Chapter 116

The scene after an army’s collapse was undoubtedly chilling, for it meant the soldiers had utterly lost their courage and will to fight, scattering in panic and descending into chaos. Their officers, too, were powerless to restrain or command these runaway troops. Under such circumstances, the army had completely lost its organization and combat effectiveness, becoming like sand scattered by the wind, utterly defenseless.

At this moment, the army could no longer be called an army—it was more like a mob ripe for slaughter.

A rabble, when facing a disciplined and meticulously organized army, was insignificant. Lacking unified command and effective coordination, these unorganized masses had virtually no means to resist a trained, well-equipped force. The army’s overwhelming combat power and tight organization turned this battle into a one-sided massacre.

Nie Huaishang, standing on the high platform and issuing orders with authority, was filled with indescribable pride and satisfaction. He knew he was facing none other than a legendary hero of history—Temujin. This great leader, once hailed as a Son of Heaven, had left an indelible mark in the annals of history with his military genius and strategic vision.

Yet this legendary figure now appeared utterly humiliated under Nie Huaishang’s clever strategy and precise command. Nie Huaishang’s forces descended like tigers from the mountain, unstoppable, while Temujin’s army retreated step by step under his assault, abandoning armor and weapons, unable to mount any resistance.

From now on, he had plenty to boast about when he went out—after all, his record was verifiable: he had once driven Genghis Khan, the Heavenly Sovereign and Founder of the Yuan Dynasty, into flight, stripped of armor and in utter disarray.

Before him, the Son of Heaven had no chance to fight back.

Wasn’t this achievement worthy of his pride?

Xingqing Prefecture, the capital of the Western Xia, had served as the seat of power for generations of emperors. Its geographical advantages were exceptional: lush pastures, fertile soil rich in grain, and a well-developed agriculture and pastoral economy. The relatively stable irrigation systems drawing from the Yellow River ensured steady supplies of food and military provisions. Moreover, Xingqing Prefecture was a major commercial hub along the ancient Silk Road and the military, political, economic, cultural, scientific, transportation, and financial center of Ningxia.

Yet now this prosperous city was gripped by profound terror.

Two days ago, a shocking message arrived from the front: Keyimen had fallen.

Located at the narrowest point between Wuhu Mountain and the Yellow River, spanning roughly fifteen li, it was a natural mountain-river pass. Between the two towering cliffs, the ravine floor was flat and strewn with sand, wide enough to accommodate large numbers of troops, horses, and supplies. Through this ravine, one could traverse from the eastern bank of the Yellow River to the western Ordos Steppe.

Winding and treacherous, with steep terrain and easy defense, it stretched ten kilometers in length. Tens of thousands of soldiers could be hidden on either side, while the ravine floor below lay completely exposed—ideal for ambushes and encirclement tactics.

How, then, had the Mongols captured such a formidable stronghold in so short a time, when seven thousand troops were stationed there?

What terrified them most was that Temujin’s words were true. Through their secret informants, the nobles of Xingqing Prefecture learned a horrifying truth—the Mongols were indeed slaughtering aristocrats and landowners. Those once powerful nobles and scholar-officials now lay like lambs awaiting slaughter beneath the hooves of Mongol cavalry.

Wherever the Mongols arrived, they dragged these former elites onto high platforms and publicly tried them. Those who had once ruled with arrogance now cowered like stray dogs, executed at the Mongols’ whim as if they were vermin.

Those nobles who had once hoarded their wealth and refused to donate now regretted bitterly. If they had known this would come to pass, they would have spent every last coin without hesitation to support Temujin in eliminating those who threatened them. After all, Temujin only wanted their money—these others wanted their lives.

According to their informants, the Mongols executed nobles merely for killing a few slaves—this was utterly irrational. What value was a slave’s life? According to the revolutionary army’s standards, ninety-nine percent of Western Xia’s nobles and scholar-officials deserved death.

The last man in history to do such a thing was Huang Chao. Do you not know what became of him?

He died a miserable death and was cursed for eternity. Every historian who wrote his name spat out the word “butcher.”

But complaints aside, they must now unite to prevent a second Huang Chao from storming in.

The words from history—“Not half the mansions of the noble families remained; the bones of ministers were trampled in the streets”—sent chills through them even as they read them. The great clans, which had grown strong since the Wei and Jin dynasties, had been wiped out by this monster until their family lineages were erased.

Most terrifying was how his actions stirred others to hatred against the great clans. Take Li Zhen, who had failed the imperial examinations twenty years in a row—he told Zhu Wen: “These officials consider themselves pure stream, but now that we kill them, let us cast their bodies into the Yellow River, so they become forever part of the muddied flow.”

Zhu Wen laughed and agreed.

Merely reading these accounts sent cold dread through the heart, as if a chill wind pierced the spine. To prevent such horrors from recurring, historians spared no venom in condemning the perpetrators, their words sharp and overflowing with fury.

Yet now this nightmare had descended upon their own doorstep, about to engulf them. This fear, like a storm of wind and rain in the dark night, mercilessly battered their souls, leaving no escape. Every thought of it brought a nameless terror, as if bound by invisible chains, unable to break free.

These events constantly reminded them: even they, generations of noble lords, rich and powerful, could be killed like stray dogs on the roadside.

When the great blade fell upon the neck, the head still fell, the blood still flowed.

Meanwhile, the common people within the Western Xia capital shared the same terror as the nobles.

Even the noblest, whose status defied description, had perished beneath the merciless blade.

Then what hope remained for these humble commoners, as insignificant as weeds?

The people of Western Xia, living in a land of constant warfare, had long learned the pattern: when soldiers arrived, they first threatened with blades to demand money. If none was given, they killed a few to instill fear. Those who paid were spared; those who could not were slain.

But if even the wealthy and nobles were being killed, the enemy clearly came with the intent of reducing the population—what was “reducing the population”? It meant relentless slaughter: the more they killed, the fewer people remained, and thus the lesser the threat to them.

The predators on this land had never once considered sparing these lowly commoners.