Chapter 570: Drink Up!

Li Guanyi defeated Jiang Su, ending the battle in his sector.

Without time to rest, he galloped toward a battlefield a hundred li away; before even reaching it, gusts of wind laden with blood and death slapped against his face.

Li Guanyi pressed forward in anxious haste.

When he arrived at the flank battlefield, what met his eyes was an utterly horrific scene; Li Zhao and the others saw the shattered armor on Li Guanyi’s body, the crack and blood on his shoulder pauldron.

Li Zhao said: “Guanyi…”

Fan Qing, clinging to life, whispered: “Your Majesty…”

Li Guanyi raised his hand to silence them, used the Wu Gong of the Huangji Jing Shi Book to heal them, and as he healed, gazed at the bloody battlefield, his voice calm: “Jiang Su is dead. The Ying army’s fate is sealed.”

Fan Qing murmured: “Our comrades have suffered heavy losses—Old Master Gong Sun Huai Zhi, and General Xue Shen…”

“Are both dead.”

Li Guanyi’s gaze dimmed, but under these circumstances, he could not show weakness; he suppressed all inner turmoil, maintaining the composure befitting a monarch to steady the troops, and simply said:

“Rest first.”

Qibi Li survived thanks to his personal pills, but his primordial energy was severely damaged.

Had he not already broken through into the Seventh Heaven, he would have died on this battlefield; even with a Grandmaster’s foundation and robust blood qi, he would need seven or eight months to fully recover.

It was uncertain whether this would affect his future martial path.

Fan Qing lost an arm.

His expression remained resolute; he whispered: “It’s only one arm. Compared to brothers who fell in battle, I’ve been far luckier.”

Li Guanyi took a deep breath, tilting his head upward.

After a long while, he said: “I’ll send General Kou Yulie, the Furious Scale Dragon King, by waterway to bring our brothers home; Shi Dalin and the others have already prepared behind the lines to return our men and prisoners.”

“Our brothers must go home.”

Li Guanyi looked at the Tiger Roar Heaven Battle Spear lying on the ground.

As the wind blew, Yu Wenlie lay with closed eyes, lifeless; yet the spear’s razor-sharp blade, capable of slicing through armor, emitted a faint, low growl like a tiger’s rumble.

General Xue Shen’s divine aura had been utterly depleted.

Li Guanyi stepped forward slowly, scanning the battlefield debris, until he found it—his eyes brightened slightly, he hurried two steps, bent down, and picked up the core of the array from this bloody, brutal battlefield.

The tension in his chest finally eased.

His martial arts began with this array core; it was because of this object that Li Guanyi learned the world’s top-tier martial arts as a youth.

It was also from General Xue Shen that he truly entered the study of military strategy and laid its foundation.

In the past, this crystal always held faint streams of light shifting within.

He could sense the divine aura within—but now, the light on this array core was extremely faint. As Li Guanyi held the crystal in his hand, he froze, then his pupils contracted sharply.

Crack—

He opened his palm; fine cracks had appeared across the crystal’s surface. He poured his legendary martial qi into it, nurturing the crystal, yet it seemed utterly powerless to halt its fragmentation.

The cracks spread rapidly, swiftly, covering the entire crystal.

The array core, infused with General Xue Shen’s divine aura, was riddled with fissures.

It seemed ready to shatter into dust at any moment.

The battle with Yu Wenlie had drained far too much.

Even the real Zhang Ziyong standing here would have been cut down alive by the White Tiger Grandmaster in that state, let alone just one arm of Zhang Ziyong—still only one-third of its divine aura remaining.

Li Guanyi’s expression hardened, a sense of dazed numbness settling over him.

The brutality of battle, the slaughter, grew sharper in his mind.

Since he picked up his weapon and stepped onto this chaotic world, this era and its chaos had constantly shown him loss and cruelty.

Every step forward demanded a great price; every advance meant loss.

Li Guanyi’s military strategy and troop formation foundations were taught by General Xue Shen; now, in this moment of profound grief, he suddenly noticed the cracks on the crystal forming a peculiar pattern.

