The Biansha cavalry that had come to raid the west gate hadn’t expected that there was still such light cavalry hidden inside Duanzhou. They rode the same kind of small horses as them, moving freely through the dim world.
Shen Zechuan was the white bird among crows. His cleaned blade split the dawn, and before the second charge he said, “Fall back.”
Ding Tao guided the civilians to evacuate. The west gate had already been broken—this place would soon become a battlefield. Li Xiong hoisted Gao Zhongxiong up, bringing Kong Ling and Yao Wenyu along behind the crowd.
The Jin Yi Cavalry stood in neat ranks before the gate. Their numbers were small, but they were Zhongbo’s absolute elite. The surviving garrison at the west gate didn’t dare slack off, pushing forward the replacement cart-walls at the base of the city. These movable walls, filled with lime mortar, weren’t as thick as gates, but their recessed sections could hold heavy bows.
The rainbow eagle banner snapped in the wind. The Biansha cavalry had already begun drumming. The tubular drums were deafening; the small horses pawed the ground, building force. They gave no time for the west gate to be repaired, launching their second charge ahead of the Jin Yi Cavalry in the rhythm of the drums.
Hoofbeats came like a sudden storm, shaking the ground, sending gravel jumping, dust rushing forward. The momentum of the Biansha cavalry bore down like starving leopards.
Qiao Tianya’s horse stood just behind Feng Tashuangyi. He tightened the reins and said, “Prepare—”
The Jin Yi Cavalry seemed to enter stillness. The wind swept across their faces but took away no sound; even their breathing seemed gone. The leading rider closed the distance, rushing toward Shen Zechuan. Shen Zechuan could smell the rider’s heavy sweat, could even see the savage expression on his face.
Time seemed to freeze.
In the next instant, Shen Zechuan drew his blade and surged forward. As Feng Tashuangyi crashed into the enemy vanguard, he said, “Kill!”
Kill!
The Jin Yi Cavalry surged like storm clouds, smashing fiercely into the Biansha cavalry within the gate passage. Steel blades clashed against curved sabers. There was no tactic at the west gate—only killing. Only by breaking the cavalry head-on could Duanzhou’s defense continue. Shen Zechuan had to charge at the very front, using this brutal method to bind together the will of Duanzhou.
The cavalry clogged the passage, blocking the light. Both sides packed in, killing with thunderous cries. Blood splashed everywhere, soaking Shen Zechuan’s sleeves. He swung his blade, cutting down enemies before him. Dawn light spilled onto his face, streaked with blood and sweat. The Prefect’s eyes were dark and fierce, his unstoppable momentum sweeping down riders as he drove forward.
This Biansha cavalry was a flanking raid force. They couldn’t withstand the high morale of the Jin Yi Cavalry and were driven back step by step in the passage. Having suffered in two clashes, they were forced to withdraw. Seizing the moment, the garrison pushed the cart-walls together, sealing the broken gate as Shen Zechuan withdrew.
The cart wheels clicked as they turned. The soldiers pushing the wall shouted, “We’re running out of arrows!”
Shen Zechuan reined in. Yangshan Snow hung at his side, dripping blood. He said, “Lower the reserve portcullis.”
The soldiers atop the wall hauled the ropes. With the grinding of gears, the portcullis slammed down, sealing the inner side of the passage. This was Duanzhou’s second defensive layer, made for exactly this situation.
Shen Zechuan couldn’t grip the blade tightly with his right hand. The moment he stopped, his fingers throbbed. He felt in his sleeve pouch and found only Xiao Chiye’s blue handkerchief. He wrapped it around the hilt and his palm, binding his fingers to ensure the blade wouldn’t slip.
“Send word to the north and south gates now,” Shen Zechuan said. “Lower all reserve portcullises.”
Amur had possessed Zhongbo’s military map seven years ago and knew Duan and Dun prefectures like the back of his hand. From Hasen’s rapid assault and precise strikes, he must also have seen that map. Now that Duanzhou had become an isolated city, defending only the east gate was no longer wise.
“Once the portcullises are down, we can’t get out again,” Qiao Tianya said, watching the dawn light rise over the walls. “The beacon towers haven’t been lit yet.”
