Chapter 132

Chapter 132

Blood soaked into the dying sunlight, a curtain of arrows rose, blotting out the sky. Lai Kui pulled his blade from the chest of a Xiaomi soldier.

He didn't have time to look closely. A shadow fell overhead, and a dense hail of arrows crashed down, blotting out the sky.

He rolled to the side, an arrow hitting the spot where he had just stood, its tail still quivering.

The man beside him wasn't as lucky—an arrow pierced his neck, blood spurting three feet.

The second wave came.

The enemy's horn call was deep and long, like a beast showing its fangs, tearing open a final gap in the twilight.

In the distance, the sounds of battle continued, but it was impossible to tell friend from foe. Lai Kui lay on the ground, face pressed into the mud, the stench of blood filling his nostrils, the thud of arrows hitting the ground like hail, like a muffled drumbeat, like someone hammering this broken world apart.

He didn't know how long it lasted. Then the sound stopped.

He lifted his head. Bodies lay everywhere—some Xiaomi soldiers, some from the Jing Kingdom, mixed together, indistinguishable.

Blood seeped into the soil, turning the earth a deep brown. When he stepped on it, it felt sticky, like his feet were stuck.

"Get up! Everyone, get the hell up!"

Lai Kui heard his own sergeant shouting.

He gritted his teeth, using his sword to push himself up. His legs were weak, his knees covered in mud and blood, and every time he tried to stand, each step felt like sinking into a hole.

The sergeant ran over from the front, his face splattered with blood, eyes red like he wanted to eat someone alive: "Can you stand?"

Lai Kui nodded.

"Then get to the front! Don't let those bastards break through!"

Lai Kui charged forward with the others. Suddenly, a chill struck his back.

Something pierced him, its momentum shoving him forward and making him stumble.

He looked down and saw an arrow shaft protruding from below his shoulder, blood streaming down his back.

He wasn't dead. He could still move.

He gritted his teeth and snapped off the arrow shaft, leaving a piece still embedded in his flesh. He ignored the pain as more enemies charged at him.

He swung his blade, the impact numbing his hand.

The man fell, but more came.

There was no end to them. No matter how many he killed, more appeared. Ahead, men—his own, the enemy—crowded together, locked in combat, killing each other.

His blade grew dull, so he used his fists. When his fists went weak, he used his teeth.

In the distance, a Xiaomi soldier, held down by two men, had lost his spear. He clawed at the other man's eyes, bloodying his hands. The man screamed and fell, but another struck the soldier's neck with his blade.

The soldier's head fell to the side, his eyes still open, staring right at Lai Kui.

For a moment, Lai Kui was stunned.

Was this still the world of the living?

Another volley of arrows fell.

Closer now, much closer. An arrow whistled past Lai Kui's ear, buzzing like a hornet.

He kept his head down and charged. His foot caught on something and he fell into a pit.

Someone was already in the pit—a wounded soldier from the Jing Kingdom, his belly torn open, his guts spilling out, which he was trying to shove back in.

When he saw Lai Kui, he gave a pale, bloodless grin.

"Brother," he said, "give me a hand."

Lai Kui shut his eyes for a moment, then slit his comrade's throat in one clean stroke.

He climbed out of the pit. Ahead, fewer and fewer of his soldiers remained. The sergeant was gone. Lai Kui searched the chaos, spotted a figure surrounded by four or five enemies, blocking a spear with his arm.

The sergeant blocked two strikes, then fell.

A roar tore from Lai Kui's throat. He tried to charge forward but was intercepted.

A spear whistled toward him. He parried, kicked, and charged again, only to be stopped once more.

He killed one, then another. Still more came.

He couldn't kill them all.

He couldn't break through.

He watched those men trample the sergeant into the mud, never to rise again.

Everywhere he looked, there was only chaos and crimson—the blood of men, the sun glinting off blades.

This was not the world of men.

This was hell.

A battlefield of demons.

Screams, fear. Men had lost all consciousness, raising their blades or spears, slaughtering each other, locked together.

Human life was no longer human life.

Lai Kui stepped back, his foot landing on something soft.

He looked down—a hand still clutching a blade. The hand's owner was gone, face-down, his back filled with arrows.

He stepped around the hand and continued retreating.

One step, two steps. Fewer and fewer men around him. The enemy kept pressing forward, a dark tide, like a flood, like ants—like anything but men.

He could see the face of the one in the front. It was a demon, a blood-smeared evil ghost charging at him.

Was he afraid?

Yes, afraid.

Lai Kui raised his blade. The blade was chipped and dull. His hand was shaking. He knew he couldn't stop them. He knew charging forward this time meant he wouldn't make it back. He knew his life would end right here, today.

Was he afraid?

He felt no more fear.

He tightened his grip on the blade, waiting for his own head to fall.

Then, he heard another sound.

A sharp eagle’s screech rang out from the sky.

