, slightly hunched, as if ill at ease. In contrast, the woman beside him exuded regal composure, far more at home on the battlefield. She squinted toward the city walls, occasionally glancing at the lone figure cutting through the ranks, drawing ever closer. A heavy gloom emanated from her. Her faction, the Chess Sword Poetry Manor, had suffered greatly: the Grand Tutor Taipingling still served as imperial tutor, Hong Jingyan fought at Hulu Pass, but the other major “poetry titles” had vanished—the Copper Ancestor was missing, the Grand Poet had fallen in battle, and even Huang Qing of “Sword Qi Near” was dead. As the top-ranked “Cold Aunt” among the manor’s two-word poetry titles, she—the supposedly gentle Northern Mang Crown Princess—had all but forced her husband to come here. She wanted to see for herself the man responsible for her sect’s near-collapse.
Crown Prince Yelü Hongcai whispered, “Great King of the Southern Court, that man is still breaking through the ranks toward us. Should we… retreat a little?”
Dong Zhuo chuckled but said nothing. His wife, Diwu Hu, frowned. She recalled how another woman in the household—one who constantly vied with her for the title of first wife—had once mentioned that Yelü Hongcai had been scared witless as a child. Now, though he bore a striking resemblance to the late emperor, he lacked any semblance of courage—even fainting at the sight of blood. Every time he accompanied the Empress on hunts, he had to rely on the Kheshig’s spoils to save face. Diwu Hu quickly dismissed her irritation. If Yelü Hongcai had possessed even a fraction of his father’s brilliance, he would have met the same early demise as so many other Yelü princes.
Seeming to realize how cowardly his suggestion sounded, Yelü Hongcai quickly backpedaled, feigning composure. “Great King of the Southern Court, aren’t we waiting for the God of War? The deeper the Northern Liang King penetrates, the more energy he expends. If we’re too far forward, wouldn’t Xu immediately hit a wall and retreat? If he suffers enough and decides to turtle up in Hutou City, wouldn’t that ruin your plans?”
Dong Zhuo finally turned his head, regarding the Northern Mang’s most exalted figure with a smile. “Your Highness speaks wisely. Luring the enemy deep is a masterful tactic. Very well, let’s do as you say. A retreat of five hundred paces—how does that sound?”
Yelü Hongcai murmured, “Would eight hundred be… safer?”
Dong Zhuo laughed heartily. “As Your Highness commands.”
The Dong family’s personal guard and the Crown Prince’s Kheshig began their retreat, followed by the hidden masters and ballista emplacements. Yelü Hongcai brightened, his back straightening slightly—whether from relief at escaping danger or the rare satisfaction of being humored by Dong Zhuo, none could say. As he turned his horse, ready to gallop off in high spirits, Dong Zhuo suddenly coughed. Puzzled, the Crown Prince stared at the Great King of the Southern Court until Dong Zhuo subtly jerked his chin toward the unmoving figure beside him.
Yelü Hongcai sighed softly—his wife hadn’t budged. Signaling his Kheshig to continue, he rode back to her side. “What’s wrong?”
She lifted her whip, pointing coldly at Hutou City. “Out there, tens of thousands of our warriors march to their deaths.”
Yelü Hongcai rubbed his chin. “True, the Northern Liang fights fiercely, but our grassland heroes fear no death.”
She turned slowly, her eyes filled with a complex mix of frustration and pity. Her gaze seemed to ask: If even the Northern Liang King dares to charge into battle, what does that make you, Yelü Hongcai, future ruler of the grasslands?
Unable to meet her stare, Yelü Hongcai looked down. “Let’s go.”
She lowered her whip, sneering. “Eight hundred paces isn’t enough. Why not just return to the Western Capital?”
With that, she wheeled her horse and galloped north alone. Yelü Hongcai watched her receding figure, lips trembling, but no words came.
Behind them, far to the south of that solitary figure, the battle for Hutou City raged on.
The city’s peerlessly sturdy defenses marked the boundary between life and death.