“The beacon towers at Dun and Luo will be handled by others,” Shen Zechuan said, clenching his hand. “The east gate is still open. As long as the beacon near the border prefectures is lit, reinforcements will come.”
Hasen must have used some method to delay Xiao Chiye—but Xiao Chiye would come. That was why Hasen chose a rapid assault: he wanted a quick victory, to break Duanzhou before Xiao Chiye arrived, plunder the granaries, and withdraw. He had no intention of facing Xiao Chiye head-on in Zhongbo.
Yin Chang led the garrison in strikes—killing a wave of infantry, then retreating. As long as they prevented the infantry from setting up crossing planks, the east gate wouldn’t immediately face a cavalry charge.
“Fall back, fall back! Don’t die for nothing—we’re fighting these bastards in a drawn-out battle!” Yin Chang wiped blood from his face, kicking slower soldiers forward.
All four gates of Duanzhou had to be held. For twenty thousand garrison troops, that was a challenge. Yin Chang needed time. His soldiers had to withstand cavalry charges and, before that, resist infantry while conserving strength.
The garrison retreated into the city. Yin Chang was among the last. As he prepared to cross the trench, he heard hoofbeats behind him. Cold sweat broke out. The old veteran relied on instinct honed by years of battle—he rolled on the spot and shouted, “Draw blades!”
A crescent saber sliced through where his neck had been.
Still shaken, Yin Chang touched his neck and shouted at the attacker, “Why didn’t you give a warning!”
Zhuoli didn’t understand. His powerful horse had already closed in. Yin Chang rolled again, covering himself in dust.
Zhuoli said happily, “A nimble prey.”
Yin Chang didn’t understand either. Propping himself with one hand and holding his blade in reverse with the other, he faced Zhuoli in a strange standoff by the trench.
Savage.
Yin Chang wiped his reddened nose with a dirt-stained thumb, giving his judgment. His gaze was as still as the sky itself. The surrounding chaos couldn’t shake him. Rooted to the earth, he carried an unmatched calm in crisis.
“You,” Yin Chang said hoarsely, “were in Cizhou seven years ago.”
Zhuoli recognized “Cizhou.” He gestured with his saber and said in broken Great Zhou speech, “I was. With this blade.”
Yin Chang’s graying hair whipped in the wind. He kicked off the ground, lunging forward, leaping high and swinging his blade at Zhuoli’s head. Zhuoli blocked, but the force pushed his horse back several steps.
Zhuoli said sharply, “You know me?”
As Yin Chang landed, his hands trembled slightly. Sliding his stance, he suddenly laughed. “I know you—but you don’t know me. Seven years ago in Cizhou, I watched you burn homes, slaughter the city…” His expression went cold. “You took their heads.”
Zhuoli half understood. When Yin Chang finished, Zhuoli untied a rope at his leg, where the heads of Chashi River scouts were hanging. He lifted them and tossed them to Yin Chang. “I don’t want them. I want your head.”
The heads rolled to Yin Chang’s feet—young faces. Yin Chang looked at them, then at Zhuoli.
He stared silently.
Zhuoli felt the beast inside that aged body roaring.
“You should give the dead dignity,” Yin Chang said. “You animals.”
Fei Sheng helped the garrison disperse the civilians. After hesitating in the street, he turned and ran back toward the east gate. Midway, he heard hoofbeats and saw Shen Zechuan leading the Jin Yi Cavalry toward the gate.
“Mount up!” Qiao Tianya tossed him a whip.
Fei Sheng caught it, slowed his pace, and vaulted onto an empty horse as it passed. Grabbing the reins, he asked, “How’s the west gate?”
“Broken.”
Fei Sheng’s face changed.
Qiao Tianya added, “The Prefect sealed it again.”
Fei Sheng cursed, “Can you finish your damn sentence!”
Qiao Tianya laughed. They rode on toward the east gate, where the gate stood open and the garrison hadn’t fully withdrawn.
Shen Zechuan dismounted and strode up the wall. Halfway, dense bombardment forced him to stop. He brushed aside drifting dust and said, “Are there any merlons left?”
“Not many!” Fei Sheng shouted, covering his ears. “They switched to single-shot catapults!”
Shen Zechuan’s heart sank. Hasen intended to batter down Duanzhou’s eastern defenses with sustained bombardment. Looking down from the wall, he saw the cavalry already nearing the trench.
