On the city wall, the large iron cauldron was already churning with boiling water that had changed color. The turbid liquid emitted a pungent white steam, filling the air with a foul smell.
Several stout defenders of the city, broad-shouldered and strong-armed, struggled together with a thick wooden pole to lift a heavy wooden bucket. They gritted their teeth as they tilted the bucket.
The scalding "golden liquid" poured down along the battlements without resistance, flowing straight toward the densely packed crowd climbing the walls below.
The prisoners clinging to the scaling ladders didn’t even have time to scream properly before their flesh was hit by the boiling liquid.
The stench of scorched flesh spread instantly. Those who had been scalded lost strength in their hands, curling up as they screamed and tumbled backward, crashing into the surging heads of those below.
The ladders of the attackers tilted under the weight of the falling bodies, dragging several climbers down to the ground with them.
The crunch of broken bones mixed with the wind in a sound that made the scalp tighten.
But the horrors below couldn’t stop the advance of the Helian army.
The Helian soldiers, starved for days and deprived of full rations, vented all their resentment on the prisoners of Great Qian.
Hundreds of execution troops armed with heavy broadswords formed neat ranks, the backs of their swords striking the backs of the prisoners in the rear in an unrelenting rhythm.
In the ranks, hunched old people, women, and the weak staggered with shaky legs, unwilling to take another step toward the deadly wall below.
The Helian executioners, fierce and decisive, did not hesitate. They stepped forward and swung their swords.
The blade sliced off the heads of several old men in the front row.
Headless bodies crumpled to the ground, and spurting columns of blood dyed the dry mud a dark crimson.
A more desperate and agonizing wail erupted from the crowd, but no one dared to turn back.
The instinct for survival forced them to jostle forward, stepping over the bodies of their fallen companions, stumbling onward to climb higher above.
Wang Shuan, an old soldier, stood on the city wall. He looked down at the heap of corpses piling higher and higher below the battlements.
Among them, there were border dwellers who spoke with a northern accent just like him—and even defenseless women.
He said nothing. But the sword in his hand lifted half an inch higher.
He turned aside to avoid the bloodstained arms reaching up toward him from below for rescue. His gaze shifted past the tragic scene and focused, cold and resolute, on the distant headquarters of the Helian army.
On the edge of the battlefield, Bayaer sat on his warhorse, his eyes wide with frustration.
He had originally counted on these expendable prisoners to fill the moat of the city, using their corpses to create a breach from which he could lead his elite cavalry to seize the greatest glory.
But now, wave after wave of lives had been thrown in, and they hadn’t even managed to chip off half a scrap of the plaster on that city wall.
Unable to wait anymore for orders from the main command tent, he yanked roughly on his horse’s reins, pulled out his sword, and pointed forward.
"Push the shield carts forward! Shovel dirt!"
He urged his own troops forward and ordered the heavy carts, wrapped in thick raw cowhide, to be pushed on ahead.
More than a hundred Helian soldiers carrying iron spades raised baskets full of packed dirt, crouching as they sheltered behind the shield carts.
They hoped to force a ramp up against the base of the city wall, so that their comrades could charge up that slope and take the battlements.
As soon as this move began, Xu Chengguang noticed it atop the city wall.
This young commander, from the Pacifying Western Qiang Corps of the northwest, kept his expression unchanged. He strode quickly to the front of the mounted crossbow formation and raised his hand to give a gesture.
Fifty powerfully built crossbowmen immediately stepped up to the battlements, readying their heavy, winch-powered weapons.
The sound of ratchets and pawls engaging clicked in succession, one after another.
Xu Chengguang didn’t order the crossbowmen to fire on the prisoners sent to die up front. Instead, he directed them to lower the arrows purposely and target the Helian soldiers behind the shield carts—the ones pushing the carts and carrying dirt.
The thick crossbows were suddenly triggered.
Several dozen heavy armor-piercing bolts shot through the gaps in the shield formation and struck the chests and stomachs of the Helian soldiers with precise, piercing hits.
The muffled sounds of tearing flesh followed in quick succession. The men pushing the carts fell in waves.
The baskets of earth fell out of their hands at once.
