Chapter 84: Seizing the Bridge (Part Nine)

Du Guli’s eyesight was exceptional. While most impoverished people around the world still struggled to see at night, his diet and profession had sharpened his vision in darkness. Though he couldn’t pierce the night entirely, he could distinguish human silhouettes long before others. At this point, fear was irrelevant—after all, the Tang soldiers stood at the very front. If death came, it would claim them first. He exhaled a heavy breath, banishing stray thoughts, and placed an arrow in his hand. With his rough tongue, he licked the slightly frayed fletching, then nocked it onto the string. His waist and abdomen sank as he drew the long, straight hardwood bow, aiming at the shadowy figures illuminated by distant torches.

The drumbeats in his ears now became a steady, rhythmic pounding: “Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom…”

“Release!”

Several short, forceful commands rang out at once. From the Tang formations came a series of hissing sounds, reminiscent of fine silk being torn. Du Guli knew these were Tang crossbow bolts—their usual deadly range spanned a hundred or two hundred paces, but now, released at such close quarters, the reasons were clear: the darkness made aiming impossible, and their arrows were running low. Every shot had to inflict the greatest possible casualties.

Soon, wailing cries echoed from afar. Du Guli had no time to grieve for his compatriots; his target had come sharply into view.

Thirty paces.

Twenty paces.

Fifteen paces.

The best hunter from Nufuli Village waited until the enemy charged within fifteen paces, their expressions clear as day, before he released the bowstring. Without pausing to see the result, he grabbed another arrow from beneath his feet and swiftly aimed at another foe’s head.

With a dull thud, the leading Tubo infantryman, driven by momentum, collapsed straight in front of Zhang Wujia, torch and all, an arrow embedded in his neck—unable to utter a sound.

“Kill!”

Zhang Wujia’s fighting spirit surged. With a thunderous roar, he stepped forward, treading upon the corpse not yet fully dead, creating space to swing. His two-meter-long, nearly thirty-pound sword became a dazzling arc of white light, slicing through the darkness again and again, each stroke tinted with red, crossing paths in the night.

A formation of a hundred, with sword-wielders behind him, formed a small triangle, each supporting the other, allowing the leader to rotate and rest. Originally meant for offense, the formation had to widen its front against the overwhelming numbers, a disadvantage for the Tang. Thus, they chose this formation in the end.

This was the Six-Petal Formation, personally devised by Li Weigong, the famed founding general of the Zhen’guan era, revered as the “God of War.”

The broadswords at the front suppressed the enemy’s assault; behind them, shields, spears, and crossbows became deadly spikes in close combat. Two forces collided in the darkness, the air itself seeming to freeze, then erupted in a cacophony of metal and flesh. Each sound marked a life diminished or ended. Against enemies ten times their number, even the heavily armed Tang soldiers were locked in bitter struggle from the outset.

Fighting the Snow Wolves seemed perilous, but offered brief respite—here, enemies emerged endlessly from the darkness, pressing in from all sides like an unrelenting tide. Any weakness would be crushed beneath this pressure. Even Zhang Wujia, a veteran with thirty years’ service and countless battles, found his breath short.

This breathlessness translated into a sense of inexplicable resistance in his movements. After swinging his sword hundreds of times, discomfort worsened, his body lagging behind. Xu Guangjing, his old comrade, knew him so well he sensed trouble without needing to look, but his own side was under heavy pressure and could barely spare a thought.

“Old Zhang, switch positions!”

Spotting an opening at last, Xu forced his opponent back and shouted. Normally a glance sufficed, but now he needed to yell. They pressed back to back, pivoting ninety degrees to exchange positions, relieving Zhang’s burden. But unexpectedly, Zhang made no move. Listening to his partner’s labored breathing, Xu realized Zhang was pinned, unable to move.

Helpless, Xu held his post, unable to assist, for soon he faced the same dilemma.

The Tubo infantry’s reckless assault disrupted the formation’s rotation. When the formation couldn’t shift smoothly, it meant reinforcements couldn’t reach certain spots in time, and casualties mounted swiftly.

“Hah.”

Liu Ji thrust aside several wooden spears and charged forward. He didn’t pursue kills, but advanced relentlessly, his broadsword moving in small arcs, less for slaughter than to carve out space. As the only mobile force in the formation, he could move freely at first, helping wherever needed, but gradually his room shrank. Before he was completely cut off, he chose to push to the very front, where pressure was greatest.

Step by step, he edged forward until he reached the formation’s tip, slipping into the flagbearer’s position. The flagbearer was soaked in blood, barely holding on; both flag guards were wounded, desperately raising their wooden shields to block the barrage of blades, spears, and arrows. Even his small garrison flag was riddled with holes, swaying precariously. The ferocity of battle here was because the enemy sought not only to kill, but to cut down the flag itself.

The flag is the soul of the army!

Liu Ji steadied the flagbearer, gripped the flag, and with a fierce effort, plunged its iron-tipped end deep into the muddy earth.

“Hold on!”

He placed the flagbearer’s hand on the staff for support, then charged forward, broadsword in hand.

Zhang Wujia was nearly spent. He had no idea how many blows he’d taken. Enemies surged from all sides, their shapes blurred in his eyes. His broadsword, normally wielded with ease, now felt impossibly heavy—each swing demanded all his strength.

By instinct, he parried another volley of thrusts. His leg was stabbed again—not pierced, thanks to the iron leaves on his armor, but the force bent him double. Several spearheads aimed straight for his face. To dodge, he’d have to abandon his sword and roll away, but that would leave the formation exposed.

As he prepared to tilt his head aside, resolved to take a hit rather than retreat, someone yanked his belt from behind. He flipped over, still clutching his sword, unable to stand, but the spears missed entirely.

Flat on his back, Zhang Wujia found himself shielded by his comrades from all sides. He had no thought of rising, for the agile figure before him truly held the pass alone, an unbreakable barrier.

“Protect the flag!”

Without turning, Liu Ji shouted, his broadsword unleashed without reservation, sweeping wide, its deadly arcs scattering the enemy. The enemy’s assault faltered, halted by the sheer force of his blade.