Chapter 844: Iron‑Blood Suppresses the Flat Camp's Roar, Lamentation Overturns Heaven and Destroys the Old Roots

The firelight made every face on the Xiaochang flicker, thousands of incited militia gathered from three sides, the front dozens held spears and Horizontal Blades, their faces full of madness born of fear and anger.

Yuwen Ze's Personal Guard Zhang Poqi and Huan Jing have already drawn their swords, holding Yuwen Ze tightly in the middle, their arms stretched like steel rods, the blade tips pointing at the crowd merging ahead.

Yuwen Ze struggled twice but couldn't break free, his voice burst out from above Zhang Poqi's shoulder.

"Let go of me! I am the Lingzhou Inspector, I cannot let them make a mockery of me!"

Zhang Poqi's voice squeezed out from his teeth, gripping Yuwen Ze's arm tightly without loosening.

"Your Highness, you cannot go out, Shuyi will protect you with his life!"

Chen Yan stood at the center of the Xiaochang, not even turning his body.

His right hand rose from the Horizontal Blade's hilt, fingers slightly spread, making a gesture in the firelight.

Then he spoke.

"Ye Zhuxi, Hongye."

His voice was not loud, but when those two names left his mouth, the shadows on the west side of the Xiaochang and the east side stirred simultaneously.

"Give this Duke the instigators, skin them and pull their tendons."

Ye Zhuxi's figure cut out from behind the western tents.

The dark military armor left only a vague line in the firelight; the cold light of the Chang Qiang in his hand burst into three arcs in midair, striking the three burly Private Soldiers at the front before they could even raise their weapons, the spear tips flipping them from the gaps in their Shoulder Armor onto the ground, the sound of Armor shattering mingling with screams.

Hongye slipped out silently from behind the eastern tents, the moon‑white sleeves billowing like two flags in the fire‑wind, the sound of a fine‑steel short sword being drawn was drowned by the chaotic roar, but the sound of the blade slicing a throat could not be covered.

Three men who were frantically beating the Gong let the Gong slip, the mallet fell to the ground, their fingers covering the throat wound cut to the millimeter, and they collapsed onto the Mudi within two steps.

At the same time, Five Hundred Beiwei Death Guards surged in from the outer camp like a tide, the clashing of iron armor echoing from all directions as they converged, heavy and rhythmic.

Long knives were drawn together.

The blade edges reflected five hundred uniform cold rays in the firelight.

Lu Ming's voice burst out from five hundred throats at once.

"Those who retreat live! Those who advance die!"

The angry roar, bearing iron‑blooded murderous intent, was like an invisible wall that instantly slammed into the front‑row incited soldiers.

The steps of the dozen or so people at the very front halted.

After stopping, chaos erupted.

The crowd split from converging to dispersing, from frenzy to panic, from shouts to screams; some turned and fled, some dropped their knives and crouched on the ground clutching their heads, some were shoved by those behind them into the wall of knives formed by the front Beiwei Death Guards and then bounced back.

Chen Yan did not look at the militia in disarray.

His gaze pierced the firelight, the crowd, the fleeing figures, and landed precisely on a towering silhouette retreating in the shadows at the far end of the Xiaochang.

Helan Xiong.

Chen Yan drew a Feather Arrow from the quiver at his waist, and with his left hand lifted the horn bow handed over by a nearby Beiwei Death Guard.

The bowstring was drawn to full tension.

The feather at the arrow's tail brushed past his ear.

Hum.

The sound of cutting through the air was extremely short and sharp.

The Feather Arrow streaked across the entire sky of the Xiaochang, entering from the brightest firelight into the darkest, piercing Helan Xiong's right calf with precision.

Helan Xiong's scream burst from the shadows, like a wild boar struck by an arrow, his whole body collapsing face‑down onto the broken‑stone ground, both hands clutching the trembling arrow shaft in his calf, his body convulsing like a fish flopped onto shore.

Two Beiwei Death Guards, one on each side, rushed forward, iron chains coiling around Helan Xiong's wrists and ankles, pulling him up from the broken‑stone ground and dragging him toward the center of the Xiaochang like a dead dog.

The iron chains scraped a harsh friction sound on the broken stones, Helan Xiong's scream echoing from the edge of the Xiaochang all the way to its center.

Chen Yan tossed the horn bow to the nearby Death Guard, and planted a foot on Helan Xiong's face.

The sole of his boot crushed that bearded face, pressing half of it into the broken stones.

Chen Yan's gaze rose from that twisted, painful face, sweeping over the low‑rank soldiers below who were already trembling in fear.

He gave no order to slaughter.

He spoke.

"You bunch of idiots, you still don't know you've been used as gunmen!"

The wave of his voice rolled out from his chest, flooding every corner of the Xiaochang.

Thousands of eyes turned in unison, bearing fear, bewilderment, and a lingering dread that emerges only after being swept by a torrent and finally halted.

Chen Yan's finger pointed at Helan Xiong beneath his foot.

"Who do you think burned the grain in Changping Warehouse?"

The Xiaochang fell silent for two breaths.

Chen Yan's voice rose another level.

