Chapter 044 The Fall of Wancheng (3/5)

Midnight. The wind grew ever fiercer.

It was early spring, the time when the balance of yin and yang shifts and the meeting of these forces often brings wind and rain. Nanyang Commandery, lying close to the southern lands, was no stranger to blustery springs—nothing unusual in that.

Within the Sunset Gathering encampment, only a handful of soldiers still stood their posts; the rest had retreated to shelter from the gale. The whole camp was shrouded in silence—save for the howling wind, not another sound could be heard.

Ma Yu slipped out, glanced around to ensure no one was near, and crept furtively to the side of a carriage. He drew a fire striker from his sleeve, took a deep breath, and struck it hard against the carriage’s wooden plank. Instantly, a small flame bloomed in the darkness. Ma Yu tossed the fire striker into the carriage and turned swiftly away.

Within the pile of grain and straw, the fire smoldered, and soon a thin plume of black smoke curled upwards…

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Deng Ji lay sprawled on his couch, turned away, as if deep in sleep.

The two hook-and-armored guards stationed at the door exchanged a glance and nodded in silent agreement.

Far off, the carriage’s supplies were beginning to smolder, though in the darkness it was not easily noticed. The two guards slipped quietly through the tent’s entrance. Deng Ji remained still, unmoving, as if oblivious to their approach.

A grim, murderous glint appeared on one guard’s face. He drew his long blade, raised it high, and stepped softly to the bedside. In the flickering candlelight of the tent, his features were rendered even more grotesque. Clenching his teeth, he brought the blade down hard with a crack—the weapon landed squarely on Deng Ji’s head. Yet Deng Ji did not react; instead, a round object tumbled to the floor, shattering with a dull smack.

It was a black-silk-shrouded clay pot.

Round and swathed in dark cloth, it resembled a human head from a distance. The guard froze for a heartbeat, then hastily pulled aside the bedding. Beneath the covers, there was only more bedding, rolled up and padded to resemble a sleeping body. The guard’s heart lurched—he turned to call out, but his companion’s startled cry came first: “Sixth! Watch out!”

A cold flash darted from behind the bed. Deng Ji sprang from behind the rail, his iron sword sweeping in a deadly arc. With a wet thud, he stabbed the “Sixth” square in the back. Sixth’s eyes flew wide with shock and disbelief. He struggled to look back at his attacker, only to see Deng Ji grimly wrench his sword free. Blood spurted, staining Deng Ji’s clothes bright red.

The long blade clattered to the ground.

The guard collapsed in a pool of blood…

At the same moment, a shrill cry rang out from the camp beyond: “Fire! Fire! Quick, put it out!”

With the alarm, shouts and chaos erupted.

Deng Ji’s face darkened. He shouted sharply, “You dare to set fire to the supplies? Do you know this is treason?”

The remaining guard bared his teeth in a twisted grin.

“Treason? Indeed—treason it is. But not by us—by you!”

“What?” Deng Ji stared in bewilderment, but the guard no longer answered. Hook in one hand, curved Han saber in the other, he lunged fiercely.

“Enough talk—face my blade!”

The steel flashed down, swift and heavy.

This guard had once been dispatched by Wei Yan to protect Deng Ji. Who could have foreseen that he would now become an agent of death? All these men were veterans of Yiyang, famed for their ferocity. The hook-and-armored soldiers formed the elite guard; there were only twenty such men in the entire Yiyang garrison—their prowess was exceptional. Deng Ji had only managed to kill one by ambush.

In those waning days of the Han, even scholars were not the feeble sort unable to truss a chicken. The Confucian curriculum included the Six Arts—horsemanship, archery, and swordsmanship were all required learning. Many celebrated men of the time were master swordsmen. Cao Cao and Yuan Shao needed no mention, but even Wang Yun—the schemer behind the plot to kill Dong Zhuo—had, in his youth, swaggered through the city with a sword at his hip, living as a gallant. “Records of the Grand Historian” was not just a literary monument; it bequeathed the Han a legacy of iron-blooded valor—the Chronicles of the Wandering Knights.