Looking up, a dark brown figure spread its wings fully, soaring high in the ninefold heavens, looking down upon the two masses of people, upon everything below.

It was majestic, yet effortless.

“What is that?!” the Xiaomi soldiers exclaimed in shock.

It was the horn of Death, a bird from the north.

Before anyone could react, the ground began to tremble violently.

The sound came from afar, deep and heavy, louder than thunder—as if an enraged god's thunderbolt struck the earth, driving into people’s bones, making the ground shake beneath their feet and their ears ring with a hum.

The sound grew closer and heavier, as if the earth might crack open, as if something were pushing up from underground.

Dust and smoke rolled wildly into the air, like the prelude to a raging thunder god’s punishment upon the world.

Everyone around was listening. The enemy was listening. All had stopped, looking in the same direction.

In the distance, a dark mass burst forth from the horizon. It moved, expanded, and pressed forward.

Blotting out the sky and covering the hills and plains, like a black storm that seemed to rise from the ground.

At the highest point was a banner, the characters on it too blurred to read.

At the forefront was a horse, its rider’s face unclear.

The sun had fully set. The last glimmer of light fell upon the banner, casting a long shadow that lay across puddles of blood, beside those who would never rise again.

Laikui saw the people around him shouting again, but he couldn’t make out the words—only a buzzing in his ears.

After several shouts, he finally made out the words.

“It’s the Nan banner! Reinforcements are here! We’re saved!!”

The sound of hooves tore through the sky like a rending cloth. Thousands of troops merged into a torrent, crashing into the battlefield like a hammer striking an anvil, like a fierce waterfall plunging into a deathly still lake.

The anvil and the lake had no right to refuse—they erupted into a boil.

“Kill!!”

Nan Wuxie charged at the very front, his blade already drawn. With a flash, one man fell; with a second flash, another fell.

Kill.

No one could stand before him.

The banner drew closer, like a moving boundary, leveling the battlefield inch by inch.

The golden eagle overhead was like a judge of the underworld in the dark of night—even the shadow of its passing made men's legs go weak. Its crude beak tore into enemy heads, sending brains and blood flying.

It felt even more like the inferno itself.

The enemy troops that had been surging forward began to retreat: three steps, then a pause; five steps, then a pause; then they retreated without stopping.

The army followed their commander like a moving iron curtain, crashing, grinding its way forward.

The enemy formation collapsed completely.

Those in front still charged forward; those in the back began to flee. Those in the middle were squeezed into a mess. Some fell and were trampled by their own. Some shouted, but their voices were drowned out. The formation collapsed like an avalanche, like mud sliding apart.

The banner kept moving forward—cutting in, piercing in, grinding in.

Where it passed, not a single enemy remained standing.

They began to run, throwing aside their weapons, shoving down their own comrades to run, getting up and running again. More died from trampling than from the blade.

It was as if Death itself had descended to the mortal world. It was the hope of life and the symphony of annihilation. Nan Wuxie’s eyes were empty; his cloak flew in the wind. He slaughtered everything in this world, with only the sound of the wind and no hope of survival.

Only when the Xiaomi army was completely driven out did the banner rein in and halt. This line cut off all Xiaomi fighters.

On one side were the living; on this side, the soon-to-be dead.

Laikui stood still, staring at the banner. His blade was still raised but could not hold it up. Blood still flowed, yet he could no longer feel it. He looked at the banner, watched the man beneath it dismount, watched him take a step forward, watched the great bird land on his shoulder.

Just one step, and then the man stopped, gazing at the blood-soaked land.

Laikui opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He drove his sword into the ground, leaned on it, and slowly knelt. He knelt among the fallen, beside those who would never rise again, and then he did not move again.

A wind blew from the north, mixing the stench of blood and charred flesh.

The moon had climbed above the treetops. Nan Wuxie stood before Chao Xiaochen’s bed.

***

The man on the bed was in even worse shape than the military report had indicated. Chao Xiaochen leaned against thick bedding, his face ashen, eyes sunken. White bandages were wrapped from his left shoulder to his chest, stained with a yellowish mixture of pus and medicine.

He opened his eyes, saw the man by his bedside, and froze.

“Marquis…?”

He struggled to sit up, but Nan Wuxie pressed him back down.

“Stay down.”

Chao Xiaochen did not move again. He looked at Nan Wuxie, his lips trembled. After a long moment, he said in a hoarse voice: “I… I have disgraced you, Marquis.”

Uncle. This was the uncle who had watched over Nan Wuxie grow up. The uncle who, when Nan Chunfeng could not return in the past, had gone to the capital to report in the marshal’s stead, and without even going home first, had come to see Nan Wuxie.

And yet, now he was Nan Wuxie’s subordinate.

Nan Wuxie ignored the remark. He sat down by the bed, lifted the bandage on Chao Xiaochen’s shoulder to glance at it, then covered it up again.

“Did it hit the lung?”

