Chapter 345: The Final Battle

The two armies stood in opposition. Before the battle lines, a black-robed youth held aloft the corpses of two ravens clad in armor. Before the cavalry behind him charged, he hurled the bodies high into the air toward Dong Zhuo’s forces. They crashed to the ground, splattering into two heaps of pulp. This provocation made the eight thousand cavalry behind Dong’s banner clench their teeth in fury, grip their spears tighter, and instinctively tighten their knees around their horses’ bellies. These veteran soldiers, hardened by years on the battlefield, used every moment to secure their weapons within their saddle hooks. Once the formations clashed, the earlier they seized their heavy sabers, the greater their chances of killing—and surviving.

A vivid banner, black with red characters, flapped in the wind. For Dong Zhuo’s forces stationed on the windward plain, the rushing wind would somewhat slow their horses’ gallop. Yet, the moment the veterans lifted their heads to glimpse the crimson character ” Dong” (Dong), all distractions vanished. They awaited only General Dong’s command to crush this weary enemy, half their number, into dust.

Many of the cavalry silently recited a simple folk rhyme: Dong’s warriors wield blades and spears on horseback; they die beside their steeds, or on them.

Dong Zhuo held a green-spring spear, once the treasure of Ti Bingshan (Raise-the-Troop Mountain). When Dong Zhuo married into the family, the mountain chief presented it as a dowry. Behind Dong Zhuo rode the Eighteen Riders. Their horses and armor were unremarkable, unlike Dong’s cavalry who uniformly carried spears and hung items from their saddles. These eighteen chose whatever weapons suited them best, with over half carrying swords at their waists. Their faces lacked the grim killing aura of seasoned veterans, appearing instead relaxed. Yet, the commanding officers nearby—renowned for their arrogance—showed no disdain, especially when glancing at an unarmed, thin old man seated on horseback. They regarded him with genuine reverence. After all, the second-in-command of Ti Bingshan was not a seat anyone could claim.

The youth, accompanied by a massive black tiger, began to run. Dong Zhuo’s green-spring spear, previously pointing downward, suddenly lifted and pointed forward.

The two armies charged simultaneously. When two cavalry forces engage, advantage does not necessarily lie with the one that charges first. If the distance is too great, morale wanes after the initial surge, and the force of the first spear strike diminishes. However, in this clash, the distance between the opposing forces ensured both could reach peak speed and impact.

The earth trembled beneath the pounding hooves, and yellow dust filled the air.

The two lines surged forward like tidal waves.

In ordinary cavalry battles, whether through whistles or shouts, riders often vocalized to bolster their courage. Some skilled horsemen, fearing their steeds might shy away during the final approach, would cover their horses’ eyes with cloths to prevent hesitation. However, the four thousand Longxiang cavalry and eight thousand Dong Zhuo forces acted unusually—neither side took such precautions. Riders and steeds moved in perfect unison, creating a silent, iron-blooded rhythm. The sixty-plus warriors of Ti Bingshan, led by the Eighteen Riders, and the four thousand cavalry charged forward. Dong Zhuo remained mounted, two thousand skirmishers behind him, while another two thousand curved around the battlefield’s flanks, bypassing the front to strike the weaker Longxiang forces with a spearhead formation.

Dong Zhuo waited, ready to deliver the decisive blow.

The first contact between the two forces was brutal and immediate.

A Longxiang rider and a Dong Zhuo cavalryman simultaneously pierced each other’s armor with their spears. Their horses kept charging, and they discarded their spears, drawing blades. As they passed each other, each swung a slash. One Longxiang rider cleaved off a northern barbarian’s head. Ignoring his own wound, he dodged a spear by turning his head, then tried to strike a desperate blow—only to be pierced by another Dong Zhuo rider’s spear. The spear bent under the force of the blow. The dying Northern Liang soldier threw his cool blade with one hand while gripping the spear lodged in his body. The enemy rider released the spear, drew his sword, deflected the flying blade, and continued charging forward in silence.

Two riders collided head-on, their horses’ skulls shattering. The riders leapt from their saddles, thrusting their spears into each other’s chests. Both fell backward, still gripping their spears. Before they could rise to fight on foot, the following cavalry from both sides readied their spears to pierce their heads.