"It was you, the good General Helan Xiong, who, to force the Inspector to revoke the land‑distribution decree, personally sent men to burn your rations, killing thirty brothers who guarded the granary for you!"

Helan Xiong twisted his head desperately under the boot, his voice hoarse to a distorted degree.

"He farted! Subordinate General has not…"

Chen Yan's boot pressed down three more degrees, crushing the remaining words from his mouth.

Gao Jiong's figure emerged from the shadows, carrying a bulging cloth sack whose seal was still stained with Huojian.

He turned the sack upside down onto the Mudi at the center of the Xiaochang.

Whoosh—

Dozens of letters and three ledgers scattered on the ground.

Gao Jiong crouched, pulled a letter from the pile, unfolded it, his voice cold to the bone.

"This is a handwritten letter from Helan Xiong to the Helan clan chief, on white paper black ink it reads: 'Fire burned Changping Warehouse, cut the Prince's grain route, forced the Court to replace the Lingzhou Inspector.'"

He then pulled a ledger from among them.

This is his running ledger of deducting the base soldiers' pay for three consecutive months; each month he withheld sixty percent, of which forty percent went back to Helan Xiong's residence, and twenty percent went into his own pocket.

He flipped the ledger to the last page and held it up to the brightest part of the fire.

"Brothers, look for yourselves: you should receive four taels of salary each month—how many taels did you actually get?"

The air on the Xiaochang changed its taste after those words.

The low‑rank soldiers, whose eyes had just been inflamed by agitation, shifted their gaze from Helan Xiong's face to the ledger, then from the ledger to the empty money pouch at their own waists.

Chen Yan's boot sole moved away from Helan Xiong's face.

He did not rush to kill.

He walked toward the rag‑clad low‑rank soldiers at the back of the Xiaochang, his steps neither hurried nor slow.

He came to a veteran of about forty years of age.

The veteran wore a short brown coat so thin the skin underneath could be seen; his hands were frost‑cracked, with dry blood scabs lodged between his fingers, and he shivered, curled beneath his armor.

Chen Yan crouched and looked him straight in the eye.

"What's your name?"

The veteran's knees bent, his voice trembling like dry leaves in the wind.

"Hui, Hui, Zhu Guo, I am called Ma Quezi, I've served eleven years as a soldier."

Chen Yan's gaze fell on his frost‑cracked hands.

"Where is your winter coat?"

Ma Quezi's lips trembled three times, the thing in his eye sockets churned twice, and finally rolled down.

"Never issued one; it's been eleven years—every year they promised one, every year none. Last winter I stripped my mother's cotton coat and wrapped it inside my armor; as a result my mother froze ill that winter and still can't get out of bed."

Chen Yan stood up.

He did not ask the next man.

He turned, strode back to the center of the Xiaochang, each step heavier than the last.

He stood before Helan Xiong, the Horizontal Blade in his hand drawn from its sheath.

"Helan Xiong, you deducted Ma Quezi's winter coat for eleven years; Ma Quezi's mother fell ill from the cold because of you."

The Horizontal Blade rose, its edge reflecting an orange‑red arc in the firelight.

"This slash is for Ma Quezi's mother."

The blade fell.

The sound was extremely short and crisp.

The Human Head rolled off Helan Xiong's neck, spun three times on the broken stone floor, landed face up at the brightest point of the fire, its bearded face frozen in an expression that had not yet begged for mercy.

Fresh blood spurted from the severed throat, splattering onto the hem of Chen Yan's Great Cloak, onto the broken stones, and onto the boot tips of the nearest few militia.

Chen Yan flicked the blood off the Horizontal Blade, raised Helan Xiong's Human Head, and faced the thousands of militia.

"From today onward, there will be no more aristocratic commanders in the Lingzhou army!"

His voice rose to a level that the entire camp could hear.

"This Duke has brought fifty Political Commissars; they will eat in your camp, sleep beside your bunks, and act as your masters!"

He slammed the head onto the ground, splashing blood half a zhang.

"Who dares to cheat you? This Duke's blade will draw for you!"

The knees of thousands of low‑rank militia bent at the same instant.

It wasn't an order.

It was spontaneous.

"Zhu Guo, thousand years!"

The wave of voices surged out from the Xiaochang, crashing over the camp walls, over the sandstorms whipped up on the Gobi, and into the deepest, darkest part of Lingzhou's night sky.

However.

The scout's horse hooves from the city defenses exploded inward at that moment.

A sweat‑soaked scout leapt from his horse, his knee striking the broken stones, his voice hoarse to the point of breaking.

"Report! The four great families inside the city have jointly blocked all grain stores; grain prices in the market have surged tenfold in an hour! The townspeople have already begun smashing and looting rice shops!"

Yuwen Ze's fist clenched at his side, his knuckles cracking with a series of 'ka‑ba' sounds.

Chen Yan lowered his head to glance at Helan Xiong's unblinking Human Head on the ground; something churning in his eyes made everyone on the Xiaochang feel the temperature drop rapidly.

The curve of his mouth bent.

It curved to a degree that even Gao Jiong felt his spine tighten.

"Good, very good."

He slapped the Horizontal Blade's hilt hard with his palm.

"This Duke wants to see just how hard the aristocratic coffin boards of Lingzhou truly are."