Chapter 370

The two armies faced each other...

Che Gang’s eyes burned red, his face ashen, lips curling into a cold smirk. He gripped his spear tightly, the tip pointed straight ahead, his body trembling with excitement. “Order! Annihilate every enemy soldier! Kill!” he roared, his thunderous command igniting a roar from the Southern Frontier troops. Immediately, sixty thousand Southern Frontier reinforcements surged forward like a tidal wave, their steps synchronized and powerful, each footfall thudding with heavy clangs. They wielded all manner of weapons—spears, curved blades, broadswords, steel whips—each blade and spear glinting with icy light under the sun.

The rapid pounding of the Southern Frontier troops’ footsteps thundered in the ears. Their mouths bellowed like beasts, faces twisted with murderous intent, eyes blazing as if ready to swallow their enemies whole. The overwhelming wave of killing intent sent chills down every spine.

But Tu Kesiluo’s expression remained calm, his composure edged with coldness. He stood straight, arms crossed over his sword. Hearing Che Gang’s roar, he merely lifted the corner of his lips in a faint sneer. “Fire!” he said calmly, his voice devoid of fear. A sharp whistle split the air as one hundred thousand arrows surged through the sky like a dark current, raining down. Sunlight glinted off the arrowheads, scattering countless specks of light.

“Ahh—” The Southern Frontier troops were still shouting their battle cries when a sudden rain of arrows descended. Caught off guard, hundreds collapsed instantly. Groans and screams rose in a relentless chorus, piercing and brutal. Some were pierced through the heart, convulsing once before dying; others had arrows through both legs, rolling on the ground in agony. Blood instantly flooded the earth, a horrific sight. In the chaos, many Southern Frontier soldiers tripped over fallen comrades, trampled in pools of blood, bones cracking with sharp, brittle snaps.

After the arrowstorm, the Southern Frontier ranks descended into utter chaos, filled with wailing. Hundreds of corpses lay scattered, mangled and bloody. The air reeked of sweet, metallic blood. The surviving soldiers wore expressions of fear, their stances unsteady.

Che Gang, enraged, whipped his horse’s back with a furious crack and screamed, “Cowards! Charge! Can’t you even handle a little arrowstorm? Follow me!” He raised his spear and charged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, piercing through the enemy lines.

Tu Kesiluo frowned slightly, gripping his longsword tightly, and led the charge into the enemy ranks. A muffled grunt sounded as a Southern Frontier soldier tumbled from his horse, a crimson bloom bursting open on his chest. Tu Kesiluo spun smoothly, sword flashing, slaying two more enemies before they could react. Three streams of blood splattered across his face, staining half of it red.

This brief moment seemed to ignite the Southern Frontier troops’ fighting spirit. They quickly regrouped and charged again, eyes bloodshot. Jiang Mingyu’s army surged forward too. The two forces clashed in chaotic melee—clashing weapons rang out from all directions, accompanied by screams and roars. The battlefield was littered with severed limbs and mangled flesh. The sweet stench of blood filled the air; underfoot, every step sank into blood and torn body parts.

Tu Kesiluo’s eyes were now bloodred, his face streaked with sweat, blood, and dust. The heat of killing had fully consumed his mind; any thought of retreat or fear had been cast to the winds. His longsword whirled like a hurricane, felling one Southern Frontier soldier after another. Each slash of the blade sprayed crimson. Corpses piled high, blood flowed freely—but none of it could halt Tu Kesiluo’s slaughter. He was no longer a man, but a perfect killing machine.

Yet Jiang Mingyu’s forces were simply outnumbered. Around Tu Kesiluo, the Da Jiang warriors fought fiercely, but gradually began to falter. Fatigue crept into their limbs, gaps opened in their defense. One Da Jiang warrior, after parrying several blows, finally couldn’t hold—he was pierced through the chest. His eyes widened, foam of blood spewed from his mouth, and he collapsed heavily. Another warrior rushed to aid him—only to be struck by an arrow in the back, dropping dead instantly.

