Chapter 441: Useless Against One Blow

It is said that when ten thousand men gather, they stretch endlessly. Over twenty thousand cavalry, riding captured warhorses, spread out in charging formation—the scene was utterly magnificent.

The riders bore long spears, their bodies rising and falling with the horses' strides; their eyes held no fear, nor determination—only numbness. This was the indifference to others' lives and their own, forged over the past year by killing too many men and slaughtering too many beasts, living daily in blood.

The chaotic clatter of hooves somehow synchronized into a single rhythmic thud—thud—thud—vibrating the earth, echoing far away. Amidst the howling wind and blood-red sunset, a long, boundless black shadow appeared on the horizon, entering the view of the Western Xia defenders forming ranks outside the city, halting five li away, rising with a chilling aura.

Not long after the Fubei Army advanced eastward, Western Xia scouts had already received word. No one expected this force would actually attack Xingqing Prefecture, but by now, a fifty-kilometer encirclement had formed—there was no time to rush reinforcements.

Watching the cavalry arrayed in the distance and the at least fifty thousand infantry beside them, Wang Yan was not surprised that the front line had been hammered so hard and yet so many troops remained here.

It was easy to understand: he had driven nearly everyone south to the big cities; Western Xia was a nation of conscripts, and in this moment of existential crisis, even the hungry had to fight. So nearly all Western Xia men, even those barely over ten, were on the battlefield. Troops from the eastern front against the Liao had also been shifted south—this was unleashing every last bit of wartime potential to resist this national catastrophe. Thus, manpower was not lacking, only quality had declined.

Moreover, while the Song had cavalry units, the only fully organized elite force was the Fubei Army. If they could annihilate the Fubei Army, it would crush morale and weaken the Song. After all, if the Fubei Army escaped, regrouped, and returned to the main battlefield, it would be no joke. So this time, they were serious—staking the nation's fate on the table. Western Xia was willing to abandon part of the front line and retreat, just to pull troops to annihilate the Fubei Army—this was "preserve the people, lose the land; keep both people and land."

So if they destroyed the Fubei Army, Western Xia would have breathing room and could still struggle on. If they failed, Western Xia was finished.

This was the largest mass battle the Fubei Army had ever faced. In the past, when encountering such formations, they had always fled—never stood their ground. Now, they could not. Their rear had been cut off; there was nowhere to run. Tripwires, pits—there likely wasn't time to set them up, and even if they had been, it wouldn't matter. They had to charge. A true hard fight. If the Fubei Army could survive with even a few thousand men, those survivors would form the core—making them the undisputed number-one light cavalry in the world.

As for total annihilation, that was just a figure of speech. Western Xia could not kill every single man—there would always be stragglers who escaped. He himself wouldn't die, but returning to Zhao Ji without results would be a problem.

"Order: send five thousand men from each flank to flank support; the rest, under my command, form a spearhead formation."

As he spoke, the officers beside him waved flags to transmit orders. Soon, through signal flags, five thousand men split off from each flank, endured brief chaos, and quickly formed charging formations, advancing one after another.

The flanks had to detour far out, primarily to strike the enemy infantry on the sides, split the battlefield, and break their formation. Wang Yan watched the dust clouds rising left and right, without turning his head, said: "This battle's outcome is uncertain. You two had better stick close. If you fall off your horse, you won't be crushed by the enemy—you'll be crushed by your own men."

He was speaking to the two supervisors behind him. The safest spot in the entire formation was right behind him. After all, he charged ahead, slashing wildly, and the formation had gaps—so his rear was always empty. That was why those two supervisors were still alive.

Hearing Wang Yan's words, the two replied, gripping their horse sabers in one hand and clutching reins tightly in the other, twisting their buttocks on the saddle, feet jammed hard into the stirrups. The endless, dark mass of enemy troops—anyone who looked at it went numb.

As the enemy across the way shifted formation and began loosing arrows, the central cavalry remained still. Wang Yan casually slid his spear into the groove on his saddle, then picked up the hooked bow tied to his belt, holding three arrows in hand. As he moved, the cavalry behind him copied him, all in perfect unison.

When the dense rustling of arrows behind him ceased, Wang Yan let out a sharp "Ha!" and spurred his horse forward with his legs, accelerating out of the formation. The soldiers behind followed in perfect sync, drawing and loosing arrows according to their estimates.

