The night sky, still adorned with countless stars, bore silent witness to a series of precision strikes, each executed with the deadly accuracy of a razor-sharp blade slicing through silk. From his elevated vantage point, Luo Wen observed intently, his eyes following the swift and ghostlike movements of his cavalry as they glided across the battlefield, striking with ruthless efficiency wherever the enemy was weakest.
The contingents of the Four Noble Families, emboldened by their numerical superiority, had made a critical miscalculation—they had spread themselves too thin. Makeshift encampments perched at the edges of dense forests, scattered patrols lacking coordination, and small forward units searching for supplies had unknowingly transformed into prime targets, ripe for annihilation.
Zhao Qing and his men wasted no time in seizing the opportunity.
Several leagues away from the main war camp, a patrol of thirty soldiers treaded carefully along a narrow path snaking between rugged hills. Their objective was clear: scout the terrain, secure the supply routes, and report back. What they failed to realize was that they had already been marked. They were being watched.
From his elevated position, Zhao Qing raised his hand in a deliberate motion, and his riders halted at once. Leaning slightly forward in his saddle, he murmured a barely audible command:
"Wait until they enter the pass."
The enemy soldiers marched forward with little discipline, some conversing in hushed tones, others dragging their feet in exhaustion, secure in the belief that the enemy would only dare to attack in open battle. But as the vanguard reached the narrowest point of the pass, a single, piercing neigh shattered the fragile stillness of the night.
From both flanks, Zhao Qing's cavalry surged forth like a tidal wave of steel and death.
The first soldiers barely had time to turn before long, glistening spears punched through their bodies. The cavalry struck in a single sweeping motion, their weapons carving deep wounds before vanishing back into the shadows.
"We're under attack! Shield formation!" bellowed the patrol leader. But his desperate cry was cut short, his body convulsing as a lance impaled him, tearing him from his saddle.
Panic took hold. The surviving soldiers scrambled to regroup, but the cavalry granted them no respite. A second charge crashed into their left flank, followed by a third that smashed into their rear, leaving them encircled and overwhelmed.
In less than five minutes, it was over.
Corpses lay strewn across the ground, the earth damp with their blood. Zhao Qing dismounted, his gaze falling upon the lifeless body of the enemy captain.
"Undisciplined," he muttered with thinly veiled disdain. "They didn't even attempt an orderly retreat."
Beside him, one of his riders smirked.
"That just makes things easier for us."
Zhao Qing nodded, then gestured toward his men.
"Leave the bodies where they fell. I want the next ones who pass through here to understand exactly what awaits them."
The riders carried out his orders without hesitation. Once they ensured there were no survivors left to tell the tale, they mounted their horses and vanished back into the night.
Meanwhile, in another sector of the battlefield, a heavily laden convoy of wagons creaked and groaned as it trudged along the dirt road leading to the enemy camp. Loaded with vital supplies—food, ammunition, and equipment—the wagons were escorted by fifty armed guards, all of whom rode with the easy confidence of men convinced that no one would dare attack such a well-protected caravan.
They were wrong.
Luo Wen had already marked them as prey.
From a nearby hilltop, Luo Wen raised his hand in a silent signal. At once, his riders descended, sweeping down the slope with the speed and force of a violent storm.
The sentries had barely begun to react when the first volley of arrows hissed through the darkness, finding their marks with deadly precision. The drivers of the leading wagons slumped forward, lifeless, as their mounts reared in panic. The carts lurched violently, overturning and blocking the path.
"Ambush! Defend the wagons!"
The captain of the escort tried to rally his men, but the cavalry was already among them.
Lances pierced armor as though it were paper, blades sliced effortlessly through flesh. The enemy soldiers struggled to reorganize, but the attack had been too sudden, too overwhelming.
One desperate guard attempted to flee, urging his horse forward in a bid to escape with one of the supply wagons. But before he could get far, Luo Wen himself intervened. With a fluid motion, he spun his lance and drove it into the man's back, sending him sprawling lifelessly onto the dirt.
The remaining soldiers, realizing they were hopelessly surrounded, dropped their weapons in surrender.
Zhao Rui, one of Luo Wen's trusted commanders, dismounted and studied the defeated men with a cold, unreadable gaze.
"What should we do with them?" he asked.
Luo Wen approached slowly, taking in the scene before him.
"Burn the food stores," he ordered. "We have no need for their supplies. But they do."
Horror dawned on the faces of the captured soldiers as they watched the flames consume the provisions they had risked their lives to protect.
Before any of them could voice their protest, Zhao Rui gave a subtle wave of his hand. A heartbeat later, arrows whistled through the air, and the prisoners slumped lifelessly to the ground.
The fire raged on, casting eerie, flickering shadows across the battlefield, illuminating the pools of blood that darkened the earth. Luo Wen watched the destruction in silence, his expression unreadable.
"Let's leave," he finally said. "Before reinforcements arrive."
By the time the first survivors of scattered patrols stumbled back into the main enemy camp, fear had already sunk its claws deep into the hearts of their comrades.
Men whispered to one another in hushed, trembling voices. Some were pale, their hands unsteady as they recounted the horrors they had witnessed.
"They're hunting us…"
"Every patrol that leaves doesn't come back."
"How do we fight an enemy we can't even see?"
When word reached An Lu, his temper exploded like a thunderclap. He slammed his fist onto the heavy wooden table before him, his face contorted with rage.
"Cowards!" he bellowed. "How is it possible that a mere handful of cavalry has us cowering like frightened children?"
One of his officers, his features tense with barely contained dread, leaned in cautiously.
"My lord… it is not merely a handful of riders. This is a war of the mind. A war of fear."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with implication.
Luo Wen's cavalry was not just inflicting casualties. They were dismantling the enemy's morale, corroding their discipline, and sowing chaos in their ranks.
By the time the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, the war had yet to begin in earnest…
But Luo Wen was already winning it.