Powerful riders could impale an enemy with one spear, then, using the momentum of their galloping horse, pull the spear free and strike again. A Longxiang cavalry captain viciously drove his spear through two northern barbarians, their corpses still skewered together like meat on a skewer when they fell from their horses.

He gripped a spear under his arm, yanking a Dong Zhuo rider off his horse who had hesitated to release his spear. With one slash, he cleaved off half the rider’s head and his entire shoulder.

A wounded Northern Meng cavalryman, still alive despite his injuries, hacked at a Northern Liang horse’s leg before dying.

The two armies clashed in a brutal melee, each clash deciding life and death in an instant. Except for a few skilled officers who kept their spears and continued striking enemies as they rode, no one could leisurely advance through the battlefield surrounded by dozens of riders, sweeping away enemies with a single spear. Nor could anyone engage in a duel lasting dozens of rounds with an equal opponent and then turn to fight again. Only one exception existed: in the center of the long battle line, a large hollow circle formed. Earlier, the black-robed youth had leapt into the air, only to be struck in the chest by the unarmed hands of a thin old man. He crashed to the ground, then was surrounded by the Eighteen Riders, some dismounted, all attacking and entangling him. In the Spring and Autumn period, any general who entered the fray in person inevitably became a target of relentless attacks. Around such figures, bodies and blood piled like a chopping block. Xu Longxiang, the black-robed, barefoot general, had led his army into Northern Meng territory. Even after being targeted and blocked in Wazhu, he had not truly been halted until today.

The old man in green robes was Gong Pu of Ti Bingshan, second only to the mountain chief. His inner strength was formidable, honed through years of duels with the mountain master. The remaining seventeen riders were all warriors capable of facing a hundred enemies. Added to them were over forty Penglai bearers from Ti Bingshan—each over ten feet tall, naturally strong, and trained in martial arts. They soaked in medicinal baths, forging their bodies to the “false King Kong” (pseudo King Kong) level revered in the martial world. Unfortunately, they faced Xu Longxiang, born with King Kong (Diamond) strength. Once the youth got close, tearing at them meant dismemberment. Within the large circle, over a dozen limbless Penglai bearers already lay dead.

At this moment, Xu Longxiang ignored a Ti Bingshan swordsman’s stab to his back, punching through a bearer’s chest and slowly pulling out the heart, tossing it aside. The sword pierced his back, and the middle-aged swordsman was stunned—this youth clearly did not rely on circulating qi to protect his body from blades. After thirty years immersed in swordsmanship, he prided himself on his skill. His sword struck the youth’s heart, yet no matter how he increased the sword’s force, it could not pierce even a fraction of flesh.

The black-robed youth moved slowly, then faster than thought. Finding the sword too dull, he leaned back, deliberately pressing against the sword’s glowing tip. Before the swordsman could release the blade, the once-famous sword bent under the pressure and snapped. The youth leaned back too quickly; not only did the sword break, but the swordsman himself was thrown backward, his chest shattered beyond repair. He drifted back, falling into the yellow earth, dead beyond doubt.

The black tiger roared to the heavens, its claws gripping the indistinct corpse of a Penglai giant. With a slight hook, it reduced the body to pulp, blood soaking the sand.

The tiger lunged at the nearest giant.

Not In a hurry engaging the black-robed youth in close combat, Gong Pu shouted in fury: “Fiendish beast!”

The tiger was struck mid-air by Gong Pu’s palm, flying sideways. It slid another fifty feet before shaking its head and rising. A Ti Bingshan warrior charged with a spear, thrusting it a foot into the tiger’s back. Unfazed by pain, the tiger crouched, then burst forward, killing both rider and horse. The tiger, once the mount of Qi Xuanzhen, bit through the waist of the spearman. The sight was horrifying.

The demon-slaying tiger, having submitted to the black-robed youth at Zhanmotai, swung its tail—iron-hard and whip-like—carving a blood groove from head to chest in a Penglai bearer behind it. It lunged forward, knocking down another fearless giant. The giant, face flushed red, braced his hands against the tiger’s mouth, preventing it from biting. The tiger smashed its head downward, breaking the man’s arms and driving his head into the soil.