Five li was the distance; the enemy had cavalry coming—three volleys would be just right. Of course, the enemy was firing too—this was mutual. Some unlucky ones had their horses shot; the lucky ones had their bodies hit—different ways to die. Fortunately, the battle formation was sound: no single fallen horse would block the line behind, allowing positions to be swapped.

Charging forward, watching arrows fly, Wang Yan fired three arrows, then calmly bent low, secured his bow to prevent it from falling, then seized the eight-foot spear lying across his horse's back, clamped it under his arm, leaned forward, and slammed straight into the oncoming enemy ranks.

In this era, cavalry charges always began with mighty generals. Just like the flanks he had sent out—one led by Lu Junyi, the other by Dong Ping. Without ferocity, without that unstoppable momentum, you couldn't lead the vanguard—that's what a general was.

Wang Yan had no interest in knowing who the enemy general was. He merely locked eyes with him from afar. Both subtly adjusted their weapons' angles with the rhythm of their mounts—a psychological duel, one chance only. It was about prediction, courage—who lost, died. But the enemy general might be disappointed, because Wang Yan always won.

The enemy general still shifted his spear's trajectory, trying to deceive and mislead. It might work on others, but not on Wang Yan. He swung his spear in a wide arc, and before the enemy general's disbelieving eyes, deflected the constantly flickering, deceitful spear tip, then drove it straight into his belly. The armor was decent quality—it pierced through, but only barely penetrated. The enemy general, writhing in pain, abandoned his weapon, clutching the spearhead buried in his own abdomen.

At this moment, he was already suspended in midair…

The lever principle was at work. A weapon over four meters long, clamped under the armpit was already impressive—let alone moving it so widely. Many could do it, but this was war, not a single stunt. Proper energy distribution was a brutal test. Men as fierce as Wang Yan were rare—and he did it so effortlessly, powerfully, swiftly, and unexpectedly.

Wang Yan didn't stop. He used the momentum of his charge and his own strength to drive the enemy general's body into the rear-line soldier who had just caught up—crashing him off his horse. Before the soldier could react, the men behind Wang Yan galloped forward, their iron-shod hooves—CRACK—crushing his face.

Thrust, stab, parry—he didn't need to kill every enemy before him. In truth, he only needed to break the enemy's balance; the men beside him would slaughter them before they could recover. His efficiency was immense—like a true arrowhead, sweeping forward without pause, clearing all before him.

The clash of ten thousand cavalry lasted only moments. Soon, Wang Yan broke through the enemy line—but he didn't stop, for behind them stood infantry with shields and long spears.

Wang Yan was fearless. He hurled his spear with all his strength—it pierced the shield and pinned the soldier behind it to the ground. His horse, equally fearless, leapt high, hooves crashing down on the shield. The gleaming long spears held no fear. Their warhorses were mostly armored on the chest, precisely to withstand frontal impacts.

He snatched up the spear stuck in the ground, gripped it with both hands, and smashed it down hard on the enemy soldier's head. Long weapons were hard to wield in such chaos, but undeniably more devastating. He was a master of the spear—never struck elsewhere. Either smash the head, or spear the head, or stab the head. Against these lowly infantry, one spear, one kill.

Even the two supervisors right behind him, holding their sabers sideways, watched for who was unlucky. They couldn't swing properly—so they just rode with the horse's speed, blades extended outward, slashing. Sabers were sharp enough, and with added momentum, they cut down entire rows of infantry—this was cavalry's advantage over foot soldiers.

By now, Wang Yan understood: Western Xia was finished. Though this was his first large-scale mass battle, he could judge troop quality. The forces opposing them now—whether cavalry or infantry—had poor combat effectiveness. He saw they were veterans leading recruits, but too many recruits, too few veterans—that was the core problem. From this, Western Xia was utterly drained.

Perhaps their true elite were waiting behind to cut him off—after all, strategy meant four possible directions, real and fake, true and false. Just as he didn't know where the escape route was, the enemy didn't know where he'd go, and certainly didn't expect him to head for the hardest path.

Right now, his luck seemed good.

