Dong Pangzi, clad in armor and wielding a saber, sat atop a massive divine steed, the man and horse complementing each other perfectly. Though Dong Zhuo was fat, he didn’t appear bloated or cumbersome. Compared to this Southern Court King who commanded half of the Northern Mang’s military forces, the father-son duo of Zhao Yi and Zhao Biao from Guangling Dao indeed paled in comparison. Dong Zhuo straightened his neck, his eyes gleaming as he watched the white rainbow plummet before the city walls. He was no ordinary warrior himself—otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to deceive and whisk away the daughter of the Fifth Kui of Tishan Mountain all those years ago without getting beaten into a lean figure.
Regarding Xu Fengnian from the opposing faction, Dong Zhuo harbored no personal animosity. When they first met within Northern Mang’s borders, he was merely the founder of the Dong Family Army, a regional warlord force, still far from his current position as Southern Court King, separated by the seemingly insurmountable barrier of the Northern Mang’s Grand General. In fact, had it not been for Xu Fengnian’s meteoric rise—not only successfully inheriting the title of Northern Liang King but also winning the loyalty of the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry and the hearts of its people—Dong Zhuo would have, at best, served under Liu Gui or Yang Yuanzan, much like Hong Jingyan and Zhong Tan. Moreover, owing to the incident involving Tao Manwu, Dong Zhuo owed Xu Fengnian a favor. If not for the tides of war, Dong Zhuo would have genuinely liked to sit down with Xu Fengnian for a proper conversation, emulating the refined scholars of the Central Plains who enjoyed philosophical debates, perhaps sharing wine on a snowy night to discuss heroes—rather than the current life-or-death standoff.
In Dong Zhuo’s line of sight, Xu Fengnian, as expected, refrained from unleashing his Heavenly Phenom-level prowess due to his wariness of Tuoba Pusa. He neither borrowed weapons from the Huotou City garrison nor the Northern Mang’s assault troops to block the barrage of boulders from nearly a thousand catapults. Instead, his figure landed in the no-man’s-land between the two armies. Though suppressing his aura, his presence was no less imposing than the sight of a thousand cavalry charging forth. This sent a chill down Dong Zhuo’s spine—despite being a Diamond Realm warrior himself, constrained by innate limitations.
Dong Pangzi might jest that even the Western Shu Sword Emperor couldn’t dominate a battlefield of ten thousand, but Dong Zhuo knew better. If Xu Fengnian were unshackled by the threat of Tuoba Pusa and allowed to fight freely, the Northern Mang’s siege forces—composed mostly of infantry with only flanking cavalry—would easily have their formations disrupted. Thus, Dong Zhuo fervently hoped that the grandmaster would embody the dignity of a Land Deity and ignore the ants beneath his feet, preferably coming straight for him alone.
To this end, Dong Zhuo had prepared meticulously. Aside from the elite guards clustered around him and the massive ballistae capable of launching sword-like projectiles over a hundred zhang, he had also embedded numerous hidden experts within the flanking cavalry. Once Xu Fengnian plunged deep into the formation, retreat would become perilous, making it easy to encircle him. At the very least, they could exhaust Xu Fengnian’s energy and spirit, buying time for Tuoba Pusa to arrive and seal the deal.
Dong Zhuo had consulted several Northern Mang grandmasters repeatedly, confirming that upon reaching the Heavenly Phenom Realm, a warrior’s qi would surge like a river in flood season, bolstered by the resonance of heaven and earth. However, this borrowed power had a flaw: the heavens could only add flowers to brocade, not send charcoal in snowy weather. Once a warrior’s foundational qi was depleted, recovery would be slow. Otherwise, two Heavenly Phenom grandmasters could fight endlessly without resolution. Years ago, the aging swordsman Li Chungang of the Liyang jianghu had once cleaved through 2,600 armored cavalry at Guangling River. While the masses marveled at the sheer number, true martial artists understood the terror lay in the phrase “in one breath”—Li Chungang had disdained the Heavenly Phenom’s cyclical qi regeneration, striking with pure, undiluted force.
