Chapter 108: The Enemy Routed!

The rhythmic thundering of hooves erupted amidst the cacophony of battle cries. Both the Sui soldiers engaged in the fray and the rebel troops could not help but turn their gaze toward the west, watching as a vast, sweeping force of cavalry flanked the other side of the battlefield.

"Defend your positions!"
"Hurry!"

Seeing the cavalry emerging from the western city, the rebel captains and lieutenants issued orders with frantic expressions. In an instant, ranks of rebel soldiers hoisted their long spears, leveling them toward the approaching western cavalry.

"Fire!"

A lieutenant drew his sword and pointed it toward the incoming horsemen. But even as the words left his lips, a barrage of arrows rained down. Not only did the lieutenant fall, but the surrounding rebel soldiers also collapsed one after another, pierced by the volley. Amidst the countless screams, the rebel troops raised their own bows and fired back at the cavalry.

A few moments later, scattered sparks could be seen falling among the charging horsemen—each spark a sign that an arrow had found its mark on a rider.

"Charge!"
"Kill!"

Before long, the drum-like beat of iron hooves drew near. In an instant, the rebel ranks were shattered by the cavalry as if by a rushing torrent. Countless rebel soldiers and the western cavalry clashed in a chaotic melee.

On the tumultuous battlefield, countless torches fell to the ground. Some ignited arrows and spears; some soldiers trampled over the flames; others were caught in the fire, screaming in agony. Some stumbled while burning, while others rolled desperately on the ground.

"Die!"

Yin Tianzong roared, his blade cleaving through the head of a rebel soldier. As the enemy fell, he barely had a moment to catch his breath before feeling a sharp, piercing pain in his back. He stumbled forward, his strength nearly failing him. Turning back, he saw a rebel soldier in the dim light, sword raised, ready to strike him down.

At this critical juncture, a saber flashed, deflecting the lethal blow. Sparks flew where the blades met, and Hu Jingyuan saw a familiar figure standing before him.

"Hah!"

Fu Zihou, seeing the rebel soldier wind up for another full-force swing, parried with his saber. In one fluid motion, he turned, reversed his grip on the weapon, and thrust backward with all his might.

Hearing the muffled grunt of pain behind him and feeling the chaos of the slaughter around him, Fu Zihou noticed another rebel soldier charging at him with a long spear. Just then, Yin Tianzong lunged from the side, tackling the attacker to the ground and frantically stabbing him repeatedly.

"Ah!"

Fu Zihou pulled his saber free, feeling the rebel soldier behind him slide to the ground. He turned to Yin Tianzong and reached out a hand. Yin, his face masked in blood, looked at Fu Zihou with crimson eyes, grasped his hand, and pulled himself up.

"Kill!"

Fu Zihou looked at the dense mass of rebel soldiers ahead and charged forward without hesitation.

***

With every stride, Fu Zihou cut down a rebel. Seeing another enemy clashing with a Sui soldier, he passed by and struck him down with a single stroke of his blade. In the chaos of the battlefield, the swordsmanship taught to him by the old man remained perfectly intact. If the old man were here to witness this, he would likely be trembling with awe.

Who could have imagined that the boy who once practiced by dodging simple wooden sticks would now, on this very battlefield, seem to perceive everything around him—every enemy, every attack, even the arrows coming from the shadows?

It could be said that the reason the morale of the Sui troops did not collapse, and why the rebels grew increasingly terrified, was in large part due to the sight of that one figure constantly charging ahead, appearing like a peerless warrior capable of holding off an entire army. In such a chaotic fray, where even the torchlight was often blocked, the boy was unstoppable; any enemy who stood in his path died under his blade.

"Kill!"
"Kill!"

Xiong Ruixiang and Xia Jia, as Fu Zihou’s men, were galvanized by his spirit. They fought with reckless abandon, shielding his flanks and fending off the waves of enemies surrounding him.