“The arrowhead grazed the lung lobe,” Chao Xiaochen said lightly. “The army doctor said if it had been half an inch to the side, I’d be paying the King of Hell a visit right now.”

Nan Wuxie didn’t smile. He stared at the yellow-stained cloth. After a moment, he asked: “Who did it?”

Chao Xiaochen hesitated, then gave a bitter smile. “Just a nobody. A new trick from the Xiaomi people. They specially trained a group of archers to hide behind the formation and aim for the commanders.”

He shook his head. "It was this general's carelessness."

Nan Wuxie nodded and asked no further.

The tent fell silent. The candle flame flickered, casting their shadows long and short by turns.

"Can you still move?"

"Can't," said Chao Xiaochen. "The army surgeon said I need to rest for at least four or five months. And after that, whether I can get back on a horse is another matter."

Nan Wuxie nodded again, stood up, walked to the tent entrance, lifted the flap, and glanced outside.

It was pitch black out there, with only a few scattered torches swaying in the wind.

"Get some rest, Uncle," he said as he let the flap fall and turned back. "I'll come again tomorrow."

Chao Xiaochen watched his retreating figure, then suddenly spoke. "Marquis."

Nan Wuxie stopped.

"...There's not enough grain," Chao Xiaochen said, his voice low and trembling. "Not enough money, either. And the men... less than half remain. You need to be aware of the numbers."

Nan Wuxie didn't turn around, just gave a soft grunt in acknowledgment. "Rest easy, Uncle."

Then he lifted the flap and stepped out.

The command tent was brightly lit with candles. Several rough wooden tables were pushed together, piled high with documents, account books, and maps. Wei Qinghe and Wu Ye stood with their hands at their sides. Nan Wuxie sat at the head, three ledgers spread before him.

One for grain, one for silver, one for personnel.

"Full strength was eighteen thousand. Now we have fewer than six thousand battle-ready troops." Nan Wuxie gave a cold scoff, glanced at the ledger again, then closed it. "The existing grain supplies can support us for at most twenty days."

He stacked the three ledgers together, set them aside, and leaned back into his chair. The candlelight cast his face half in light, half in shadow.

"Zi Tan, you tell me—what do we fight a war with?"

Wei Qinghe knew the answer, but Nan Wuxie answered himself: "Men, money, grain. Short on men, short on grain, no money—this war can't be fought."

Wei Qinghe and Wu Ye exchanged glances and both lowered their heads.

Nan Wuxie stared at the dancing candle flame on the table.

"No one dares guarantee when the court's funds will arrive, and no one dares guarantee when the grain from the various prefectures will be transported here." He paused, his voice dropping. "Then these six thousand mouths—what will they eat tomorrow? The day after? The day after that? Who's going to guarantee that?"

No one answered. The candle flame leaped again.

Nan Wuxie looked up at the heavy darkness outside. In the distance, campfire lights flickered. Soldiers sat around the fires in twos and threes, some leaning on each other's shoulders, some with their heads down lost in thought. Further beyond was impenetrable blackness.

As a child, his father would sit for a long time in the study like this before going on campaign.

Back then, he didn't understand what his father was thinking.

Now he understood.

He clenched his fist, and let out a long, nasal sigh.

"Pass the order: from tomorrow, all officers report to the tent at the Mao hour (5–7 AM). Report by unit—how many men, how many blades, how many arrows, how many warhorses still fit to run. I want it all clear and accounted for." He paused. "Also send men to the surrounding prefectures—ask them for every grain they can transfer, borrow, or sell. At any cost, just get the grain in first."

Wei Qinghe and Wu Ye exchanged looks again. "Marquis, the surrounding prefectures aren't well-stocked either, I'm afraid—"

"Whether we're afraid or not isn't the issue," Nan Wuxie cut him off. "Go and ask. We'll talk about it after."

Wei Qinghe didn't dare say another word. Nan Wuxie swept his gaze over the three ledgers, then said to no one in particular, "I know you all have doubts. The Zhennan Army's soldiers haven't seen me command; they don't know what kind of man I am. That's fine."

A brutal battle had just been fought, with lost territory and depleted supplies—this was the most pressing pressure. Li Sheng once said something very realistic: the commander-in-chief is everything. But right now, these soldiers might not necessarily listen to Nan Wuxie. He had just taken over, and internal logistics were a tangled mess of details. Solving these practical problems was his best chance to establish his authority as commander-in-chief.

Of course, if he couldn't solve them, then he was finished.

"So, let them see if I can solve them," Nan Wuxie continued.

The tent fell quiet again.

Everyone's shadows flickered restlessly.

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Author's note: Hmm, I thought long and hard about which perspective to use for this battle scene. In the end, I decided to sketch an ordinary soldier. Seeing the whole process through his eyes can more precisely convey what I want to express. He hasn't appeared before this, and he won't appear again after. Ah, well.