“Open the sluice,” Shen Zechuan said, his face like still water. “The cavalry is about to charge.”
“Open the sluice—!” Fei Sheng ran south along the wall, choking on dust mid-shout. Covering his mouth, he suddenly remembered something and grabbed a nearby soldier. “Why isn’t the gate closed? The cavalry’s about to charge!”
The soldier coughed, “The commander hasn’t withdrawn yet!”
Fei Sheng froze. Ignoring the flying stones, he leaned over the wall and searched through the chaos below until he spotted Yin Chang.
“Come back…”
Yin Chang’s blade hooked Zhuoli’s saber. They struggled on the flat ground. Yin Chang’s footing slipped as he shoved back, catching sight of the charging cavalry in the corner of his eye.
Can’t drag this out!
He immediately released force. His blade slid down along the saber, his arm hooking the hilt. Then he sprinted for the trench. The sluice gates hadn’t been opened yet—they were waiting for the garrison to return. But as Yin Chang ran, he felt heat at his back. Rolling forward, he shouted hoarsely, “Close the gate—!”
The charging cavalry weren’t attacking—they took advantage of the open gate to release fire-birds from their pouches. The birds, tails lit aflame, panicked wildly, the pouches burning as well. They swarmed across the trench and slammed into the gate.
The portcullis inside was wooden—if it caught fire, the east gate’s defenses would collapse.
Yin Chang reached the trench and leapt—but Zhuoli lunged after him, hooking his robe and dragging him down with a tearing sound.
Yin Chang stabbed his blade into the ground to steady himself as he was pulled by the horse, shouting toward the gate with all his strength, “Close the gate, release the water!”
“Damn it!” Fei Sheng leapt down the steps, pushing through the crowd. “Wait—damn you!”
The fire-birds struck the gate. Soldiers’ clothes caught fire. They rolled to extinguish the flames, retreating inward. Water bags were stored at the inner wall, but there were too many fire-birds—if the gate wasn’t closed, the portcullis would burn too!
Amid the bombardment, Shen Zechuan’s throat went dry. Dust stung his eyes in the rising sun as he said, “Close the gate.”
The gate moved with a dull rumble. Fei Sheng was still trapped in the surging crowd, like driftwood in a current, unable to grasp anything. The light in the passage shrank. The retreating soldiers blocked his view—he could no longer see outside.
“Don’t close it…” Fei Sheng shoved past them desperately, using the fastest speed of his life. “Don’t close it!”
With a boom, the gate shut. Darkness swallowed the passage. The sluice gates rose, water filling the unfinished trench, drawing a boundary between the gate and the cavalry.
“Put out the fire!” Shen Zechuan shouted.
Yin Chang couldn’t hold on and was dragged backward by the horse. His blade scraped along the ground. Amid the thunder of hooves, he tore off his wineskin, bit it open, and poured the liquor over his face. Throwing it aside, he wiped his face and laughed toward the sky. “Let’s go!”
Fei Sheng collapsed at the gate, clawing at the cracks until his hands bled. “Open the gate!”
Shen Zechuan’s lips pressed tight. His eyes were red as he watched Yin Chang.
Fei Sheng pounded and rammed the gate, shouting, “Open it—open it!”
Zhuoli looped a whip around Yin Chang’s neck and hauled him up. Yin Chang still gripped his blade, feet barely finding ground. Choking, he said, “Give me… a quick death!”
Zhuoli set his saber at Yin Chang’s neck—but as he pulled, Yin Chang lunged forward. Taking advantage of Zhuoli’s raised arm, he abandoned the whip at his throat. His reverse-held blade flashed—twisting his body, he roared and struck, slicing off Zhuoli’s head before his own could be taken.
Yin Chang fell. The whip still tightened at his neck. Breathing heavily, he propped himself up and crawled a little toward Duanzhou. Behind him came the tide of iron hooves.
A nobody.
Yin Chang laughed—and then cried.
Xiao Sheng…
Gasping, he shouted toward the gate, his voice carrying to the sky, “Prefect! I think this battle… is a great victory!”
The thunder of hooves swallowed him.
On the other side of the gate, Fei Sheng sank down. After a brief silence, he struck the iron plating, sliding along the thin sliver of light, clutching the gate as he broke into loud sobs.