The pattern resolved into an array; suddenly, the crystal glowed with a trace of divine aura—and in Li Guanyi’s hazy, sorrowful ears, a loud, unrestrained laugh rang out: the voice left behind by General Xue Shen, gleeful beyond measure—

“Hahahaha! I got you!”

Li Guanyi froze.

He stared as the cracks on the crystal slowly healed, just like the carefree laugh in his ears—as if General Xue Shen was watching him, then turned, raised his spear, and, facing away from the now-grown Emperor of Qin, waved his hand.

“I’m off!”

The divine aura finally vanished, sinking into stillness. Li Guanyi held the now-dead crystal, and with his legendary martial power, sensed a faint thread of divine aura still lingering at its very core.

Extremely faint.

Li Guanyi did not know whether this trace was so weak because of the five-day, five-night, all-consuming battle with the White Tiger Grandmaster Yu Wenlie—or because, after such exhaustion, the old man had still left him one final “joke.”

That man’s tongue had always been as venomous as ever.

His spirit had always remained as free and breezy as ever.

He was indeed the same man who, after Chen Baxian’s death, had crashed his funeral, beaten a drum, and laughed aloud—the greatest under heaven.

Li Guanyi’s taut spirit slowly relaxed.

General Xue Shen’s divine aura still remained.

Though extremely faint, it was real; if he found a place rich in primordial energy and set up an array, he could use the array’s power to slowly draw in heaven’s qi and gradually restore General Xue Shen’s divine aura.

But that would surely take an exceedingly, exceedingly long time.

If measured by meetings, perhaps they would never see each other again in this lifetime.

Li Guanyi suddenly understood what General Xue Shen’s final words—“I’m off”—meant: as a legendary martial artist, his life stretched long, but within these centuries, he might never see General Xue Shen again.

Now, it was he who was bidding farewell to General Xue Shen.

And when General Xue Shen awoke a thousand years later, he would see only a changed world, a realm where the names of men had become cold, solemn entries in history’s scrolls.

He would see the Emperor Li Guanyi as history remembered him.

Then, it would be General Xue Shen bidding farewell to Li Guanyi.

Thus it was—never to meet again.

The river’s waves surged violently.

The Furious Scale Dragon King led his main fleet, assembled during the conquest of southern lands, to this battlefield; using the water’s current, he transported the wounded back. In this horrific battlefield, the number of Qilin Army dead was far lower than the Ying army’s.

Yet the total casualties remained staggering.

This was because Emperor Qin had long ago reformed military equipment; even when poor, he spent every coin on essentials—he was stingy with his own spending, even willing to drag Nan Gong Wu Meng into robbing desert bandits.

But in truly vital matters, he never hesitated.

Shi Dalin, Lei Laomeng, and other veteran Qilin Army commanders had prepared personal medicine pouches for their elite troops.

Inside were the five strongest powders from Hou Zhongyu.

Yet now, their efficacy surpassed even Hou Zhongyu’s time.

Successors built upon the past.

Building on Hou Zhongyu’s blood-stopping powder, under the guidance of elder alchemists, they successfully upgraded the Qilin Army’s standard-issue medicine pouches; though use was intensely painful, the results were exceptional.

At least they could forcibly stop bleeding.

That deliberately preserved, searing pain also stimulated the spirit—waves of agony kept wounded soldiers awake, preventing them from slipping into unconsciousness; when injuries reached critical levels, biting down to stay conscious meant the difference between life and death.

Large numbers of Qilin Army wounded were transported to the rear.

Lei Laomeng, Shi Dalin, and others worked without sleep or rest to treat them; after returning to the rear, the auspicious light of the Nine-Colored Deer never ceased—any Qilin soldier who reached the rear doubled his chance of survival.

And the fallen.

By Emperor Qin’s order, all were brought back to their homeland.

Even in death, they must return to their soil.

The Azure Dragon Ship pierced the river’s flow; the Furious Scale Dragon King stood at its prow, the crimson Qilin-cloud banner whipping wildly in the wind; aboard, the wounded and the fallen brothers were carried home.

