Chapter 381

Jiang Mingyu stood anxiously before the tent, his furrowed brows betraying his urgent demand for the army to hasten its pace. He crossed his arms and struck the ground with heavy, impatient kicks of his boot, shouting loudly: “Faster, faster!” His voice trembled with urgency. The sun behind him had already begun to sink westward; the remaining daylight was scarce. Jiang Mingyu looked up at the sky, frowning as he calculated the time.

Soldiers, burdened with packs, shuffled past Jiang Mingyu. Weeks of long marches had drained many of their strength, yet seeing his frantic demeanor, they forced themselves to quicken their steps. Jiang Mingyu clenched his fists against his chest, brows locked tight, urging the soldiers forward without pause.

“We must reach our destination before nightfall! Is this how you march—like a flock of turtles?” Jiang Mingyu barked, his tone thick with irritation. The soldiers hung their heads, sweat beading on their foreheads, yet dared not stop, dragging their weary legs forward in numb obedience.

Jiang Mingyu paced restlessly in place, occasionally jabbing his staff toward the front to spur the troops. His face, once merely tense, had darkened; his brows were knotted, his eyes blazing with fury. When another squad trudged slowly past him, he suddenly roared: “If your marching speed doesn’t improve, I’ll confine you all to quarters for reflection!”

The soldiers’ faces were pale; none dared rest. They had reached their physical limits, yet forced themselves to press forward with heavy, stumbling steps. Their soles ached, their calves cramped, their packs felt like a thousand jin. Yet whenever Jiang Mingyu’s furious gaze swept over them, they straightened their backs and dragged their limp bodies forward with grim effort.

The sun sank lower; Jiang Mingyu still scowled, driving his army through the mountain ravine. Suddenly, a soldier gasped as he sprinted up, gripping his knee before Jiang Mingyu, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked up, excited: “Your Majesty, we’ve captured a suspicious man!” Jiang Mingyu’s anxious expression instantly shifted; his eyes flared with cruelty, his lips curled into a cold smirk as he strode forward.

A ragged, exhausted man, bound tightly, was thrown onto the ground before Jiang Mingyu, kicking up a small cloud of dust. The man’s face was sallow, his clothes torn, his beard unkempt, his hair wild—he looked utterly broken. He glanced up at Jiang Mingyu, his eyes filled with terror and despair, as if he already saw his own death. He trembled violently, his lips quivering, fearing this near-mad commander would flay him alive.

Jiang Mingyu stood firm, arms crossed, sizing up the man. The man had never seen Jiang Mingyu in person, but he had heard of his reputation. As Jiang Mingyu’s army pushed deeper, tales of his brutal killings had spread through every remaining state and county in the southern frontier. Facing this killing god, the man was terrified beyond measure, afraid that any misstep would cost him his life.

Jiang Mingyu looked down at him, arms crossed, scanning him from head to toe. A faint sneer curled his lips; his eyes brimmed with suspicion, as if verifying whether this man was indeed an enemy spy. After a long silence, he spoke slowly, his icy tone making the kneeling man shiver.

“Speak. Who are you? Are you a spy sent by Jia Tong of Tagang?” Jiang Mingyu narrowed his eyes, his voice thick with suspicion. He stared unblinkingly at the man, as if searching for cracks in his facade. If this man were truly a spy, then Jia Tong knew their movements—and their journey through this ravine had been wasted.

The man shook his head desperately, eyes wide with terror. “I’m just a mountain villager,” he stammered. His ragged appearance and panicked expression seemed genuine. Jiang Mingyu snorted, sneering: “Tagang is still half a day’s march away. What business does a mountain peasant have here? Don’t lie to me!” His voice rose, menacing.

The villager trembled uncontrollably, babbling that his elderly mother was gravely ill, and that he, having some knowledge of medicine, had come to gather herbs. The accompanying soldiers confirmed they had seen him searching the slopes for herbs moments earlier—his story held weight. The villager described his mother’s condition in detail and voluntarily handed over everything he carried. Only then did Jiang Mingyu believe him—he was truly just a humble mountain peasant.

Jiang Mingyu looked up at the steep peaks surrounding them, then asked: “You, a villager of this ravine—surely you know the routes into Tagang well?”

His tone was calm, grave, his gaze piercing as it locked onto the crouching man. The thought had barely formed in his mind before he blurted it out, as if he already held the key to unlocking Tagang.

The man’s face flickered with hesitation, but he quickly nodded, stammering: “R-returning to my lord, I’ve been to the city a few times... I know the paths fairly well...”

His voice grew fainter; his body stiffened, his eyes darting nervously. He showed no sign of relief despite Jiang Mingyu’s question.

