Chapter 82: Seizing the Bridge (VII)

“Bring up every long-range crossbow you have—no matter if it’s the Far-reaching Crossbow, the Split-bow Crossbow, the Horn Bow Crossbow, whatever will reach them, get them up here!”

On one bank of the Bo Yi River, Tian Zhen’s urgent shout exploded in the ears of every Tang soldier. He was summoning all the archers and crossbowmen of the army. Such heavy weaponry, even among the Tang forces famed for their elite soldiers and sturdy armor, was not common; forging the weapons was difficult, training the marksmen harder still—and all this in the dead of night.

But military discipline and protocol were long ingrained; the moment the order was given, the archers obeyed, spreading out along the riverbank as instructed. Behind them, soldiers carried bundles of crossbow bolts for quick resupply.

Now, apart from the eighty paces covered by Liu Ji’s division, both flanks were lit by torches as the driven Tibetan light infantry surged forward. The torches in their hands became the brightest targets in the darkness—more conspicuous than anything in broad daylight.

Unlike the twang of released bowstrings, the crossbow mechanism, once triggered, propelled the bolt with a sharp “thump” as the string was tightened rapidly by the bow arms.

Iron bolts without fletching, whether flat-tipped or with armor-piercing heads, whistled through the air, the grooves etched on their metal shafts creating a continuous, deathly sound as they sliced through the night.

It was as if Death himself whispered across the riverbanks.

According to Tang military standards, the Far-reaching Crossbow had no less than eight stone of pull. A strong bow was considered remarkable if it reached two stone; the crossbow, with quadruple force, sent a six-and-a-half ounce iron bolt hurtling a hundred paces out—still within its effective range.

So, when an armor-piercing bolt easily tore through the leather armor of a Tibetan infantryman, it was little different from piercing flesh. With tremendous momentum, it passed cleanly through the man’s body, barely splattering blood, though inside, his organs were shattered into fragments.

The bolt, stained with a trace of blood, then struck another body. In the tightly packed, unprepared Tibetan formation, screams and wails erupted in waves.

In such dense ranks, aiming was almost unnecessary; as long as your shot was not too high or too low, it would find a mark.

The work was easy, and supporting the brothers crossing the river—who wouldn’t welcome it?

“Scatter out, quick, scatter!”

It was the Tibetan officers at the rear who first sensed something amiss. They saw the formation along the riverbank growing chaotic, many falling before they could charge. It was clear that the Tang forces across the river were wreaking havoc.

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In the darkness, strict orders were impossible to enforce. By the time the Tibetan light infantry reacted and pressed toward the center, the pressure on Liu Ji’s flanks eased, though the pressure on his own central line suddenly intensified—something he had not expected.

“Marvelous, absolutely marvelous! More!”

By now, Liu Ji had fully entered a bloodthirsty frenzy, his whole body soaked in blood—his face smeared with grime, indistinguishable whether from friend or foe.

His sword grew heavier, less nimble than before. The blood-soaked mud beneath his feet caused him to stumble—nearly falling, forcing him to brace himself with his blade. But in doing so, he could no longer dodge the incoming wooden spears thrust at him.

Just as he resolved to rely on his sturdy armor to withstand the blows, a gust of wind whirled past. Before the spearheads could touch him, they snapped in midair. A tall figure rushed forward, grabbing his arm.

“Go to the rear and rest.”

“No rest for me—let’s hold together.”

Zhang Wuji glanced at the dense enemy figures around them, knowing Liu Ji spoke the truth. Without further words, he spun his sword like a whirlwind, forcing the surging Bolu men to retreat.

If their whole formation was a blade with the two men at its edge, then the soldiers behind—archers, spearmen, shield-bearers—were the spikes along its length, methodically harvesting enemy lives. Yet in the chaos of melee, casualties were unavoidable, particularly among those in the central line.

Luckily, with the flanks less pressed, reinforcements could be brought up. As the battle wore on, it was the Tibetan light infantry, suffering far greater losses than the Tang, who first began to falter.

Under Tibetan coercion, they had no choice but to attack from three sides; the two flanks together, a force of a thousand, were first battered by Tang crossbows from across the river, then met the hedgehog-like Tang formation—casualties quickly exceeded thirty percent.

In the era of cold steel, a unit that suffered over thirty percent casualties yet didn't break was already considered formidable. But Xidongzan was not satisfied.

“Order the archers to hold the line—shoot those who retreat, execute those who flee!”

His words were as cold as the wind on the snowy mountains. Over three hundred archers arrayed before the Tibetan cavalry had no choice but to aim their arrows at their own comrades.

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It’s not that he regarded the Bolu men’s lives as nothing, but rather he wanted to foster a blood feud between them and the Tang. The more deaths, the harder it would be for the Tang to govern the region, even if they eventually conquered it.

Furthermore, by exhausting this small Tang force, he could, at the right moment, unleash his main cavalry, slaughtering them in front of the Tang army or driving them into the river—a fine outcome either way.

In his mind, the fate of these Tang soldiers was already sealed; a little more resistance would make no difference.

A cruel smile slowly spread across Xidongzan’s face, as he savored the pleasure of toying with his prey. As long as he achieved his goal, what did it matter if something befell Hepulao City?

“That’s enough—sound the horn, call them back. Have another thousand-man unit ready. This time, wipe out the enemy. Kill a Tang soldier, earn ten acres of land. Kill a Tang warrior, earn a tiger-skin cloak, an iron-inscribed commission, ten slaves, a hundred acres of land.”

At his command, the horns sounded, and the Tibetan infantry fighting at the front withdrew like a tide. Liu Ji, drenched in sweat and barely able to stand, braced himself on his sword, gasping for breath, his brows furrowed as he watched the fleeing figures. He knew they weren’t retreating in panic, but had other intentions.

“The enemy’s fresh troops are coming.”

Zhang Wuji, not as spent as Liu Ji, stood straight, worry in his voice.

Liu Ji forced himself upright and looked behind him. The pitch-black sky was edged with a faint glimmer; flecks of gold slowly bled through, like a blade slicing open the darkness.

It was the hour before dawn.