Furious, Gong Pu rushed over, kicking the tiger airborne, rolling over a dozen cavalrymen from both sides.

Xu Longxiang paid no heed to the tiger’s battle. With a casual sweep of his arm, he cut a Ti Bingshan swordsman in half at the waist, grabbing the upper half and swinging it in a circle, smashing another Penglai giant’s chest into pulp.

An old swordsman with a wooden expression wielded his blade like pear blossoms falling in rain. Each strike landed on the barefoot youth, using the rebound to retreat several feet, repeating this back and forth. In an instant, he struck ninety times—targeting hands, feet, head, cheeks, heart, abdomen—each strike ringing like metal on stone. The old swordsman sought the young demon’s weak point. When his blade reached the youth’s forehead, he saw the young monster, rivaling Meng Luoyang of Northern Meng, grin widely. As the sword slightly bent and rebounded, the swordsman, incorporating Daoist footwork into his movements, took a step forward. But the youth instantly appeared before him, punching his left ear. The old man barely deflected seven or eight parts of the force, but the immense power lifted his body into the air like a falling chisel. Xu Longxiang grabbed his feet and drove him into the ground like throwing a spear. The renowned swordsman vanished into the earth, his chest level with the sand. Xu Longxiang lightly kicked off the swordsman’s broken legs, glanced at the abandoned blade, hesitated, then bent to pick it up, tossing it into the air. With both palms pressing the hilt and tip, he crushed the sword into countless fragments. Holding the shards, he looked up, spotting the last two swordsmen. He burst forward, terrifying them into fleeing. One ran too slowly, struck in the face by the youth’s palm, his mouth shattered into pieces, his face unrecognizable. A proud swordsman died, fed by sword shards—an ironic, pitiful end.

The other swordsman survived only because a Penglai giant sacrificed himself. His courage shattered, he abandoned all thoughts of battle, retreating regardless of punishment from Ti Bingshan, disappearing into the cavalry.

Xu Longxiang, a bloodthirsty killer, tore apart a giant, seeking his next target when Gong Pu struck him with a shoulder charge named “Raise the Mountain,” sending him staggering. Gong Pu, furious, charged forward, each step leaving a crater. His fists tore through the air, carrying wind and sand, delivering a mighty blow. Xu Longxiang lifted off the ground, kicking Gong Pu’s shoulder. Both retreated, sliding twenty feet apart, then stopped simultaneously. Like the cavalry, they charged again. Gong Pu punched the youth’s forehead; the youth punched his chest. Around them, a vast circle of yellow sand erupted outward.

Xu Longxiang spat blood, striking his right fist into his left palm, grinning savagely.

Gong Pu wiped blood from his nostrils.

Once a battle involves over ten thousand troops, and both sides fight to the last soldier without surrender or retreat, such battles are rare before the Spring and Autumn period. During the Spring and Autumn period, only the Battle of the Concubine’s Tomb was recorded. There, Yuan Zuozong, the second-in-command of the Butcher of Men, held off the elite four thousand heavy cavalry of Western Chu with sixteen thousand light cavalry, allowing the Xu family army (not yet named Northern Liang) to encircle Western Chu strategically, forcing their entire front to retreat. This led to the decisive Battle of Xilei Wall, known as “One Battle to Settle the Spring and Autumn.” At the Concubine’s Tomb, the sixteen soldiers guarding Yuan Zuozong were ordinary troops, for over thirty officers had already died. Yuan Zuozong led the charge from the start, fighting on horseback and on foot, killing sixteen enemy officers and 170 riders with his silver spear. Without Chen Zhibao’s unauthorized rescue, Yuan Zuozong would have died at Princess Tomb. When the white-clad Chen Zhibao reached the tomb, Yuan Zuozong stood, hands on spear, drenched in blood, his face unrecognizable.