The Furious Scale Dragon King gazed at those behind him and whispered:

“Home, brothers…”

The Furious Scale Dragon King shouted:

“Qilin Army soldiers—return to the nation!!!”

Fan Qing, even after losing his arm, never left the front; having fought this far, he would never turn back, could never retreat—after Yu Wenlie’s death, Jiang Su’s decapitation on the battlefield, and Gao Xiang’s surrender.

The entire Ying army had nearly collapsed into rout.

They had lost their will to fight and knew they could no longer defeat Emperor Qin; yet in every era of transformation, when the new replaces the old, in the great tide of change, there are always opportunists.

They cannot see the future of the age—or even if they can, they still follow their desires, their obsessions, chasing personal glory and wealth.

They refuse to surrender, refuse to give up command, refuse to die for Ying.

They plan to flee into mountains and rivers, to carve out their own power.

But Po Jun and Wen Qingyu had long foreseen this; the Qilin Army’s formation, along with Yuan Zhi’s Eight Gates Golden Lock Array, turned the entire world into a battlefield, with Qin’s armies everywhere.

Almost every direction held a main Qilin Army force, led by a renowned general.

Even among the routed troops, there were generals ranked among the top hundred.

But among the Qilin Army, there were more.

In a standoff, morale is a decisive factor.

The Ying army now was utterly demoralized; facing the Qilin Army’s soaring morale, even equal numbers would be no match—especially since the Qilin Army rode a great victory, driven by the ambition to unify the realm, while their enemies only sought to cling to a corner, surviving one day at a time.

After these comparisons, victory was already decided.

Under the strategies of Po Jun, Wen Qingyu, Yan Daiqing, and others, Qilin Army soldiers fought fiercely; as the Eight Gates Golden Lock Array tightened and encircled, the routed troops were utterly annihilated—only a matter of time.

The one-armed Fan Qing stepped onto the battlefield, launching powerful political and psychological assaults, constantly urging surrender, eroding enemy will—masses of Ying rout troops surrendered.

Those still unwilling to yield, or die-hard loyalists of Ying, were completely surrounded and slaughtered.

Yue Qianfeng swung his battle halberd and roared with laughter; the Red Dragon manifestation stretched its body across the battlefield, and as he laughed, one after another Ying state general, struggling to hold on, spat blood and fell to the ground.

“Is that all the blood you can spit? Can’t you keep fighting?!”

“Are you mocking me?!”

“You’ve only spat a few mouthfuls of blood—aren’t you just warming up on the battlefield?!”

“Come on, fight again! Fight again!”

The Emperor of Qin’s orders differed entirely from the thoughts of these routed troops.

According to their expectations, and according to the choices of past hegemonic monarchs recorded in history, after defeating the enemy’s main force, the Emperor of Qin would temporarily lower his banners—but this time, the Emperor of Qin seemed determined to finish this war completely.

To fight until the day of total victory.

After a brief healing, Emperor Li Guanyi personally returned to the battlefield.

With the Emperor of Qin himself stepping onto the battlefield, and with the Qilin Army continuously crushing the routed forces and gaining ever greater advantage, the morale of the remaining routed troops sank day by day.

Fan Qing mobilized the common people.

The people guided their paths, and aided by the [Divine Art: Star Chart Popularization] personally orchestrated years ago by the silver-haired girl in the Western Regions, the Qilin Army’s ability to track and identify directions surpassed any army in history.

Across the sky, the divine eagle auspice from the grasslands soared through the heavens.

Its eyes easily located hidden battalions.

Every preparation made earlier now played a tremendous role in this final great battle; over a decade of planning, preparation, and maneuvering had propelled the final outcome.

The Qilin Army and the Emperor of Qin brought immense pressure, and combined with Fan Qing’s appeals for surrender, it amounted to a psychological [Surround Three, Leave One Open], causing many soldiers to flee their camps at night and surrender to the Qilin Army.

When one man fled, he could inspire ten.

When ten fled, they could inspire a hundred.

When a hundred fled, an entire army would collapse into chaos; and those who surrendered from different places and battlefields converged into a torrent called the tide of the age.

The great tide surged, already a wave; when such a wave crashed forward, nothing could stop it.