On the northern front, the walls stood five and a half zhang tall, their upper layers sealed with a mixture of tung oil, glutinous rice, and lime, topped with seven layers of brick. Above the main gate stood the central arrow tower, flanked by twelve watchtowers and eight large ballista platforms. Two corner towers anchored the eastern and western sections, while the parapets—dubbed “horse paths” by the Northern Liang border troops—faced off in pairs. Hutou City boasted over two thousand arrow slits for shooting and observation. Even every brick bore a seal marking its year, kiln, and craftsman’s name, ensuring accountability. The northern defenses were further divided into three gates: the main gate, the arrow tower, and the sluice gate. Liu Jinu, Hutou City’s commander, stood atop the highest level of the arrow tower, overseeing the battle.
Owing to the Hongjia Northern Exodus, which had delivered countless scholars and artisans to the Northern Mang, never before had any nomadic invasion wielded such formidable siegecraft—surpassing even the prowess of many native dynasties of the Central Plains. More critically, the Northern Mang had never abandoned their steeds with such unwavering resolve, fighting on foot with a ferocity that bordered on the sublime.
Though Hutou City was rumored to boast the most abundant and meticulously stocked armories in all of Northern Liang, its arsenal of crossbows had already been depleted by over four thousand losses in less than two moons of relentless defense. Half the mighty ballista towers lay in ruins, and more than twenty of the great winches that powered their siege engines had been shattered, compelling the defenders to resort to crude volleys of brick and mud—pitiful substitutes for true artillery.
Of the thousand death squad soldiers scaling the hundred ladders, more than half had fallen. Though a dozen or so ladders had reached the top, none had secured a foothold. Below the walls, layers of corpses and the wounded—too many to retrieve—lay in silence or agony. Their losses came not just from the arrows raining down but also from cauldrons of boiling oil, rolling logs, and even naval-style battering beams that could shatter a ladder in one blow, crushing the Northern Mang climbers like mosquitoes against the stone.
As the ladder climbers fell in waves, the Northern Mang archers atop the siege towers reaped a bloody harvest. Unlike their lightly armored kin who had traded protection for mobility, the Northern Liang border guards wore sturdier panoply. The earlier arrow storms from flanking horsemen and shield-backed bowmen had seemed relentless yet rarely lethal—unless they found flesh unprotected. But now, at murderously close quarters, the Northern Mang’s master bowmen struck with nightmarish precision—splitting throats, impaling eyes, even punching clean through armored warriors.
As ladders continued to flood the walls, the Northern Mang gave Hutou City no respite. After the light-armored death squads bought time with their lives, the next wave—iron-helmeted, chainmail-clad Northern Mang berserkers—began their brutal ascent. If the first wave had been agile infantry, these hulking warriors could have donned full heavy armor on any other battlefield, rivaling the legendary Central Plains heavy infantry that had once nearly rendered cavalry obsolete.
Even point-blank arrows from the walls barely slowed these berserkers as they raised their shields. Occasionally, a Northern Liang archer of exceptional strength would pierce a shield, embedding an arrow deep into an arm, but the climbers never faltered. Amid the deafening clamor of battle, one Northern Mang berserker—his shield now studded with four or five arrows—climbed doggedly. A tribesman from the northern grasslands, he cared little for courts or provinces. He had joined the campaign hoping to earn enough merit for his growing son to eat well this winter and rise a rank in status. He dreamed of his boy one day leaving the windswept steppes to see the Central Plains in his stead. For himself, he expected no return from this battle. Hutou City was far tougher than the rumors had claimed, but he felt no anger—even in death, his pension would see his son grow into a man as strong as himself.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a siege tower smashed by a battering beam, its top crushed, a dozen archers reduced to pulp. Gritting his teeth, he climbed higher—only to suddenly lose his grip. He and several others plummeted, slamming into the wall like strung-up locusts. Clutching his shield, he raised it just in time to block the crossbow bolts raining down. He knew the real danger lay ahead: the Northern Liang’s “flying owl” hooks had snagged their armor. This specialized anti-berserker device—a seven-zhang chain studded with sharp hooks every three feet—rendered its victims helpless, dragging them up to face a forest of spears. He had seen many die this way. Shedding his armor to fall was futile. As the highest on the chain, he roared down: “Hold your blades tight!”