Generally, once a force loses a third of its troops, morale begins to crumble. During the Spring and Autumn period, countless warlords rose in chaos, declaring themselves kings or emperors. Yet, most of these ragtag armies crumbled at the first clash with elite forces, with five or six thousand rebels fleeing before a few hundred cavalry. Few fought to the death. In the Liyang Dynasty, ministers schemed, claiming Gu Jiantang could have quelled the Spring and Autumn chaos had he sat where Xu Xiao did. Yet none considered whether Gu Jiantang could have produced a warrior like Yuan Zuozong or the thirty thousand loyal Northern Liang iron riders.

The battle at Hulu Pass was brutal.

From mid-afternoon, when the two armies charged, until dusk.

Yellow sand filled Hulu Pass, never ceasing.

The four thousand Longxiang and six thousand Dong Zhuo forces fought unprecedentedly, transitioning from mounted to dismounted combat! Had no one witnessed it, none would believe it.

Dong Zhuo’s dominance in the Southern Court, controlling three military garrisons, stemmed from his six thousand “wolf troops” under the Dong banner. When the Empress Regnant inspected the border, she personally asked this “Dong the Fat” whether he would exchange six thousand troops for six thousand to kill a Southern Court King. Her meaning was clear: Dong’s six thousand could destroy any six thousand of the Northern Liang’s thirty thousand cavalry.

As for Dong Zhuo’s cunning reply, none ever knew.

Though Dong Zhuo’s expression remained calm, a half-smile lingered on his lips.

The two thousand skirmishers behind him remained uncommitted.

The Western Line’s beacon system in Northern Meng, including fortified watchtowers, seemed complete but had never endured real warfare. Dong Zhuo saw its hollowness but never mentioned it in court. This time, the eight thousand Longxiang forces advanced deep into enemy territory, reaching Wazhu without a single beacon smoke. Later, after capturing Junzi Pavilion, beacons briefly lit, but then the Southern Court became blind again. Wherever the Longxiang hooves pointed, the hundreds of beacons ahead of Guyu Maolong remained silent. Even Dong Zhuo did not expect the four thousand Longxiang forces to bypass Guyu entirely and instead ambush reinforcements.

“If not for my eight thousand troops, this Longxiang force might have devoured everything, leaving not a bone behind?”

Dong Zhuo still waited.

This sudden battle saw his cavalry gallop swiftly to reinforce Guyu, but they were not fully rested. Compared to the Longxiang forces, who had fought two battles, Dong’s forces still held an advantage. Dong Zhuo expected a four-thousand-versus-four-thousand stalemate, but even with two thousand skirmishers joining, he could not break the Longxiang forces, stretched like a bowstring at its limit.

Dong Zhuo shifted in his saddle, glimpsing the black-robed youth and Gong Pu of Ti Bingshan on the battlefield.

The fat man muttered, “What fighters! I begged my father-in-law for the Eighteen Riders from Ti Bingshan, added over forty Penglai giants, with Master Gong leading them—and still, they’re nearly all slaughtered. After this battle, my wife won’t let me near her bed for days.”

A skirmish commander rode to Dong Zhuo’s side, whispering, “General?”

Dong Zhuo shook his head. “Not yet.”

The commander cautiously asked, “If this stalemate continues, Master Gong might…”

Dong Zhuo cut him off bluntly: “I’m waiting for him to die.”

The commander, seasoned in Dong Zhuo’s campaigns, silently obeyed, expressionless.

The sky darkened like a mischievous child spilling ink on white paper—the more ink, the deeper the night.

As the battle waned, Dong Zhuo waved his hand. The commander quickly approached. The fat man smiled: “Issue the order. Our two thousand riders will hunt that black-robed youth. Focus on him. Ignore the remaining Longxiang forces. Whoever takes the youth’s head can choose: a powerful fourth-rank official in the Southern Court or a promotion of three ranks under my command.”

The commander grinned, nodding: “Understood!”

Dong Zhuo tightened his grip on the green-spring spear, finally ready to join the fray.

Six thousand soldiers for four thousand Longxiang and the head of the Butcher’s second son—was it worth it?

Dong Zhuo sneered: “This time, I’ll make a fortune.”

Fifty li outside Hulu Pass, eight hundred cavalry galloped wildly.

All clad in white armor, riding white horses.

At their head rode a tall, elegant rider wielding a silver spear.