When the soldiers in the back saw their comrades dying beneath the hail of arrows, they slowed down and no one dared to step into that deadly storm.
The heavy shield carts came to a dead stop, stuck about fifty paces outside the walls, and could get no further.
Seeing his casualties rising without any gain, Bayaer turned pale with anger. He cursed loudly, raised his long blade, and prepared to charge forward himself.
But one of his trusted men grabbed the bridle and urgently pleaded in caution: "Lord of a thousand men! Don’t charge! The southerners’ crossbows are too powerful—the shield carts can’t advance. Pushing a direct fight will just waste the lives of our brothers!"
The two argued loudly over their horsebacks.
Bayaer looked back toward the main camp—no emissary had arrived ordering reinforcements.
In the end, with hatred, he sheathed his sword and gritted his teeth, ordering the bronze gong to be struck. The remaining forces gathered and retreated step by step.
From atop the high lookout tower, the fierce wind of the frontier was mighty enough to break the banner.
Chen Changfeng gazed steadily at the section of gray-white city walls.
He started to feel an ominous premonition creeping up. Could it be that He Minghu...
The molten liquid and the blood below, dense with bodies, formed a thick river of red and yellow slime that trickled down the wall’s smooth surface. It barely left a stain behind.
He had boldly stated earlier that this entire city wall had been built from corruption and loosely packed mud. And now? The truth smacked him in the face.
His face, always calm and unruffled under pressure, couldn’t keep that composure now.
Adviser Qin, observing Chen Changfeng’s grim expression, braced himself and stepped forward, trying to mediate.
"Strategist, don’t be angry. It’s probably that those Great Qian officials, when they built the walls—of all the people—that one section in particular was made with good materials. Those other sections we haven’t tried? They’re probably all hollow..."
Before he even finished, Chen Changfeng turned his head and cast him a cold glare.
Qin instantly gulped back the rest of his words, coughed dryly, sensed he had stepped wrong, tactfully retreated two paces, and said no more.
Outside the main command tent, the Left Luli King, Ashina Dubi, sat high on his magnificent horse, his eyes cold as he observed the city walls in the distance.
More than two thousand captured prisoners had been used up, and most had died, but couldn’t so much as touch the Merlon of the city wall.
That gray-white high wall stood proudly amid the dust and sand, without a single flaw.
He twisted his wrist lightly, and the Buddhist hand-beads he was playing with came to a complete stop.
After a long while, he uttered only two words to his staff officer: "Withdraw the army."
The sound of a harsh, sorrowful horn spread across this wilderness.
Bayaer galloped before the main camp line, dismounted, fell on one knee, and pleaded: "Great King! Give me another two thousand slave prisoners! I swear I will break down that rotten wall for you!"
Ashina Dubi glanced down at him in disdain, and then dismissed him impatiently: "Enough. You’re done."
Feeling that cold quash, Bayaer trembled. His lips moved but found no words. He rose and retreated to his place, a heavy, dark look covering his face.
As the great army made its way back to camp, uncertain whispers began spreading among the Helian rank-and-file.
A few old soldiers were walking side by side, leaning close and whispering with lowered voices:
"That wall is incredibly strange. Even hot guts don’t seep into its surface—it’s like ice, no grip at all. These southerners might be calling on some demonic protector..."
"Can the strategist’s words still be trusted? We buried all those men today without even a single stumble."
A horsemen-in-squad-leader overheard. Flashing a harsh face, he bellowed: "Quiet your mouths! In other years, when we broke cities of other states, did we always crack the gates in one day? The Strategist was right. We just camp siege, and it will tumble in a few days."
But this reprimand grew weaker and weaker, until even he himself lacked conviction.
Morale among the troops, once cracked, can never be fully mended.
Half an hour later, sheep-fat lamps were lit inside the central command tent.
The generals of various divisions sat in two rows, the atmosphere within the tent oppressively heavy.
Ashina Dubi toyed with a string of prayer beads, lifting his gaze to stare straight at Chen Changfeng, who stood below him.
“Military Advisor, what exactly is that wall?”
Yet Chen Changfeng still showed no panic: “Left Luli King, the civil officials in the south of the Great Qian have grown corrupt and greedy. Border fortifications like this are surely nothing but vanity projects.