On the plain, the sounds of battle had not ceased since they first began. The torches scattered across the vast expanse looked like a chaotic mosaic from afar. It was not until the eastern mountains were touched with the pale light of dawn that the land began to brighten.

Beneath the morning mist rising from the mountains and rivers, accompanied by the cool air of dawn, the two armies seemed finally shaken from their blood-soaked struggle. Gasping for breath, they gripped their weapons and scanned their surroundings.

"Retreat!"
"Fall back!"

Seeing the dawn arrive without the appearance of the northern elite troops, the two rebel lieutenants finally realized something must have gone wrong. Seeing their own forces suffering countless casualties and their morale plummeting—especially with the Sui army backed by the western city and no reinforcements in sight—they knew defeat was inevitable. No longer caring for anything else, they ordered a retreat.

To the sound of drums, the rebel soldiers, who had been locked in combat, heard the signal and turned to flee without hesitation.

"Victory!"
"A great victory!"

In the hazy morning light, all the Sui cavalrymen raised their weapons and cheered. It was a long-held habit on the battlefield—a way to intimidate remaining pockets of resistance and minimize further casualties.

"Victory!"

The excited shouts of the cavalrymen echoed across the entire plain. Whether from the walls of the western city or the far bank of the river, the cry could be heard clearly.

Wen Dayou, gripping his sword, sat panting on his horse. Thanks to his loyal guards, he had only sustained minor injuries. Seeing the victory, he quickly spurred his horse and led his men toward the northern side of the battlefield, in the direction of the western city. The surrounding cavalrymen followed suit, their cheers fading into focused silence.

***

Zhang Pinggao, Xu Shixu, Zhao Wenke, and others also came to their senses. In the dim light, they looked out at the countless corpses and the discarded torches and weapons littering the field. Seeing Wen Dayou’s move, they understood where he was heading. Remembering what had transpired, even Zhao Wenke set aside his prejudices and followed toward the north. Perhaps, among them all, Zhao was the one most hoping to hear news of the boy’s death.

*Giddyap!*

Looking at the bodies on the ground, Zhao Wenke felt a glimmer of excitement as the light grew stronger and he heard no cries of alarm from ahead. *Is he truly dead? If he really died at the hands of the rebels, that would be for the best! It would save me from living in fear later.*

However, a moment later, as Zhao rode forward, he saw something that left his face frozen in a mask of shock. He fell silent, staring ahead in utter disbelief. It was not just Zhao; Zhang Pinggao, Xu Shixu, Wen Dayou, and all the cavalrymen were rendered speechless by the sight before them.

Ahead stood a group of blood-drenched men. From head to toe, there was not a single inch of them that was not stained in crimson. The Sui soldiers stood amidst the sea of corpses, weapons still dripping with blood, their own gore-streaked faces turning to gaze at the arriving officers.

Even as veterans of the Eagle-Yang Command, the officers and soldiers were startled by the look in those eyes. What exactly had they endured to possess such a gaze? Even Zhang, Zhao, and Xu questioned if these were truly the same garrison troops who had been stationed in the eastern city across the river.

"Zihou!"

Wen Dayou saw Fu Zihou, quickly dismounted, and hurried forward. When Fu Zihou saw Wen Dayou approaching, his expression finally softened. Over the past night, he had led men back and forth into the eastern city, infiltrated the rebel camp, and led two consecutive raids on the rebel strongholds—three battles in total. His nerves had been stretched to the breaking point.

Only now, seeing Wen Dayou, could Fu Zihou truly relax. In that instant, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion and the sharp pain of his injuries surged through him. The sudden release of tension made him feel dizzy.

"Uncle Wen," Fu Zihou managed to say. As he raised his hand to salute, even his saber felt as heavy as a hundred pounds.

"Zihou! Are you alright?" Wen Dayou rushed forward, gripping the boy’s arms. Looking at that young face, his eyes filled with exhaustion, yet his blood-stained lips wore a look of relief. In that moment, Wen Dayou’s heart was deeply moved.