The sun, now high in the sky, burned down upon the battlefield like a merciless judgment cast by the heavens themselves. The heat bore down with oppressive weight, and in the sweltering haze, the air thickened with the mingled stench of sweat, blood, and dust. The sound of war was a ceaseless roar—screams of the wounded, the shrieking of horses, the deafening clash of steel on steel, and the fragmented echoes of shouted orders, all drowned in the chaotic symphony of violence. From his vantage point atop a hill overlooking the battlefield, Yuan Guo watched with eyes as sharp and unyielding as the blades drawn below. A seasoned veteran of countless campaigns, a fox old and wily in the ways of war, he knew with grim certainty that this battle could not be allowed to stretch on much longer. Not with the flanks beginning to buckle and the center of Luo Wen's formation still holding firm.
The initial assault had wreaked havoc, yes. The opening charge had dealt a heavy blow to the enemy's lines. But it had not been enough—not nearly. Luo Wen's center held with terrifying discipline, and the enemy's iron resolve continued to halt the advance of the desperate militia. Men died one after another, falling over the bodies of their fallen comrades, but still that stubborn formation refused to break.
Yuan Guo knew he could not allow that line to stand much longer.
He turned to his officers with a look of unshakable purpose carved into his features. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of iron and the echo of old wars won and lost.
"Order the cavalry at the rear to drive the stragglers forward. Not with shouts, but with steel. Let no man retreat. Let them understand—there is no way back. Their only path lies ahead, through the storm."
One of his captains hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
"Even if… even if it means cutting down our own men?"
Yuan Guo did not blink.
"You do not win an empire with hesitation."
The order was dispatched without delay. Minutes later, the hills behind the swelling ranks of militiamen came alive with the thunder of hooves. The cavalry stationed in the rear began to move—slowly, deliberately—like a black tide inching toward the sea. Their blades were already drawn, and there would be no mercy for those who faltered. Those who hesitated. Those who turned to flee. They fell without fanfare, without speeches, without pity.
The effect was immediate and unmistakable.
The pressure against Luo Wen's center intensified tenfold. The militiamen, realizing that death was now breathing hotly on their necks from both directions, charged forward in a frenzy born of desperation and fear. What had once been hesitation twisted into a blind, savage momentum. Some screamed hoarsely, others surged forward in eerie silence, teeth clenched and eyes burning with red-hot panic. And for the first time, the enemy's center—so steady, so resolute—began to show the faintest signs of fatigue.
But while the center shook, the flanks were already weathering their own storm.
On both the left and right wings of the allied army, the situation was growing increasingly dire. Zhao Qing's cavalry, with its disciplined, savage riders, had transformed the flanks into zones of constant disaster. His tactics were a whirlwind of unpredictability—lightning-fast strikes, penetrating movements that cut through the lines like blades through cloth. His forces would strike and vanish before the defenders had even begun to react, sowing chaos and confusion wherever they passed.
The troops defending the flanks—many drawn from the noble houses allied with the Four Families, including the banners of Wei, Li, Bei, and Cong—fought as best they could. They were regular troops, often hardened veterans of prior campaigns, but they were not prepared for this kind of assault. Their formations shattered under the weight of sudden charges, officers struggled to coordinate, and reinforcements, when they came at all, came too late or arrived in disarray.
"We're being overrun!" one commander shouted, his voice nearly lost beneath the cacophony of galloping hooves and ringing steel.
The banners of House Wei fluttered in disarray on the left wing, while the standards of House Bei were slowly pushed southward under mounting pressure. The situation was becoming critical, and the flanks, already stretched thin, teetered on the brink of collapse.
It was then that Yuan Guo made the second decision of the day—one that would shape the course of the entire battle.
He dispatched a messenger to An Lu—not with a plea, but with a command cloaked in urgency.
"I need your elite infantry. Immediately."
An Lu stared at him in silence for several seconds, sweat and dust caking his weathered features. He did not like giving up control of his finest troops. But he was no fool. If the flanks fell, the center would soon follow, and everything would be lost.
"Take them," he growled at last. "But make it count."
Yuan Guo nodded. The signal was sent.
From the rear lines emerged a column of soldiers unlike the rest—perfectly aligned, armored in dark grey and black, their shields broad and polished, their swords clean and honed. These were the finest warriors under An Lu's banner. Veterans of endless wars against barbarian tribes in the western provinces. Men who had survived sieges, ambushes, and open-field slaughter. Their discipline was absolute. Their loyalty, beyond reproach.
They advanced without breaking rank, and when they reached the beleaguered flanks, they slipped between the struggling units of the noble houses like a blade into its sheath. They reinforced the crumbling defenses, plugged the gaps, reasserted order.
The turnaround was immediate.
Zhao Qing, who had been cutting through the flanks like a reaper in a field of wheat, suddenly found his cavalry pushing up against a wall of steel. The fresh troops didn't panic. They didn't fall back. They met his charges head-on.
"They've brought in reinforcements," Zhao muttered, wiping blood from his blade after felling another officer. "Finally, someone does something right."
He did not retreat. But now, his cavalry could no longer strike with reckless abandon. They had to move carefully. Casualties began to rise. And though the defenders still bled and groaned, they no longer crumbled beneath his strikes. Their defense was holding.
Back on his hill, Yuan Guo once more turned his gaze toward the center of the field.
Smoke, blood, and noise had merged into an indistinguishable mass. The very heart of Luo Wen's formation trembled. It had not broken—not yet. But for the first time since dawn…
It looked vulnerable.
"Just a little more," Yuan Guo murmured under his breath, as though whispering to the gods themselves. "Just a little more…"
Because if that center gave way—
Then the fate of the empire would be rewritten forever.