The ceaseless cries of dying Da Jiang soldiers filled the air, stirring dread. Tu Kesiluo wiped a smear of blood from his face, a growing unease rising in his chest. He looked far ahead—everywhere, Da Jiang warriors were crumbling. The battle was slipping out of control. A chill crept into Tu Kesiluo’s heart; he clenched his sword hilt tightly.

At that moment, a massive general burst from the Southern Frontier ranks, each massive hand gripping a long blade. He targeted Tu Kesiluo’s vital points. His face was savage, eyes blazing red—he was a seasoned veteran, a killer of countless men.

“Die!” he snarled, his two long blades flashing like twin silver snakes, stabbing swiftly toward Tu Kesiluo’s chest.

Tu Kesiluo saw the twin blades hurtling toward him, his heart tightened—he didn’t hesitate. He swung his sword upward in a swift arc. A sharp clang rang out as weapons met, sparks flying. The Southern Frontier blade-wielder was no novice—he fought with ferocity, matching Tu Kesiluo blow for blow.

A thunderous boom echoed behind them—and the battlefield fell silent. Tu Kesiluo’s heart jolted. He glanced back. Che Gang had broken through the lines, standing high above the battlefield. His face first lit with triumph, then quickly darkened by rising panic. A cruel smile twisted his lips, but his trembling betrayed him.

“Brothers! They’re breaking! Kill them all! Riches, glory, and Jiang Mingyu’s head—they’re ours!”

He raised his voice, hoping to rally morale with this brutal cry. But the moment the words left his mouth, he sensed something wrong. This cruel threat, laced with fear and uncertainty, sounded more like self-deception. The Southern Frontier soldiers sensed it too. Already at a disadvantage, they now heard Che Gang’s words—and though their faces still wore bloodthirsty grins, their hearts sank.

At that moment, the Da Jiang assault intensified. Swarms of Da Jiang troops trudged heavily through blood, advancing in waves with sickle-spears. The Southern Frontier soldiers’ charge slowed visibly; their ferocity faded, replaced by growing dread.

Che Gang frowned, staring at the battlefield. His hands clasped behind his back, fingers twisting and digging into his flesh. His pale lips were clenched tight, veins bulging on his forehead. He desperately tried to set ambushes along the riverbanks for tactical advantage—but the Da Jiang formations were too dense, leaving no gap to exploit.

As he agonized, sudden hoofbeats and footfalls erupted from both flanks! Heavy, synchronized, and crushing—pressing like suffocating pressure. Che Gang’s heart lurched. He turned in horror—and saw a vast tide of Da Jiang troops surging from both sides! At their head stood He Jing and Li Goudan, raising their longswords and roaring:

“Surround the Southern Frontier dogs! Annihilate them all! Kill! Leave not one alive!”

Che Gang had been clinging to a facade of calm, but now his brow knotted into a knot, cold sweat pouring uncontrollably down his temples. His fingers dug into his palms, nails nearly carving into flesh. Then, from both flanks, came the synchronized thunder of hooves and footsteps—the oppressive weight made his chest tighten. He stared wide-eyed: Da Jiang troops flooded in like a tide, their killing aura rising like a storm.

“It’s over... Ambush!” A thunderclap exploded in his mind. The world spun. His blood froze. He staggered two steps, nearly collapsing on the spot.

He shook his head hard, forcing himself awake. It wasn’t over yet—he had to find a way to save his men! He raised his spear high and slammed it into the air, bellowing: “Sound the retreat! The enemy is too strong! Fall back to the ships—we’ll fight again there!”

“Commander! Look—our warships!” A desperate cry from a Southern Frontier soldier snapped Che Gang back to reality. He looked up—dozens of Southern Frontier warships erupted in roaring flames, thick smoke billowing into the sky. The decks cracked with thunderous groans; sailors screamed as they burned, leaping into the river—only to vanish beneath the water, their cries swallowed.

“This is it...” Che Gang stared at the inferno, the world spinning. His vision darkened—he nearly fainted. He forced every ounce of strength into his trembling body, gasping for breath. His fists clenched so tight his nails nearly pierced his palms.