Jiang Mingyu’s eyes lit up; he had already mapped out the route into the city. He crossed his arms, scanning the man again. “Then you must also know the exact location of Tagang’s main camp,” he added, his voice probing, his sharp gaze as if trying to pierce the man’s soul.

“Why does my lord ask this...?” The man flinched violently, his face turning ashen. He instinctively stepped back two paces, stammering: “Surely my lord doesn’t intend for me to guide you into Tagang? How could I help the Great Jiang army fight my own people of the southern frontier...?”

His voice faded into weakness; he had guessed Jiang Mingyu’s intent, his face filled with dread. Jiang Mingyu made no denial—only stared coldly, his eyes radiating chilling murderous intent.

“Stop dawdling, or I’ll cut your hamstring right now!” Tu Kexiluo barked, drawing his sword and pointing it at the man. The blade gleamed with cold, merciless light, turning the man’s face deathly pale.

The man jerked in terror, trembling violently, his thick beard shaking. He stammered assurances that he would guide them—only begging mercy for his aged mother.

Jiang Mingyu’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk. He promised the man that if he cooperated, he would send someone to care for his mother. The man’s eyes flickered with doubt—he still found it hard to believe.

“Do you think I’m lying to you?” Jiang Mingyu sneered. “I have no interest in a poor mountain peasant like you! This is your greatest favor—weigh it carefully!”

The disdain and authority in his tone left the man no room for hesitation. He nodded shakily, accepting.

Jiang Mingyu’s expression softened slightly; he even chuckled. He patted the man’s shoulder, his tone now gentler: “I value filial piety above all. Rest easy.”

The man exhaled in relief, finally accepting his role as guide. Jiang Mingyu flicked his sleeve and strode forward without looking back.

But Tu Kexiluo remained suspicious. He leaned close to Jiang Mingyu and whispered: “Brother, can we really trust this man? Should I kill him now and end the threat?” His sword was half-drawn, glinting coldly.

Jiang Mingyu waved him off, whispering back: “Don’t let your guard down! Watch him and the surroundings closely. If anything seems off, kill him immediately—no survivors!” He clapped Tu Kexiluo’s shoulder, his face radiating confidence.

Jiang Mingyu’s calm assurance was not without reason; he still held one trump card he had not yet revealed. Even if this man were a spy, it made no difference to Jiang Mingyu.

He was certain, his gaze resolute. He had already envisioned the blueprint for seizing Tagang. This prosperous city would soon be his.

Night had fallen. The man led the army along a rugged path. Dense woods loomed, weeds choked the ground, and faint traces of crumbling walls lined the narrow, winding trail. Once a vital supply route to Tagang, it had been abandoned amid years of war.

The man trudged ahead, drenched in sweat, exhausted. He had spent the day climbing mountains with the army, covering more than ten miles as guide—now utterly spent. Suddenly, he raised his hand, pointing ahead: “Your Majesty, those distant lights—that’s Tagang.” His voice carried a hint of relief.

Jiang Mingyu squinted into the distance, barely making out faint, hazy lights along the city walls, glowing like fireflies in the night. His heart leapt; he kicked his horse forward until it stood beside the man. “You said your home was just outside the city, right? It shouldn’t be far now?” His voice trembled with suppressed excitement.

The man looked confused, unsure why he was asked, but nodded earnestly: “My home is a small village three li from here, my lord.”

Jiang Mingyu’s lips curled into a deep, unreadable smirk. A flash of cunning lit his eyes. He casually waved to a trusted aide behind him: “E Bu, take two men and follow this guide to his village. Bring his mother here.” His final words were crisp, icy.

The man’s face turned ashen. He understood instantly. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, teeth gritted, sweat pouring down his forehead. If his mother was taken, he would be completely at their mercy. He wanted to struggle, to resist—but dared not make a sound. Tu Kexiluo was watching him, sword gleaming, ready to slit his throat at any moment.

Soon, E Bu and his men carried over an emaciated old woman, barely conscious, unaware of what had happened. Her frail body swayed on the stretcher, helpless as she was “rescued” into Jiang Mingyu’s custody. The man’s heart ached; his eyes burned red. He took a deep, silent breath. Fate had betrayed him—him and his mother were now powerless... In that moment, his soul died.

The day’s march had drained everyone. The scorching heat, the dust, the exhausted soldiers trudged forward, faces hollow. They had marched over ten miles through the mountains; all were spent, longing for rest. But Jiang Mingyu showed no mercy. He rode back and forth, barking orders: “Keep moving! We must reach Tagang’s gates by the fourth watch! Once the surprise attack succeeds, you’ll have the city’s resources to rest. Now—move fast!”

Though the soldiers were barely able to stand, they dared not delay. Weapons clanked coldly as they gritted their teeth and once again trudged toward Tagang.

