Chapter 470: The Resistance of Qingxi County

The Red Lotus Sect has made a comeback, and the various counties and townships under the jurisdiction of Lianshan Prefecture will have an even harder time.

North of Qingxi County city, the official road has been trampled into a muddy mess.

Amidst the swirling dust, a black, oppressive tide of people surges forward like a burst levee.

That is not a well-trained army, but a group of refugees driven mad by hunger and fear.

The weapons in their hands are a motley collection—hoes, sickles, sharpened wooden sticks, and some are even charging forward with their bare hands.

Deep within the crowd, several blood-stained Red Lotus flags appear and disappear; the eerie lotus flower on the flags flickers in the smoke and dust, looking like some kind of curse.

Using refugees as cannon fodder to charge, kill, and fill pits with their flesh and blood while the elites wait for an opportunity—this is an old tactic.

"Kill! Kill!! Kill!!!"

The roaring sound is overwhelming; it is less of a war cry and more like the wailing of dying beasts.

The refugees' eyes are red, their faces stained with mud and blood; they charge toward the fragile earthen wall of Qingxi County as if it were the only exit to survival.

The core of the militia recruits on the city wall are disciples of the Hong Sect.

Obedience to orders and formation training have been part of their lives since the first day they joined the Hong Sect.

They have seen bandits, they have seen mountain thieves, and they have seen this kind of formation before—thousands of people throwing their lives away to attack, with the evil ones of the Red Lotus Sect behind them, brandishing weapons to drive them on.

Those whips lash out at the slow ones; those struck scream as they fall, only to be trampled into pulp by the tide of people behind them in the blink of an eye.

"Archers! Fire!" the captain on the wall shouts at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking.

A sparse rain of arrows flies out, and the front row of refugees falls, but those behind seem not to see the corpses, stepping over their companions' backs to continue charging forward.

Some are struck by arrows and fall, still shouting "Kill" until their necks are trampled and they finally go silent.

The recruits on the earthen wall have truly experienced a bloody battle.

Facing such a formation, some squad leaders roar: "Our wives, elders, and children are all behind us; if you don't want your homes destroyed and families killed, then kill with all your might..."

Others roar: "You have already experienced this once, what are you afraid of?"

"Being a soldier here is still better than being one of those starving ghosts outside..."

White hair, black clothes, a figure as tall and imposing as a Shark Tooth Sword thrust into the city wall's bricks.

Wei Zhuang stands with his back to the slaughterhouse below the wall, facing the militia's drill ground inside the city, watching the three hundred men neatly arranged below with an expressionless face.

Those three hundred men are equally silent; their blades are drawn, their shields are raised, and every person's gaze is fixed on their commander, with not a single one turning to look at the chaotic officials and soldiers on the city wall.

Ever since Wei Zhuang took over the Qingxi County militia with a commission stamped with the Prefect's seal.

At the time, everyone thought he was just someone coming to slack off; after all, "militia" didn't sound like a proper official position.

To put it bluntly, they were just odd-jobbers for the county office, patrolling the streets and catching chicken thieves in peacetime, and the first to run when a real war started.

But after Wei Zhuang arrived, everything changed.

In three months, he trained three hundred idlers who were waiting to die into blade-and-shield soldiers capable of charging in formation.

In another month, he completely eradicated the mountain bandits and thieves within a fifty-mile radius of Qingxi County.

His hair is a pure, silvery white—not the gray-white of old age, but a white as piercing as the reflection off a blade's edge.

No one has ever asked his age, because his face looks at most in his early twenties.

Yet those eyes are as black as a bottomless abyss, containing something heavier than the combined ages of everyone present.

The refugees' roaring is getting closer. Loose dirt falls from the earthen wall; some are crying, some are cursing.

The captain's voice on the wall has already cracked, and the archers' quivers are nearly empty.

At the base of the wall comes the dull thud of wood striking earth; the refugees are building human ladders, and some are using sharpened tree trunks to jab at the wall, causing cracks to appear.

Wei Zhuang finally moves.

He does not shout or yell, nor does he draw his sword and wave his arms; he simply tilts his head slightly and says one sentence to the adjutant beside him.

It is too noisy on the wall for anyone to hear what he said, but the adjutant shudders upon hearing it and immediately rushes down the city wall.

Three breaths later, the city gate opens.

It was not rammed open by the refugees; it was pulled open from the inside.

The heavy wooden city gate makes a dull sound, and the noise of the hinges turning cuts through the thunderous battle cries like an ill-timed tear of silk.