Dong Zhuo’s plan was clear: sacrifice hundreds, even thousands, of Northern Mang elites and soldiers to chip away at Xu Fengnian’s foundation, buying Tuoba Pusa even the slightest advantage.
In his sight, the white rainbow began its charge in a straight, unstoppable line. Dong Zhuo smirked. “If he weren’t the Northern Liang King but just a wandering warrior, who in this world could stop him? To be both Li Chungang and Cao Changqing—now that’s what I call effortless grace… This guy really commands admiration. Rumor has it that noblewomen from the Northern Court’s top families have openly named their price, swearing that if I, Old Dong, capture this peerlessly dashing young prince for just one night of pleasure, they’d pay five thousand taels of gold—and the price is negotiable! Just one night! That’s enough to feed how many of my Dong Family soldiers?! Damn it, aside from being fatter and taller than that Xu fellow, what am I lacking? Why don’t they swoon over my name like they do his?”
His young wife, hearing his vulgar and uncouth remarks, coughed pointedly, reminding him to mind his image in public. Dong Zhuo ignored her, muttering to himself, “If it were me, forget five thousand taels of gold for one night—five hundred taels of silver would do…”
His now-furious wife glared. “Dong Zhuo!”
The fat man shrunk his neck, shedding his deliberately flippant demeanor to ease tension, and said calmly, “He’s here.”
One man, one blade.
Xu Fengnian began his assault.
After over a month of bloody siege, the Northern Mang barbarians, born and bred on horseback, had paid a staggering toll of over twenty thousand casualties. Facing the towering northern wall of Huotou City, everyone from the chiliarchs who had to scale the walls personally to the lowliest foot soldiers had rapidly adapted. As they charged forward, they timed their shield raises to anticipate the volleys from the city’s diverse array of crossbows—ranging from bed crossbows to repeating crossbows—slowing their advance but minimizing losses. The Northern Liang archers’ accuracy was terrifying; ignoring their arrows meant certain death within three hundred paces of the walls.
Before Dong Zhuo’s eyes, three dense tides of armored infantry surged forth, accompanied by every siege engine recorded in military manuals—thanks largely to the Southern Dynasty’s remnants. There were battering rams pushed by dozens of strongmen, mobile siege towers as tall as the walls and clad in fireproof oxhide, wheeled scaling ladders, and even makeshift ramps originally meant for filling moats. Under Dong Zhuo’s strategists’ advice, these ramps, once mounted on the walls, became artificial slopes, allowing six hundred Northern Mang soldiers to flood the battlements simultaneously.
Of the thirty thousand infantry, fifteen thousand formed the central force attacking the northern wall, with the rest split between the northeastern and northwestern flanks. Between the three infantry formations, two elite cavalry units of a thousand each charged ahead to suppress the defenders’ arrow rain. On the outermost flanks, larger cavalry forces galloped forth, not only supporting the siege with their archery but also deterring any sallies from Huotou City’s garrison and keeping the Northern Liang cavalry at Huaiguan Pass at bay.
Drawing from Zhong Tan’s hard-earned siege experience at Hulu Pass, Dong Zhuo’s strategy involved maintaining a fresh reserve of ten thousand troops behind the frontline assault. Once a chiliarch’s unit suffered two to three hundred casualties, they would withdraw immediately, replaced by another unit. This reserve was also authorized to exploit any opportunities without awaiting orders. Two chiliarchs who hesitated had already been executed on the spot by Dong Zhuo’s personal cavalry, with their superiors demoted. One of the latter redeemed himself by leading three hundred dead men onto the battlements, killing a Northern Liang captain surnamed Chu before falling to Liu Jinu’s blade. His corpse, hung from the walls by hooks, was later retrieved and solemnly returned to the Southern Dynasty by Dong Zhuo himself.
Now, as the two flanking cavalry units saw the lightning-fast figure charging toward the central infantry, their best archers loosed volleys into the empty space ahead—only for their arrows to land harmlessly behind the white streak.
Too fast!