The iron chain carrying the Flying Owl was yanked back by several sturdy Northern Liang soldiers atop the city walls, the scraping of the four Northern Mang warriors’ armor against the stone producing a sharp, grating sound. Among the four, the first to “ascend” the wall in such a humiliating manner was nearly mindless with shock. Acting on instinct, he twisted his body to face the wall, raising his shield just as he was dragged over the parapet. The moment his shield was struck by a spearhead, it slammed back into his chest with brutal force. As he desperately swung his blade in a wild attempt to retaliate, a Northern Liang defender wielding a peculiar straight-handled broadsword smashed it into his skull, splattering blood and killing him instantly. The three warriors dragged up after him met similar fates—some cleaved by crude axes, others impaled by spears. Their corpses were stripped from the Flying Owl and casually tossed off the wall before the chain was hurled outward once more.
On the battlefront of Tiger Head City, one side swarmed like ants, the other slaughtered them like ants—both sides treating lives as expendable as insects.
Xu Fengnian, deep within enemy territory, pressed forward unstoppably, cutting through resistance like a hot knife through butter.
None could stand against him, not even for a single exchange. Yet Xu Fengnian keenly sensed several dense auras lurking nearby, shadowing his movements—undoubtedly Northern Mang martial experts, mostly minor grandmasters, lying in wait for an opportunity. Farther away, beyond two hundred paces, lurked two true masters: one at the Vajra Realm, the other at the Finger Xuan Realm. Xu Fengnian advanced in a straight line, his killing devoid of flourish, relying mostly on the “Collapse” and “Arc” techniques from the Four Principles of the Spear Immortal Wang Xiu. The Arc technique, in particular, with its sweeping, wide strokes, was perfect for chaotic melees against overwhelming numbers. Wherever his spear arced, infused with the Collapse Principle’s energy, no one within two zhang of him survived.
Yet despite his relentless advance, Xu Fengnian felt no pride—only an increasing weight in his heart. He was charging straight toward Dong Zhuo’s banner, and everyone knew the only ones who could slow him down were martial experts, not ordinary soldiers. Yet the Northern Mang infantry formations advanced with unwavering discipline, unflinching even in the face of certain death.
Historically, nomadic cavalry invasions often bypassed fortified strongholds, either encircling them or leaving them isolated to force surrender. Direct assaults were rare—nomads were ill-suited for siege warfare, and the cost rarely justified the gain. Xu Fengnian had long understood that Northern Mang’s decision to strike Northern Liang first was a desperate gambit. Yet within this desperate strategy, Dong Zhuo and Taiping Ling harbored grand ambitions, intending to use Northern Liang’s 300,000 border troops as a whetstone—much like how Xu Fengnian had used Tuoba Pusa to temper himself. If they succeeded, the path ahead would be smooth. If Northern Liang fell, despite heavy losses, Northern Mang would gain an invaluable strategic advantage, akin to the Xu family’s decisive victory at Xileibi against Western Chu, after which conquering Western Shu and Southern Tang was mere cleanup.
What weighed most heavily on Xu Fengnian was this: initially, only Dong Zhuo and Taiping Ling had harbored such ambitions, but after the brutal battles at Tiger Head City and Hulu Pass, Northern Mang soldiers were rapidly shedding their discomfort with dismounted combat. Xu Fengnian had fought Northern Mang cavalry outside Hulu Pass with his Youqi riders but hadn’t witnessed Zhong Tan’s siege tactics firsthand. Only now, seeing their disciplined advances and rotating assaults, did he realize the terrifying gamble of Northern Mang’s million-strong invasion—their odds of success were alarmingly high.
A surge of fury rose within Xu Fengnian.
Northern Liang was small and sparsely populated. Even the Qingliang Mountain faction had to carefully ration their minor grandmasters. Even Xu Fengnian treated a Finger Xuan Realm swordmaster like Mi Fengjie with respect. Yet on this battlefield, several minor grandmasters had already fallen—three earlier, two more blocking his path, and another he’d casually skewered with a thrown arrow after detecting their presence. Six in the blink of an eye. How many minor grandmasters could Qingliang Mountain and the Fushui Bureau even muster together?
Just as Xu Fengnian prepared to eliminate the lurking experts, their auras abruptly withdrew in unison.
He looked up—Dong Zhuo’s Southern Court King banner was retreating.
A feint to lure him deeper?
Xu Fengnian halted abruptly. The Huaiyang Pass Protectorate had prepared contingencies: the Liuya and Fuling cavalry garrisons were on standby, ready to intervene if thousands of Northern Mang riders encircled him. Even Liu Jinu had declared the city’s cavalry could charge out at any moment. Xu Fengnian had been confident in his ability to enter and exit the battlefield alone, focusing solely on Tiger Head City. But now, a terrible premonition struck him.