The refugees outside the city freeze for a moment, then erupt into an even more frantic roar—the city gate is open!

The way to survive is clear!

They surge toward the narrow gate like a tide, scrambling and trampling over each other's bodies to squeeze inside.

Then they slam into a shield wall.

The first row consists of iron shields, two feet wide and four feet high, with sharp spikes at the bottom to be driven into the ground.

There are no gaps between the shields, and the surfaces are coated with tung oil; they are so slick that the hoes in the refugees' hands cannot find purchase and simply slide off.

Behind the shield wall are three rows of long spears, the tips protruding from the gaps in the shields, flashing with cold light as they thrust forward in unison.

The first wave of refugees to surge into the gate passage is skewered like meat on a spit.

Fresh blood sprays onto the shields, dripping down the tung oil and pooling into a viscous red mess at their feet.

Those behind cannot stop in time; they trip over the corpses and are pushed by the people behind them, trampling over them. The screams in the gate passage instantly drown out the battle cries outside. Yet the shield wall remains motionless, as if welded to the ground like an iron plate.

Wei Zhuang walks step by step, very slowly; his black cloak drags through the blood on the stone steps, leaving a dark red trail.

He stops five paces behind the shield wall, hands behind his back, his gaze passing over the heads of the soldiers in the front row to look at the sea of madness outside the gate.

"Red Lotus Sect," his voice is not loud, nor can it be considered harsh, but it has great penetrating power, carrying clearly through the wailing and howling.

"Using refugees as cannon fodder while you hide in the back to watch the show—that's not very honorable."

No one responds to him. The refugees continue to surge forward, but the militia behind the shield wall suddenly roars in unison: "Suppress!"

The voices of three hundred men merge into a wave of sound, forcefully suppressing the refugees' roars by a notch.

The shield wall advances three steps, the spear formation thrusts accordingly, and a dozen more corpses fall in the gate passage, the pile of bodies nearly blocking the path.

The refugees' momentum is finally checked. These poor people being driven are mad, but they are not fearless fanatics; when the corpses underfoot reach knee-height, the ones in the very front finally begin to retreat.

Fear is contagious; one person retreats, ten follow, and a hundred turn and run, causing the pressure outside the gate tunnel to suddenly diminish.

Just then, a sharp whistle sounded from behind the refugees.

Those Red Lotus flags began to move forward. As the flag surfaces unfurled, they revealed the people beneath—not refugees, but true members of the Red Lotus Sect.

They wore dark red robes, hideous lotus masks on their faces, and all held gleaming long blades in their hands.

There were not many of them, perhaps around a hundred, but their aura was completely different from that of the refugees; they were people who had killed and been stained with blood.

Wei Zhuang looked at those Red Lotus masks, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, as if he were smiling or perhaps chewing on an unpleasant memory. He raised his right hand and gave a light wave.

The shield wall suddenly split open.

As if pushed aside by an invisible giant hand, the militiamen retreated in unison to both sides, clearing a three-zhang-wide passage in the middle.

The Red Lotus Sect members outside the gate tunnel were stunned, as were the refugees; for that instant, a strange silence fell over the entire battlefield.

Wei Zhuang stood right in the middle of this passage, one man facing the dense crowd outside the gate.

The three hundred blade-and-shield soldiers standing to the side all felt that their leader truly possessed the demeanor of an expert.

His white hair lifted slightly in the wind, and the hem of his black robes snapped loudly in the wind blowing through the gate tunnel.

Wei Zhuang rested his left hand on his Sword scabbard, his right hand hanging at his side, his posture as casual as if he were taking a stroll in his own courtyard.

Yet it was precisely this casual posture that caused the hundred-some Red Lotus Sect members opposite him to stop in their tracks in unison.

"I am merely quite concerned about these few counties around Lianshan Prefecture," he said, his tone as indifferent as if he were chatting with someone in a teahouse.

"You come to Qingxi today, and tomorrow you will go to Dongshan, to Wuliu, to Baisha. By gnawing through them one by one, Lianshan Prefecture will become an isolated city."

He paused, his thumb pushing gently, and an inch of cold light from the blade within the Sword scabbard was revealed.

"And among them, there is not a single one that has ever feared you!!"

The Sword light flashed, adding dozens more corpses to the city gate entrance.

Only then did Wei Zhuang flip backward to retreat, and the shield formation closed up once more.

Watching the closing shield formation, Wei Zhuang murmured, "Now, they should be willing to send out their experts, right?!"