As the slaughter continued like cutting grass, the flanking units finally broke in from the sides. Without orders, without hesitation, they made a sharp turn and continued slaughtering within the newly split battlefield.

At this moment, the Western Xia army began to break.

Soldiers on the battlefield had their own sense of the situation. Seeing Wang Yan's force pierce through the cavalry like a tiger among sheep, swinging his spear wildly—some even flung enemies into the air. So many dead, yet the Fubei Army's speed hadn't slowed at all—they were about to be completely overrun. What was left to fight? Run, or wait to be skewered?

So those at the rear grew more terrified by the moment. They dared not advance, didn't want to die—only escape remained.

There were execution squads at the rear. They knew these soldiers were weak, knew the enemy was strong, so they did their duty—cutting down anyone who fled.

At first, it frightened some. But as Wang Yan's force drew nearer, more and more panicked. Naturally, they broke through the execution squads and fled toward the city gate. More and more stragglers triggered mass rout—inevitably, the entire army collapsed.

Wang Yan didn't chase them to the city walls as targets. Instead, he executed a sharp turn, slashing through a heap of fleeing stragglers, then ordered his men to raise flags—wheeling the cavalry southward.

The cavalry behind paid them no mind. There were still untold numbers of enemy troops ahead. They couldn't assault the city now—no point lingering. Running was the priority.

The situation was far better than he'd imagined. Western Xia soldiers were pitifully weak, and they'd been forming ranks when he arrived—clearly unprepared. Under these conditions, there was no need to detour north and circle back. The best move was to strike southward while they were unready.

Western Xia's cavalry had suffered nearly half casualties in the frontal clash. The survivors dared not pursue further. Thus, Wang Yan led the Fubei Army, regardless of darkness, straight toward Jingzhou, not far away.

His last communication with Yang Jian had been a month ago. Today's Western Xia deployment meant major changes on the front—he didn't know the details. He'd only told Yang Jian the grand strategy: which territories to take, how to pressure Western Xia step by step. As for troop numbers, deployments—that wasn't his concern. The generals would handle it.

Yang Jian knew nothing. All he did was nod, endorse the generals' actions, and secure logistics—preventing corrupt civil and military officials from embezzling too much, ensuring the army's supplies. Just doing these two things made Yang Jian a competent commander—far outshining Tong Guan.

Tong Guan was too greedy. As Regional Commander, no matter how he fought, if he won, he got credit. But Tong Guan had no shame—he stole credit from his subordinates, pushing his cronies into power. Too insatiable.

After searching all night, Wang Yan crossed the river the next morning and reached the outskirts of Jingzhou—only to find Song troops already there, camped thirty li out. Yang Jian and Zhong Shidao were both present.

Hearing a large cavalry force approached, they naturally went on high alert. But when Wang Yan displayed his Wang-character cavalry banner, tied to a spear, the misunderstanding was averted—no friendly fire erupted.

"Your Highness, you've returned whole and unharmed! You don't know—these past year, the Emperor asked after you every three days, and Princess Changdi's letters arrived one after another—they were all worried sick about you."

Yang Jian personally took Wang Yan's reins, overly enthusiastic. First, he'd taken Wang Yan's money. Second, any sensible person could see Western Xia was doomed now—and as commander, when this campaign ended, Tong Guan was nothing. This man was his benefactor—he had to be treated with utmost care.

Beside him, seventy-year-old Zhong Shidao watched Yang Jian's groveling, then compared it to his own past treatment—though seemingly respectful, Yang Jian had always been condescending. He sighed inwardly: truly, one thing tames another. But he held no grudge against Yang Jian—he'd worked with Tong Guan, and by comparison, Yang Jian was decent: never meddled, saved everyone so much trouble.

Wang Yan waved his hand: "Enough. Arrange for the Fubei Army soldiers to settle in—boil water, bathe, serve good wine and food."

"Rest assured, Your Highness—already arranged. The valiant soldiers will eat and drink their fill."

"How are the wounded we sent back recovering?"

In the last battle, though the enemy was weak, their losses were heavy. Only fourteen thousand returned; the rest remained behind. Western Xia wouldn't kill them all, but their treatment? That depended on fate.

"Those fit to fight are guarding Xiliang with the heavy cavalry. Those unfit have been sent home to recuperate. Compensation silver has been sent back—I personally oversaw it, added extra, and warned local officials: no mistreatment."