Perhaps this particular section was built with solid materials, while the rest is hollow.”
These words were smooth and even, yet they lacked the strategic confidence he once commanded.
Several thousand-man commanders in the tent exchanged glances. Some fiddled with their short knives, others kept their eyes lowered, not one of them picking up the thread of his words.
Bayaer, who had earlier clamored for a swift decisive battle, now leaned silently against a tent pole, saying nothing.
Ashina Dubi sat on his wolf-skin throne, moving his prayer beads at an exaggeratedly slow pace.
On the city wall of Zhenbei Pass, the wind carried a thick stench of blood and burnt flesh.
Xu Qinghuan, wrapped in a heavy winter cloak, stared silently at the cooling, rigid bodies piled at the wall’s base.
The corpses were stacked together; after all their blood had drained, it formed dark black patches on the ground.
The brutality of war now lay before her eyes without any adornment—living human lives reduced to mere chips for consuming weaponry.
General-in-Chief Tie Lanshan stood nearby, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and said:
“The barbarians took a heavy loss today. Those generals of theirs are bound to be second-guessing things now.
From the experience I gained fighting with the Qiang tribes in the northwest over the years, within five days, they definitely won’t risk sending men to attack this section again.
Ten to one, they’ll instead surround the city and choke it out, or split their forces to probe for weak points elsewhere.”
Xu Chengguang, standing to one side, nodded in agreement: “That goes without saying. Since they can’t figure out the wall’s true nature, they won’t dare lightly commit their main force again.”
He turned and ordered his adjutant to double the number of night patrol shifts, guarding against any sneak attacks under cover of darkness.
Old veterans Wang Shuan and Zhang San walked along the city wall from the other end.
They carried military rosters, methodically counting the troops stationed at each section.
After a brutal defensive battle, the defenders had only about a dozen men grazed by stray arrows shot up from below.
The two men met face to face, looking down at the wall’s battlements as hard as iron. The deep-seated grievances that had weighed on their hearts for years eased slightly amid this great victory won at such minimal cost.
But both had spent half their lives scraping by on a knife’s edge—they knew full well what was coming.
Today’s engagement was just the opening gust of wind; the real fighting had yet to settle.
Darkness had fully fallen. Along the city wall, thick torches were lit one after another.
Tie Lanshan issued a standing order: laborers pushed wheelbarrows, working through the night to transport logs, massive boulders, and bundles of arrows up to the wall, while also reinforcing the damaged crenellations.
A side gate in the barbican opened just enough for two men to pass through. A squad of soldiers used hooked poles to drag the remains at the northern base of the wall some distance away, then hauled them out of the city to bury in deep pits outside.
The bloody battle of the day came to a temporary halt as night fell.
...
Thirty li away, at the Helian army camp, the night wind howled, rattling the tents.
Beyond the heavily defended inner camp, a faint cloud of dust suddenly rose from the distant wasteland.
The urgent, erratic beat of horse hooves grew nearer, shattering the perimeter guards’ watch.
A lone scout rider charged recklessly toward the camp gate. The horse’s legs gave way, and it crashed to the ground with a thud, foaming at the mouth, dead on the spot.
The rider rolled off into the mud, struggling several times to rise.
The nearby Helian soldiers raised their torches to look—and drew in sharp breaths of shock.
The scout’s leather armor was curled and blackened from fire, large patches of skin and clothing fused together. His face was covered in soot, so disfigured it was nearly impossible to recognize.
Two strong soldiers grabbed either arm and dragged the scout straight into the central command tent.
Ashina Dubi had just raised a bowl of mare’s milk wine to his lips, but when he saw this ghastly sight, his wrist froze in midair.
The scout, mustering the last of his life, lifted his head, lips moving, trying to report.
But instead, his throat let out a gurgling sound as he coughed up a mouthful of bloody foam mixed with the taste of scorched earth and smoke.
Inside the tent, all the leading generals’ faces changed color as they straightened up.
Ashina Dubi’s eyes twitched sharply. For the first time, his large hand—which had been slowly and lazily rotating the string of white-bone prayer beads—suddenly clenched tight.