The cavalry ceased wasting arrows and pressed on.
As Xu Fengnian charged, his left hand rested lightly on his saber’s hilt. From the moment he landed before the city, the faces of the Northern Mang’s frontline infantry became crystal clear. In the dawn light, the shield-bearing barbarians exhaled thick mist, their eyes tense but devoid of the confusion of greenhorns. These were veterans, the fiercest and most daring, for their role was simply to “rush to their deaths.”
Northern Liang’s defense followed a strict sequence: crossbows first, then bows, then crossbows again. This trifecta had already bloodied Northern Mang’s infantry at Wolong and Xiaguang Cities in Hulu Pass. The initial crossbow volley itself was layered—bed crossbows, heavy crossbows, and foot-drawn crossbows, each fired in sequence by specialized crews.
Before Xu Fengnian breached the enemy lines, massive ballista bolts—thick as spears—shot past overhead. One pierced clean through a siege tower, carrying corpses and blood into the ranks beyond, impaling a soldier who thought himself safe behind cover.
In an instant, Xu Fengnian drew his Liang saber.
A lone man breaking a formation.
The Northern Mang shield-bearers in his path “slowly” raised their shields—only for them and their bodies to split apart as he shot through, leaving a line of bloody mist. Nearby, soldiers died silently, their deaths puzzling—perhaps from needle-thin projectiles piercing their temples, shoulders, or hearts, their wounds barely bleeding until they collapsed.
Four flying swords—Qingmei, Zhuma, Huangtong, and Pifu—spun madly around him, forming a thunder pool.
After cleaving through a hundred and sixty paces, Xu Fengnian paused slightly. As expected, three Northern Mang martial artists closed in, with more rushing from afar. The infantry, however, marched past him undeterred by the war drums—a testament to Huotou City’s disciplined defense under Liu Jinu.
Seizing a moment as a saber-wielding expert struck down, Xu Fengnian flicked his wrist casually, shaking blood off his blade. The resulting shockwave sent corpses flying leftward.
The master of the blade faced death without fear, pouring all his energy into what he believed to be his perfected strike. A faint cyan aura flickered at the tip of his blade—a clear sign of the extraordinary skill only a second-rank minor grandmaster could possess.
While this minor grandmaster, resolved to die, drew Xu Fengnian’s attention, two figures on either side suddenly accelerated their movements. One was a towering, bare-handed brute who descended from above and lunged forward with terrifying force. Meanwhile, the short, elderly man to Xu Fengnian’s right kept his mouth tightly shut, one hand pressed to his chest while the other dragged behind him as if wielding a spear. He bent low and charged toward the young man rumored to be one of the world’s four great grandmasters. The sudden eruption of murderous intent sent a bone-chilling wave through the trembling Northern Wilderness soldiers, who dared not even glance aside.
The minor grandmaster, who had leapt high with a blade strike meant to cleave through all resistance, suddenly widened his eyes in shock.
The weapon he had relied on for half his life—a blade considered a treasure among swords—was effortlessly caught by the young man’s outstretched hand, as if it were nothing more than a trivial nuisance.
At the same time, the burly man who had thrown his fists forward staggered as if struck by an invisible force. Despite gritting his teeth and pressing onward, his chest erupted with a series of faint yet relentless impacts. This martial artist, conscripted into the army by decree, was indeed a man of iron will. Even as four flying swords pierced his chest countless times, turning it into a sieve, he still tried to land his fists on the young man. Yet, despite being mere steps away, the distance seemed insurmountable. After four successive impacts, blood gushed from his chest, and his face became a mask of crimson as he swayed unsteadily. His final, life-draining punch barely grazed his opponent’s shoulder before he collapsed, his eyes filled with bitter resentment.
Before the burly man had even fully succumbed, the minor grandmaster’s blade was wrenched from his grasp, and Xu Fengnian casually slapped his chest, sending him flying.