"Send word to them: advance eastward, move toward us." Wang Yan turned to his bodyguard, then looked at Zhong Shidao: "Old General Zhong still looks vigorous."

"General, your glory surpasses even your past," Zhong Shidao laughed. "General, don't waste time talking—go wash the dust off, the wine and food are ready. We'll eat and talk."

Drinking in camp was forbidden, true—but Wang Yan and his Fubei Army had returned. They had to drink. Besides, even if the whole army drank, he knew reporting it would bring no consequences—this was the real power.

After washing up, in the central command tent, all officers qualified to join the feast arrived—Yang Jian, Zhong Shidao, and others—to welcome Wang Yan and report the situation. They all knew who truly led this war. From the current situation, they fully recognized his strength. They were eager—this was a nation-conquering achievement.

Eating and drinking as he listened to the reports, Wang Yan now had a decent grasp of the overall situation on the battlefield.

The southeast and northwest of Ningxia had both been taken for the Great Song, and in the east it had reconnected with Liao territory. Now it was essentially surrounded on three sides, with only the north untouched. That was because Western Xia had diverted troops to besiege the Reconquer-the-North Army, losing large swaths of territory on the front lines. Since this campaign failed to finish the job, one could say Western Xia was done for.

Although Western Xia still had several hundred thousand troops, that was because the Great Song army was executing a war of attrition, slowly pressuring them. They were beating them down, but the fighting wasn't overly fierce—just constantly keeping them on the hook. Relying on the drain of resources, they were compressing Western Xia's living space step by step. Having many soldiers wasn't a good thing; Western Xia could no longer hold out.

It was also because Wang Yan didn't want to kill off all the Western Xia menfolk—since in Western Xia the entire population was soldier, no soldiers meant no men. They were all labor; there was no need to waste them and cause massive casualties on his own side…

Zhong Shidao took a small sip of wine. He was old, his health was failing, he couldn't drink much, so he was merely going through the motions with Wang Yan. He asked the key question: "General, wasn't the original plan to return from Xiliang? Why are we now at Jingzhou?"

After hearing Wang Yan lay out the situation once, he pondered for a moment and said: "I reckon the bridges across the river should all have been chopped down by now. The Lishi Sect royals have probably already fled north—either to the Uyghurs or to the Mongols. They still have some wealth and troops on hand, enough to protect themselves. What a pity…"

Wang Yan had of course thought about this too, but at the time he didn't know the specifics of the battlefield. Otherwise he would certainly have followed the original plan and headed north to Helan Mountain. In fact, the most likely scenario was that the Lishi Sect royals had already fled while they were moving east. If they had any intention of surrendering, when their soldiers scattered, someone would have tried to surrender. Even if they were still wavering at that point, by the time the army returned, they should have sent someone to Jingzhou to discuss surrender. But enough time had passed, and there was still no movement from the Western Xia side—so they must have run.

He shook his head and smiled: "Nothing to pity—they can't get away. Now there's not a single Western Xia person left in the northwest, and the Uyghurs don't dare cross over a single step. As for the Mongol tribes, once we take Western Xia's land and open up trade routes, we'll still be doing cattle and sheep business with those tribes. Once we spread the word, the Lishi Sect royals will be dancing for His Majesty in Bianjing before you know it."

After Wang Yan said this, the men who had been regretting not capturing the enemy monarch burst into laughter and stopped dwelling on useless matters.

One had to say people really did need to progress. Look at this group here—back in the day they just wanted to win battles and not be tormented by the civil officials. Now that Western Xia had been destroyed, they were starting to regret not being able to capture the enemy monarch. That was progress—great progress.

When asked about the next operational plan, Wang Yan shook his head and smiled. He knew these people were afraid he would be insatiable and snatch the credit. After all, now with Western Xia clearly about to fall, all one had to do was lead troops to surround a few cities, and not a single person needed to die. Once the provisions inside the city ran out, someone would naturally hand over the city. There absolutely wouldn't be any surprises—it was time to divide the spoils.

He replied that after resting for a few days, the Reconquer-the-North Army would stay behind to coordinate operations, while he would take his personal guards home. Everyone happy, all good…