Time passed swiftly. By the end of the third watch, Jiang Mingyu’s forces reached the dense, verdant woods outside Tagang. Insects chirped; moonlight spilled like water, shrouding the troop in a hazy glow.

Jiang Mingyu sat atop his horse, eyes sharp and bright. He spoke firmly: “It’s time. Tu Kexiluo, lead your men up the walls, kill the guards, and open the gates.”

Tu Kexiluo smirked, gripping his sword, muscles coiled like a tiger ready to pounce: “I’ve waited too long to taste the blood of Tagang’s guards.”

“E Bu, follow me closely. Once Tu Kexiluo opens the gate, move in behind the guide—straight for Tagang’s main camp. Move fast—swift and decisive!” Jiang Mingyu ordered, his voice tinged with urgency.

E Bu, a man built like a tiger, nodded, his large blade cold in his grip: “I can’t wait to see Tagang’s soldiers’ heads rolling on the ground.”

“He Jing, once we reach the camp, encircle it. Position archers on high ground. If they refuse to surrender, kill every officer. I don’t believe they’ll hold out!” Jiang Mingyu’s eyes flashed with cold, merciless light.

He Jing nodded silently, hand resting on his bow, face as icy as iron.

Tu Kexiluo wasted no time. He mounted his horse, leading fifty elite soldiers in silence toward the city wall. Each man carried a steel saber and a sharp sword, radiating chilling killing intent—fifty bloodthirsty beasts beneath the moon.

It was the fourth watch. The guards were sprawled everywhere, many snoring loudly. Only a few drowsy soldiers stood on the wall. The wall was badly damaged, barely three zhang high—easily scaled by Tu Kexiluo’s men.

Tu Kexiluo raised his hand and whispered: “Up!” Fifty soldiers’ eyes glowed red, bodies bristling with killing intent. They gripped their grappling hooks and scaled the wall in silence, swift as cats, focused as starving wolves.

With a barely audible roar from Tu Kexiluo, fifty agile soldiers climbed the wall like fifty spiders—so fast it was breathtaking.

Tu Kexiluo, a master of martial arts and agility, had already reached the top before half the others had climbed halfway. Like a ferocious black panther, he leapt onto the wall, his dark, heavy sword swinging wildly as he slaughtered the sleeping guards—no one stood in his way.

Two swift swishes—two heads flew off, hot blood splattering Tu Kexiluo’s body. Before the remaining guards could react, dozens more beasts scaled the wall, eyes filled with murderous intent, surging forward to tear them apart. The guards’ faces turned pale with terror; they had no time to resist before being slaughtered without mercy.

Wherever Tu Kexiluo went, blood sprayed, corpses piled. The guards fell one by one, never even screaming—dead before they could cry out. Every strike of his blade was precise, silent. The entire wall remained as still as before—as if the slaughter had been nothing but a dream.

Meanwhile, the fifty Great Jiang soldiers had also scaled the wall without incident. These were Tu Kexiluo’s personal guards, trained by him personally—far superior to ordinary troops.

As the last enemy fell, Tu Kexiluo sheathed his sword and gripped the iron gate mechanism with both hands. His brows knotted, muscles bulging as if using all his strength. With a thunderous “CRASH,” the iron gate—normally requiring thirty to fifty strong men to open—was wrenched open by him alone.

Jiang Mingyu instantly drew his royal sword, its tip reflecting firelight. His face was grim; he lowered his voice: “Guide—lead us in. No noise. Don’t alert the enemy. Go!” His eyes betrayed anxiety—he thought of his mother, still held under “special care,” and sighed.

The guide nodded, leaping over the gate into the sleeping city. Aside from the heavy footsteps of the Great Jiang soldiers, all was silent—as if the entire world had fallen into slumber.

They crept through the dim streets, walking for a long while without seeing the main camp. Tu Kexiluo grew impatient, clenching his fist and growling at the guide: “How far?” His voice was low, tense. The guide waved urgently, signaling silence—afraid his voice might wake the enemy and bring death upon him and his mother.

“Less than a li,” the guide whispered, barely audible.

Around the bend, Tu Kexiluo finally spotted rows of white tents in the distance, campfires flickering faintly in the night. He narrowed his eyes, like an eagle spotting prey.

“He Jing,” he murmured, “position your archers. E Bu, Che Gang, Gou Dan—move to encircle once He Jing is ready.” His voice carried suppressed excitement.

Positions secured, Jiang Mingyu raised his royal sword high, eyes gleaming faintly. “Light the signal fires! Beat the war drums!” he ordered.

The thunderous drums shattered the camp’s slumber. Southern frontier soldiers burst from their tents to find countless arrowheads, glinting in firelight, aimed at them. Jiang Mingyu’s face was expressionless, his voice cold as ice: “Surrender your weapons, and live. Resist—and die together.”