The thunderous roar of the war drums still echoed across the valley when Luo Wen lifted his gaze toward the distant horizon. The morning mist, heavy and slow to retreat, was beginning to lift, unveiling the chaos that had already begun to unfold on the battlefield. A tide of militiamen surged forward like an unleashed storm, crashing into the very center of his army with the relentless fury of waves breaking against ancient stone.
From the elevated ridge where he had established his command post, Luo Wen watched every movement with the piercing focus of a hawk scanning for weakness. He studied every shifting formation, every break in the line, every hesitation in the flow of battle. His expression remained stoic, carved from stone, yet a faint tightening around his eyes betrayed the weight of his concern. His soldiers were disciplined, yes—hardened, battle-tested—but the wave that now assailed them was not one of logic or formation. It was chaos incarnate.
"Order the center to hold," Luo Wen said, his voice as dry and sharp as a blade unsheathed for judgment. "At all costs. They must not give up a single inch of ground."
A messenger sprinted away with the order.
Turning, Luo Wen faced his cavalry commanders, Zhao Rui foremost among them—a trusted blade in human form, sharp and reliable.
"The flanks," Luo Wen continued, "are where we will decide this battle. Let the cavalry move. I want no skirmishes, no distractions. I want a full charge. Let them descend upon the enemy like hammers falling from the heavens."
"Both flanks?" Zhao Rui asked, his eyes narrowing with surprise.
Luo Wen nodded, his decision firm, unshaken.
"Both. If the center collapses, everything will unravel. We must shatter their sides. Tear through them. Make them crumble from within. It's now or never."
The cavalry unfurled like black wings stretching across the edges of the army. Lances upright, horses snorting clouds of steam into the cold morning air, the riders waited in absolute silence, every muscle tense with anticipation. When the crimson banner rose, fluttering like a flame against the dull sky, the command was understood.
Charge.
And they did.
The ground trembled beneath the synchronized gallop of hundreds of steeds. The earth itself seemed to cry out as hoofbeats pounded its surface. From a distance, the enemy would have seen it—an onrushing tide of steel and fury, a black tempest swallowing the field.
The militia holding the flanks barely had time to lift their makeshift shields before the storm was upon them. The first lines were swept away like leaves before a gale. Lances pierced flesh with appalling ease, as though their victims were made of wet parchment. Chaos erupted instantly—screams, panic, the spray of blood.
But those militiamen had not been stationed there to fight.
They were meant to die.
Their purpose was singular—to absorb the shock of the charge, to break the momentum of the cavalry with their lives. And beyond them, waiting in cold silence, stood the real defenders.
The regular troops of Yuan Guo and An Lu—seasoned, armored, disciplined. Their formations were tight, their shields locked, their pikes braced and unyielding. When the cavalry reached them, expecting another easy breach, they slammed into a wall of iron resolve.
The first wave of riders broke against them like surf against a cliff.
Horses reared in panic, impaled on bristling spears. Some riders were launched from their saddles, others died before realizing what had gone wrong. The uneven ground, now thick with churned mud and fallen bodies, turned against them.
Zhao Rui, his armor dirtied by ash and blood, spat a curse as he deflected a projectile that struck his shield with bone-rattling force.
"Reform the second line!" he bellowed. "We don't stop! Push! Break them!"
Hand-to-hand combat exploded along the flanks, a storm of steel and will. But the line held.
Meanwhile, the center of the battlefield descended into something far worse.
It became hell.
The militiamen surged forward like a blind beast driven by fear and desperation. There was no formation, no coordination, just raw human force. Wounded men limped forward with blood in their eyes. Unarmed soldiers scavenged weapons from the fallen and charged again. Some climbed over piles of the dead just to gain a single step closer to the enemy.
Luo Wen's men, entrenched and surrounded by screams and steel, fought like madmen. They shouted. They struck. They bled. Each breath, each heartbeat, each moment they held the line was a victory. But the tide was too vast.
"We can't hold them!" a captain cried, his armor drenched in red. "They're overwhelming us!"
And he was right.
For every attacker they pushed back, five more appeared. Every gap in the line was filled with yet another wild-eyed militiaman who did not pause, who did not care, who only wanted to advance. The pressure was immense—like holding back an ocean with nothing but a wall of flesh.
Luo Wen watched the center stagger beneath the onslaught.
"Reinforcements to the center!" he shouted, fury blazing in his voice. "Send everything we have!"
But deep down, he already knew. It might be too late.
The cavalry assault had failed to break through. The enemy flanks remained firm, unmoved. And now, the center—his last hope for stability—was beginning to falter.
Zhao Rui returned, blood on his face, his helmet cracked.
"We couldn't break through," he said grimly. "Their flanks are strong. Solid as iron."
Luo Wen said nothing.
He simply looked across the field—at the chaos, the carnage, the shifting tide of fate.
The battle was not yet lost.
But for the first time in a long while, he could feel it…
Victory teetered on the edge of a blade.
And he would have to press that blade deeper than ever before.