Dawn broke like an open wound across the battlefield. The sky, still cloaked in the lingering shades of gray, was beginning to lighten, but the light that crept in brought no hope—only an ominous forewarning of what was to come. Before the fluttering banners of An Lu, Yuan Guo, the Four Great Families, and others, thousands upon thousands of men stood waiting—wrapped in a tension so thick and suffocating that it pressed against their chests more forcefully than any armor ever could.
They were not noble-born warriors, nor were they seasoned veterans hardened by years of warfare. These men were peasants, craftsmen, petty thieves who had been pardoned in exchange for their service—children of hunger and desperation. Their armor was a mismatched collection of scraps. Some wore pieces fashioned from hardened leather, others donned nothing more than patched and worn-out clothing. They wielded crooked spears, chipped swords, and unbalanced wooden shields that looked as though they could splinter on the first blow.
And yet, despite it all, they were here.
Across the valley, stretching like a dark tide, stood the army of Luo Wen. Formations that stood in perfect alignment, soldiers disciplined and focused, ranks of spearmen at the front, archers stationed in the rear, and above all, that feared cavalry—its riders cloaked in black, their banners billowing like omens of death in the wind. It was a professional army. Trained. Precise. Deadly.
From a small hill that overlooked the vast terrain, Yuan Guo stood silently among his officers. He said not a word. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, as though they could pierce through the smoke that had not yet risen. He knew exactly what he was about to command. He knew exactly how many would perish.
At his side, An Lu gritted his teeth. "They're ready," he said quietly, as though each word weighed heavily upon his soul.
"Then light the signal," Yuan Guo replied, his gaze never wavering.
An officer stepped forward, raised a torch, and set the signal tower ablaze. In mere seconds, thick black smoke began to rise into the sky, visible to every militia man standing on the front lines.
There were no heroic cries. No thunderous drums.
Only a silence that was broken by the growing murmur of footsteps.
Then that murmur turned into a thunderous roar.
Thousands of feet struck the earth.
The charge had begun.
For the militia, it was not a glorious march into battle. It was an act of sheer desperation. They advanced not with confidence but with the grim understanding that they were the expendables—the cannon fodder. Some shouted in a feeble attempt at courage, others screamed out of sheer terror. Some clutched their weapons with white-knuckled grips; others whispered prayers to gods in whom they had long since lost faith.
Their mission was clear: to break the enemy's line—or, at the very least, to weaken it enough so that the elite troops behind them could strike effectively. They were to absorb the initial impact. To die, if necessary. And deep down, every one of them knew that it would, in fact, be necessary.
One among them, a youth named Lin Shan, ran with sweat already pouring down his face long before the enemy had even begun to shoot. He was barely sixteen. He carried a spear whose head he had sharpened himself using a river stone. Beside him ran an old blacksmith with a stooped back, wielding a sword that seemed far too heavy for his frail arms. Neither had ever taken a life before.
"Don't look back!" someone shouted.
Lin Shan obeyed.
On the other side of the valley, the ranks of Luo Wen's army tightened. Captains bellowed orders, archers took aim.
And then, the arrows came.
They darkened the sky for a single, fleeting moment. Then they fell.
The first volley was devastating. Dozens of militiamen were struck mid-run, pierced in the air, screaming as they collapsed onto the ground.
But the rest did not stop.
They screamed louder. They ran faster.
A second wave of arrows descended. More bodies fell. Some writhed in agony; others moved no more.
And still, the human tide pressed forward.
From the rear, Yuan Guo closed his eyes for just a moment. Every second the militiamen held, every inch they gained, was a small triumph. But the cost was terrible.
An Lu understood. "Their morale will only hold if they keep moving forward. If they're stopped before they reach the line…"
"They won't be stopped," Yuan Guo replied. Not with hope. With resolve.
In the distance, the first militiamen collided with the enemy's spear line.
And then came the crash.
The sound was dry, brutal, unforgiving. Men were impaled, knocked aside, trampled. Some managed to break through, driven by desperation. They swung their weapons with wild abandon—as though their very lives depended on it, because they did.
One, two, three enemy soldiers fell. But for each of them, five militiamen died.
Not all charged forward with equal determination.
When the first enemy volley opened holes in their ranks and bodies dropped like broken puppets, terror spread like wildfire. Some men dropped their spears. Others collapsed to their knees, trembling. A handful turned and ran in panic, trying to flee back to the hills from where they had come.
"Get back! I don't want to die!" cried one, a thin young man with smoke-streaked cheeks.
"This isn't our war!" shouted another, wild-eyed, stumbling over his own feet.
But there was no escape.
From the flanks, Yuan Guo's cavalry emerged like shadows stalking prey. Riders clad in dark armor, bearing no banners, no symbols, no mercy. Their swords were already drawn. Their expressions were cold and unfeeling. These were not foes. They were enforcers of discipline.
One deserter raised his hands as the riders neared, begging for mercy.
"Please! I can't do this! I just can't!"
A sword slashed down, silencing him in a single stroke.
Another dropped to his knees, sobbing. His helmet was crushed beneath a horse's hoof. The rider didn't even glance down.
One by one, the cowards were hunted like diseased animals—not with hatred, but with icy efficiency. It was the order. And the order had to be fulfilled.
"Forward or die where you stand!" roared one of the cavalry captains, his voice thundering above the cacophony of hooves.
The men realized, with terrible clarity, that there was no choice left. Die ahead or die behind. The only escape was through the enemy lines.
And so, driven by fear and by the blade, the stragglers resumed their charge. They were no longer soldiers. They were cornered animals, forced to face a fate they scarcely understood.
Behind them, the cavalry remained still, forming a wall of iron that sealed off all retreat.
For in Yuan Guo's army, the only retreat permitted was that of the dead.
Young Lin Shan stumbled over a corpse, rolled across the dirt, and rose only to drive his spear into an enemy's gut. He didn't know if the man died. He only knew he had to keep moving. He had to move forward, or he would die where he stood.
A horse thundered past him. A Luo Wen cavalryman cut through the ranks with brutal efficiency. Lin Shan screamed and dove aside. The rider's spear missed his face by mere inches.
The chaos was total.
But then, emerging through the smoke, new silhouettes began to take shape.
Elite troops.
From the hill, An Lu raised his standard high.
"Now!" he bellowed.
And from behind the militiamen, came soldiers clad in dark armor, bearing iron shields and heavy swords. They did not scream. They did not charge with wild fury. They marched with precision, with unshakable discipline. They were the blade after the storm.
The enemy, still reeling from the chaotic wave of the militia charge, was not prepared for the second assault.
Yuan Guo spoke to himself, his voice barely above a whisper—as if offering a solemn prayer:
"Let their deaths not be in vain."