Deng Ji had learned the sword and could hold his own against ordinary men.

But now he faced a battle-hardened veteran.

Within a few brief exchanges, the guard had battered Deng Ji’s sword from his grasp and booted him to the ground.

Outside, the camp was in uproar, yet no one noticed the struggle within the tent…

Deng Ji was in dire straits. The guard, grinning savagely, raised his blade and rushed forward. Deng Ji could only let out a bitter laugh, close his eyes, and await his fate.

“Brother-in-law, the camp’s in chaos!”

The tent flap flew open and a youth burst in, snake spear in hand.

The guard faltered, his blade shifting off target. With a sickening thud, his saber struck Deng Ji’s arm. Deng Ji cried out in agony as his arm fell to the floor, blood gushing forth, and he lost consciousness at once.

The youth who had rushed in was Wang Mai. Hearing the noise outside, he had darted from his tent only to see the camp ablaze, chaos everywhere.

The carters and a squad of hook-and-armored soldiers, weapons drawn, were slaughtering the Yiyang soldiers amid the flames.

Many of these men had once been brothers-in-arms; caught off guard, they were cut down in an instant.

Wang Mai paid no heed to the fate of others. He remembered Cao Peng’s order: protect Deng Ji at all costs.

Sensing danger, he had hurried to the main tent, his respect for Cao Peng deepening—Ah Fu’s foresight was uncanny.

But upon entering, he saw Deng Ji lying in a pool of blood, motionless.

Wang Mai’s fury exploded.

“Scoundrel! You dare harm my brother-in-law!”

He cared nothing for military discipline. Blood rushed to his head, his tiger eyes blazing crimson.

With a roar, Wang Mai took a step, twisted his spear, and thrust.

The guard was startled, spinning to parry with his hook. There was a metallic clang—the snake spear crashed upon the hook with the force of a hammer, shattering it and snapping the guard’s arm. Before he could scream, the spear tore through his chest armor with a wet crunch. Wang Mai, gripping the spear with both hands, twisted and flung the body aside.

Then he rushed to Deng Ji’s side and gathered him up.

“Brother-in-law, don’t scare me!”

Deng Ji came to, his face as pale as paper.

“Tiger Head, go save Ah Fu!”

“Don’t worry, brother-in-law. Ah Fu is with the garrison commander—he’ll be safe… He told me to protect you. You mustn’t die, or I’d never face him again.”

Wang Mai was on the verge of tears.

He tore a strip from his robe to bind Deng Ji’s wound, then hoisted him onto his back and seized the snake spear.

“Hold on, brother-in-law. I’ll get you out of here.”

Deng Ji fainted once more.

Wang Mai wasted no time. He dashed from the tent.

By now, the camp was ablaze—the battle nearly over. Only twenty or so true Yiyang soldiers remained; the rest were temporary recruits or prisoners, useless in a fight. The real Yiyang men, caught off guard by their former comrades, had suffered heavy losses. Worst of all, the carters and laborers had suddenly revealed themselves as armed soldiers.

Numbers dwindling, the Yiyang force quickly collapsed.

To Wang Mai, every soul in the camp was an enemy.

The snake spear danced, cleaving the air. Anyone blocking his path was cut down without hesitation. Wang Mai wielded the Duanmen Spear, the “Gate-Cleaving Spear” Cao Peng had taught him—a set of eight techniques, the essence of the White Ape school, renowned for its lethal precision. Each thrust was deadly. Wang Mai was no Deng Ji—he had a solid foundation, and after much training with Cao Peng and bouts with Tang Ji, he was fearless.

He cut down foe after foe—one with every ten steps, every thrust a deathblow.