The short old man paid no heed to his comrades’ deaths. With a twist of his body, he kicked up a whirlwind of dust, obscuring his movements. His “spear-dragging” hand flicked out a hidden weapon—his infamous, treacherous projectile—while his other hand, previously pressed to his chest, released a streak of white light. Two crisp *dings* later, Xu Fengnian, unmoved, seized the old man’s head and lifted him slowly. The old man, lips still sealed, offered no resistance. Instead, he grinned savagely at the young man before him and spat out his true killing move—a hidden sword concealed beneath his tongue!
This frail old man, who had spent his entire life grasping only half a step into the Zhixuan Realm, was known in the Northern Wilderness’s dark martial world as the “Sword-Spitting Elder.” Countless masters of equal standing had fallen to his unexpected “mouth-borne” flying sword. Yet, in his final moments, he witnessed something unbelievable—his half-inch flying sword hovered in the air between them, frozen in place. Before his skull was crushed into pulp by Xu Fengnian’s grip, he caught a glimpse of a *real* flying sword intercepting his own.
Meanwhile, the blade master who had been sent flying by Xu Fengnian’s slap—shocked to find himself unharmed—suddenly felt a searing pain in his chest. As he crashed to the ground, he realized a crossbow bolt, thick as a spear, had impaled him.
On the ramparts of Hutou City, a crossbowman named Jiang Wensheng—a young but exceptionally skilled marksman—was slapped hard on the back of the head by his furious battalion chief.
“Damn it, Jiang Wensheng!” the chief roared. “Are you a Northern Wilderness spy? Missing the siege tower is one thing, but nearly hitting our prince?! Just four or five steps off! Do you even want to be a crossbowman anymore? Get lost—I’ll do it myself!”
Jiang Wensheng, his face still bandaged from a recent arrow wound, didn’t dare utter a word. The chief, about to shove him aside, hesitated when he saw the crude dressing. The kid had lost a chunk of his cheek to an enemy arrow two weeks prior, yet he’d gritted his teeth and stayed on the wall without complaint.
“Chief, look!” a loader suddenly shouted.
Not just their unit, but nearby crossbowmen all gaped in awe.
On the distant battlefield, Xu Fengnian sheathed his Liang Blade and yanked the bolt from the corpse, wielding it like a spear as he advanced.
The nearby units grumbled in envy—*Damn it, Battalion C’s really showing off today!*
The chief chuckled and slapped Jiang Wensheng’s head again. “Still hurt?”
The young soldier grinned, then winced as the motion tugged at his wound. “Hell no!”
The chief bellowed to his men, “Quit gawking! Enemy at two hundred paces—ballistae as usual, the rest switch to foot-bows! Ride those Northern savages like you’re riding your women!”
On the battlefield, Xu Fengnian raised the bolt, gazing ahead.
Far behind enemy lines, Dong Zhuo narrowed his eyes, his expression dark. Death was expected—especially with Xu Fengnian in the fray—but if his elite martial artists died too cheaply, he’d be furious. His younger wife, ever jealous of his noble-born first wife, whispered, “Sending them in waves to die like this might not last until Tuoba Pusa arrives. You should withdraw and let the first-rank masters—especially those at the Zhixuan Realm—harass him from a distance. Wear him down slowly.”
Dong Zhuo smirked. “A guest won’t sit at the table without appetizers. And if Xu Fengnian refuses to play? Fine. For every master he kills today, I’ll make Hutou City carry away a hundred more corpses. Let’s see who runs out of patience first. I’ve got the numbers to spare.”
He suddenly barked, “Orders! Cui Hong takes fifteen thousand infantry forward. Tell the front-line commanders: no retreat until half their men are dead! Deploy executioners—any who flee, kill them and punish their clans!”
As messengers galloped off, Dong Zhuo tapped his teeth. “Or maybe I should make them fight until only five hundred remain.”
His wife shuddered. “Husband… isn’t that too extreme?”
Dong Zhuo’s voice turned icy. “Only by breaking Hutou City will my army truly rival the Northern Liang’s thirty thousand.”
And once they crushed the Xu family’s iron cavalry? No force in the world could stand against them. Every life lost here today might save ten in the Central Plains later. A fair trade.
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