Dong Zhuo’s true breakthrough—Northern Mang’s true target—wasn’t Tiger Head City or Hulu Pass, but Liuzhou, the initial focus both sides had tacitly abandoned as the situation evolved.
Xu Fengnian had once proposed a daring strategy to Chu Lushan and Yuan Zuozong: using the dormant Snow Dragon Cavalry and a genuine heavy cavalry division to encircle and annihilate Yang Yuanzan’s forces at Hulu Pass.
But what if Northern Mang had changed tactics first, aiming to devour Liuzhou instead?
Before reaching Huaiyang Pass, Xu Fengnian had already arranged for Kou Jianghuai to be appointed Liuzhou General, leading 3,000 cavalry and 6,000 Liangzhou infantry to reinforce Liuzhou, supporting the 30,000 Dragon-Elephant Army against Tuoba Pusa’s forces.
Xu Fengnian stood still, gazing westward toward distant Liuzhou.
At that moment, twenty-some riders—unnoticed until now—followed the Northern Liang King into the battlefield, all bearing swords.
At their head were Wu Liuding, the current Sword Crown of the Wu Family Sword Tomb, and his swordmaid, Cui Hua.
Wu Liuding, ever nonchalant even in battle, rode up to Xu Fengnian with a grin. “Lost your nerve already?”
Xu Fengnian remained silent. The usually meditative Cui Hua frowned and chided, “Get to the point.”
Wu Liuding immediately sobered. “Chu Lushan sent a message. He suspects Dong Zhuo is up to no good, so last night he took the liberty of leading a few hundred personal guards to Liuzhou. But at the border, he already had 8,000 ambushers waiting—just in case Northern Mang tried this move. Oh, and he said those 8,000 are all troublemakers recently pulled from various border armies. Without him personally leading, no one could control those old veterans.”
Xu Fengnian burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Wu Liuding whispered to Cui Hua, “Has he lost his mind?”
When Xu Fengnian finally calmed, he smiled at Dong Zhuo’s distant banner and asked, “Dare to charge another two li with me?”
Wu Liuding didn’t hesitate. “I’m just a messenger. No thanks!”
But Cui Hua opened her eyes and said calmly, “Your Highness need not worry about your back.”
Xu Fengnian nodded.
Those 8,000 cobbled-together veterans…
Long before the Xu family entered Liang, they had ceased to be a formal unit. Even earlier, when a certain fat man led a thousand riders to conquer Shu, there was no such thing as an “elite force.” He simply fought with whatever troops Xu Xiao gave him—his soldiers either died the fastest or rose the fastest. If forced to name a defining moment, it would be a battle in his youth, fought by a river with a ragtag force of 8,000 cavalry. Only 400 survived.
After inheriting the title of Northern Liang King, Xu Fengnian once casually asked the now-fat Protector of Northern Liang about it. He learned that over 70 battles commanded by the fat man, barely 10,000 who served under him and lived remained in Liang. The oldest were now patriarchs of military families; most were middle-aged officers, the least successful among them at least battalion commanders.
That river, if Xu Fengnian remembered correctly, was called Yeluo River.
※※※
At the Liang-Liu border, a recently armored fat man astride a warhorse surveyed the cavalry before him—faces he knew well.
With a booming laugh, he asked, “Gentlemen, how does it feel to go from generals, colonels, or at least battalion commanders back to being mere soldiers under Chu Lushan?”
The ranks erupted in laughter.
The fat man smirked. “I hear some of you came straight from the infantry. But I’m sentimental—I won’t hold it against you. I trust you haven’t forgotten how to ride and shoot after all these years.”
The laughter grew louder.
Suddenly, his expression turned murderous. “Most of you know the old rule: fight under me, survive, and you get promoted. This time, I’ll disappoint you. Survive or not, no promotions! Let’s be clear—our enemy is Dong Zhuo’s elite cavalry, at least 20,000 strong. We have 8,000. What do we do?”
Silence fell.
Chu Lushan clenched his fist and roared, “Then I ask you all—join me, Chu Lushan, for one more trip to Yeluo River!”
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