By the time he had fought clear of the tents, Wang Mai had lost count of his kills. His clothes were drenched in blood, the spear’s tip dripping viscous scarlet. His face was grim, savage.

Just as he was about to break free, shouts and battle cries erupted ahead.

A hulking, iron-tower of a man, surrounded and blood-soaked, was fighting desperately at the center.

Wang Mai recognized Tang Ji at a glance. He hesitated, scanning the area, and his gaze locked on a black warhorse.

“Dahei!”

With a sharp whistle, the horse galloped to him.

Wang Mai cleaved down an enemy with his spear. As the horse swept past, he leapt nimbly onto its back, swung his spear like a club, and smashed down another armored foe.

“Tang, brother! This way—quick!”

Wang Mai and Tang Ji were close—he had deep respect for the honest giant.

Tang Ji was covered in wounds.

Corpses lay all around him, but the attackers seemed endless, growing ever more numerous. Hearing his name, Tang Ji roared, swept his iron spear in a wide arc to drive back his foes, and looked up to see Wang Mai galloping toward him with Deng Ji slung across his back.

Tang Ji gritted his teeth, felled an enemy, and made way.

“Brother Tiger Head, break through—go!”

“We’ll go together, brother Tang!”

“Go to hell with your together—find Brother Wei, and tell him the Yiyang soldiers are finished… Wei Ping’s men have turned traitor—he must flee at once…”

Tang Ji’s face was ferocious—his honest features, in the firelight, were those of a wounded beast, savage and wild.

His abdomen, shoulder, and back were all torn open, blood gushing from deep wounds, many of them mortal.

Wang Mai tried to protest, but Tang Ji swung his iron spear and struck Dahei’s rump.

“Go!”

With a pained whinny, Dahei bolted into the night.

Wang Mai tried to rein the horse, but it was no use. Clinging to the reins, he could only look back as he rode away.

In the glow of the flames, Tang Ji fought on, holding the camp gate alone.

Blood poured ever more freely from his wounds; his iron spear grew heavy, and his vision swam.

At his feet, the bodies of more than twenty foes piled high. Still, Tang Ji stood firm at the gate, guarding the great banner of the “Yiyang Soldiers.”

“Tang, surrender…”

A strange voice sounded in his ear, but Tang Ji, half-mad, only gripped his spear and stood tall.

He was surrounded—some faces familiar, others not. Among them, he recognized former comrades-in-arms.

When he met their eyes, those old brothers could not meet his gaze.

Two men stepped from the crowd—one was Ma Yu.

“Tang, you are a true hero. Lord Wei knows it, General Chen knows it, Inspector Huang knows it. To tell the truth, tonight’s events are aimed only at Wei Yan, Deng Ji, and Cao Peng—they have nothing to do with you. Inspector Huang has promised to rebuild the Yiyang soldiers and accept us into the Jiangxia Army. When that day comes, you’ll be a garrison commander, perhaps even higher. Why keep dying for Wei Yan? Surrender now—Lord Wei swears you’ll not be wronged…”

“You… the spineless traitor?”

Tang Ji squinted at Ma Yu.

Suddenly, he laughed.

“You think the Yiyang soldiers are just a band of men? ‘Rebuild’ the Yiyang soldiers, you say?”

He looked up at the great banner fluttering high in the wind and roared, “An enemy attacks—the soldiers of Yiyang stand first!”

Yiyang’s soldiers were more than an army; they were a spirit.

They gathered to defend their homes, fought for a common cause, never abandoned their brothers, never betrayed their own. It was a blood-deep loyalty, fierce and inexpressible. It was brotherhood, camaraderie, and an unbreakable oath of faithfulness.

“Courting death!”

The man beside Ma Yu barked coldly, “Kill him!”

A dozen spears leveled and thrust forward, but Tang Ji did not flinch. He charged straight at them.

“When the spearmen lead, I am invincible!”

His iron spear shrieked, slicing through the night…