“Commander! We’re finished!” Southern Frontier soldiers wailed, staring at him with utter despair.

“Jiang Mingyu!” His eyes burned red, his whole body shaking, teeth chattering, he screamed those two words. Jiang Mingyu had attacked from behind—burned their ships! Without ships, they’d be trapped on this barren riverbank, slaughtered to the last man!

“Commander! We’re done for!” “My lord, what do we do!” Panicked cries rose from all sides. Soldiers turned pale, staring desperately at their commander. Che Gang forced himself to stand calm, his posture composed, his voice steady:

“Stay calm! We’re not finished yet! Follow my order—retreat at full speed toward Qusheng! Once we reach Qusheng territory, we still have a chance to turn this around!”

But just then, a solemn, icy voice cut through the river wind, clear as a bell into Che Gang’s ears:

“You have nowhere left to run.”

Che Gang spun around—E Bu led twenty thousand troops, blocking the Southern Frontier’s rear escape route!

This time, he finally broke.

He threw his head back and let out a piercing, agonized scream. His knees buckled—he collapsed to the ground. The mighty Southern Frontier commander, once unyielding, finally shattered under despair. His fingers spasmed, clutching his tunic, teeth chattering, lips bitten raw and bleeding. The steady gaze that had never wavered now dissolved—into a lifeless, empty pool of utter hopelessness.

Seeing this, the Southern Frontier soldiers lost all will. Weapons slipped from their hands. They scattered in panic—but there was nowhere to flee. Da Jiang troops surged like an ocean, leaving only screams and despair in their wake.

“Commander! Save me!” One Southern Frontier soldier reached desperately toward Che Gang—only to have his head severed by a Da Jiang blade. A spray of blood and bone splashed across Che Gang’s pale face.

In that moment, a flicker of hope flashed through Che Gang’s mind. He suddenly realized—if he could break through the encirclement, there might still be a chance! His usually calm, blue eyes suddenly blazed with light, pupils dilating from sudden adrenaline, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he fought to suppress his trembling excitement. His eyes burned red. He forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to steady his racing heart. Then, with all his strength, he roared to the sky: “Follow me! Break through the encirclement! We will escape!”

“Ahh!” Hearing their commander’s impassioned cry, the Southern Frontier soldiers surged with renewed vigor, shouting in response, morale soaring. These middle-aged men, worn down by years and war—once silent or numb—now regained the fire of youth, every fiber of them screaming to charge forward. Che Gang slammed his spear into the ground with a clang, gripping it tightly, leaning forward, calves taut like coiled springs—like a predator ready to pounce. In a single blink, he shot forward like a leaping carp, charging straight toward E Bu’s troops.

This charge took everyone by surprise. E Bu’s soldiers, still basking in their small victory, hadn’t recovered when Che Gang and his men surged into their ranks like a flood, smashing one flank open in an instant. Then the Southern Frontier soldiers roared, raising their blades, brows furrowed, eyes bloodshot, dashing through the breach. The remaining E Bu troops, slow to react, were too late to stop this sudden counterattack.

At this moment, Che Gang finally saw a glimmer of hope. He poured every dream, every ounce of strength into this final breakout. His gaze burned, his face stripped of all expression—save the raw hunger for life. The Southern Frontier soldiers fought with everything they had, defending this last sliver of survival. Their eyes glowed with terrifying bloodlust; their twisted expressions could make even the bravest recoil. “Kill!” they roared, like wolves, brows contorted, lunging at enemies with movements too savage to be human. These frenzied Southern Frontier soldiers, trampling over countless corpses, finally carved a bloody path through E Bu’s encirclement.

“We made it!” Hearing the news of the breakout, Che Gang’s brow relaxed. He raised both arms and let out a triumphant roar, eyes blazing with wild joy. The euphoria of escaping death had clouded his mind—he couldn’t help but grin, as if victory already lay before him.