Three hundred years of chaos—did the people’s longing for peace and stability not outweigh any single man’s resistance?

One after another routed army surrendered, yielding. The last rebel forces held out stubbornly, hiding in the mountains, refusing to surrender. By late September, heavy snow fell, sealing the mountains and roads, blanketing all in icy cold, cutting off supply lines—and finally delivering a devastating blow to the morale of this final army.

The Emperor of Qin personally led the army, with Yue Qianfeng on the right and Yue Pengwu on the left, launching a coordinated assault.

The battle lasted less than an hour.

Marked by the death of the Ying state’s final Minister of War.

The last rebel force of the Ying state was utterly destroyed. From the end of June to the end of September, this vast war, wagering heaven and future, lasted a hundred days—finally restoring relative peace to the realm.

During this time, Wen Qingyu still kept Dongdu City surrounded.

This man was the supreme strategist of self-interest—he had anticipated nearly every scheme of those inside the city.

How did he do it?

Simply put yourself in the situation inside the city, think what you would do, then block every possible move.

It was simple.

The Emperor of Qin personally went to Dongdu City.

This battle was recorded in the annals of the realm as the greatest war in history—but the grandeur described by strategists and historians often meant prolonged chaos and slaughter, absolute brutality on the battlefield.

Both sides deployed armies numbering in the millions; even the Qilin Army, despite its overwhelming strategic advantage, suffered nearly one-tenth casualties—close to one hundred thousand dead in this war to pacify the realm.

The wounded reached an astonishing three-tenths.

The Ying state’s losses were even higher; this vast land was nearly dyed red with the blood of fallen warriors. Both sides had paid such a terrible price, sacrificed countless lives, to reach this point.

This was human will—this was the overwhelming tide.

When finally the main force of the Qilin Army had cleared all scattered rebel forces and converged beneath the walls of Ying’s capital, Dongdu City,

Dongdu’s gates remained tightly shut. The Qilin Army, the Taiping Army, the Yue Family Army, and the Tiance Prefecture surrounded the entire city with crimson banners bearing Qilin cloud patterns—like a great fire gathering across the realm, ready to burn the old world.

The Emperor of Qin rode his divine steed; the horse’s hooves struck the earth with a chilling, resonant clang. Before arriving here, Gao Xiang had come to plead with the Emperor to spare Jiang Gao’s life.

Though Jiang Gao held immense renown across the realm, it was almost entirely in the northern frontier lands—he had never participated in the central campaigns, save for the final battle and the assassination of the Great Khan. The famed archer bowed his head and pleaded:

“Jiang Gao is not like Jiang Yuan. Rather, he was forced by Jiang Su’s schemes to rise up and shoulder the burden of this realm and the Ying state. Your Majesty’s martial prowess is unmatched in history, and you command vast armies—you have conquered the realm with sword and horse.”

“No one in the annals of history could rival your martial might.”

“Jiang Gao’s tide has turned; he can no longer threaten Your Majesty. Please spare his life—as the final act of this chaotic age. Let the former emperor of Ying live out his days in the peaceful era you have forged. Is that not also the grandeur of peace?”

When the Emperor of Qin arrived at Dongdu City, the massive gates slowly opened. Jiang Gao, clad in the imperial dragon robe, appeared before the city gate, gazing at the Emperor of Qin ahead.

In one hand he held a flask of wine; in the other, a seal wrapped in bright yellow silk, upon which faint golden dragon patterns shimmered.

As Jiang Gao stepped forward, the Qilin Army immediately went on guard. Among the crimson Qilin banners, the era’s greatest generals gripped their weapons, their fierce courage rising like a storm.

Jiang Gao’s expression was calm. He looked upon the sovereign atop the dragon steed, clad in black armor and crimson martial robes, his brow serene and cold, bearing the might of a fallen kingdom.

Truly, he possessed the bearing of a founding emperor.

No—

He had always been a founding emperor.

Jiang Gao took a deep breath, smiled openly, and before the vast host, called out loudly: “Emperor of Qin, do you still remember our youthful pledge?”

“Will you share a cup with me?”

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