But then, from the distant mountains, a chaotic storm of hoofbeats rang out, mixed with the unmistakable horn of the Jiang Army. “Again!” Hearing the horn, Che Gang’s elation vanished instantly, replaced by icy dread and lethal fury. His eyes snapped tight, fixed on the mountain path ahead, watching Jiang Army movements without blinking.

Yet he remained determined to escape. He slashed his arm downward, roaring with all his remaining strength: “Lead the remnants through the mountains!” His face had shifted from pale to ashen, his thick eyebrows knotted together, veins bulging on his forehead from sheer tension. His razor-thin lips were bitten bloody, leaving only a deathly pale ring. Still, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, ignoring his wounds, chasing after the fleeing Southern Frontier troops without pause, racing at full speed through the treacherous, winding mountain trails—never daring to slow.

Just as the Jiang Army was about to catch the remnants, Che Gang’s gaze locked onto a lush, green valley ahead. His mind raced—he slammed his thigh and rasped out a command: “Quick! All of you—enter the valley and vanish!” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he wheeled his horse, face grim, leading his shattered troops like a flock of startled birds into the valley—quickly swallowed by thick shadows. The sun had set; dusk had fallen. The dense, leafy valley now held only silence and depth. Outside, Jiang Army scouts searched for hours—found nothing. The woods remained still, save for birdsong and cicadas. Eventually, they withdrew, empty-handed.

At dusk, Tu Kesiluo and his men, dusty and exhausted, returned to Jiang Mingyu’s tent. “How was it?” Jiang Mingyu asked anxiously. Tu Kesiluo’s eyes burned red. He slammed a fist onto the table and roared: “Lost! We chased him for two hours—he still got away! Damn it!”

They had reached the valley mouth soon after Che Gang entered. But inside: towering ancient trees, thick thorns, countless branching paths—complex and treacherous. Tu Kesiluo hesitated, then dared not enter. He left a few soldiers to guard the entrance, while the rest circled the perimeter.

But Che Gang and his men had already slipped away like ghosts through the valley’s far end. By nightfall, Tu Kesiluo gave up waiting. He led his main force around to the valley’s far end—only to find no trace.

Jiang Mingyu’s expression was grim. He stared at the map, brows knotted in thought. He knew: as long as one enemy remained at large, he was a grave threat. He slammed his fist on the table—resolved to eliminate this thorn in his side at once.

Jiang Mingyu’s face was dark. His brows were locked in a tight knot, eyes filled with worry and irritation, lips downturned. He crossed his arms, thick veins pulsing visibly on his forearms as he paced back and forth in the tent. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty tent—each step heavy, deliberate, betraying his anxiety.

This state had lasted over ten minutes. Jiang Mingyu still had no answers. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto his broad chest. He wiped his face hard—but it did no good. His palms were soaked, leaving streaks of moisture on his skin.

Then Tu Kesiluo ventured: “Brother, should we send more men into the mountains to search?” His voice cut through the silence like a blade. Jiang Mingyu snapped his head up—his gaze seemed ready to devour Tu Kesiluo alive. Tu Kesiluo flinched, instinctively stepping back half a pace, nearly tripping over the cushion behind him.

Seeing this, Jiang Mingyu waved his hand, frowning deeply: “Don’t rush. Go rest. Let me think.” His beard trembled slightly, his expression grim and heavy—he had sunk into deep thought.

After Tu Kesiluo left, Jiang Mingyu sat heavily before the table, eyes vacant, staring at the spread map and documents. He rubbed his temples hard, trying to untangle the grim situation. After Che Gang’s defeat, the most likely path was retreat northwest to Qusheng—to link up with local garrisons. Then, once strengthened, they would launch a counterattack against him.

Thinking this, Jiang Mingyu slammed his fist on the table, scattering documents. He leapt up again, pacing wildly. This time, his steps were violent, as if trying to shatter the ground. He suddenly stopped, grabbed his own hair with both hands—pulling so hard it seemed he’d tear it from the roots. His lips moved silently, eyes utterly vacant—as if he’d vanished into his own mind.