The red smoke swirled upward, a bloody thumbprint against the morning sky, before slowly beginning to dissipate into the cold air. Below, the sound of metal shields clashing together in a single, unbroken file echoed like the heartbeat of a giant. The breath of the warhorses came in thick, visible plumes, steam rising from their nostrils as the morning light finally touched the West Gate.
The line began to move.
Four hundred yards.
On the city ramparts, the archers shifted their weight. The creak of wood and leather filled the air as they locked their arrows to the strings and drew back. A thousand bowstrings were pulled to a thousand ears, held in a tension that made the air itself feel like it was about to snap. They waited for the two-hundred-yard mark—the point of no return.
Three hundred yards.
The soft rumble of hooves began to grow, a low vibration that could be felt in the stones of the wall. Through the thinning morning mist, the faint, silver ting of bells on the horses' harnesses echoed—a delicate, beautiful sound that heralded the coming slaughter.
Two hundred yards.
The command wasn't heard, only felt. A cloud of arrows hissed from the ramparts, a dark wave swirling into the morning air just as the last of the red smoke vanished. The silence of the third day was officially over.
The sky darkened as the first volley of arrows descended. Below, in a movement as fluid as a single organism, the metal shields of the Eastern Soldiers rose. They formed a steel roof over the advancing line; a canopy of iron that shrieked as the arrows found their marks. Some shafts snapped against the heavy plating; others bounced away with a sharp, metallic ring that added to the growing cacophony of war.
"Get ready!" Naksh's voice thundered, cutting through the sound of the iron rain.
The moment the hail of arrows ceased, the shields didn't drop, but the formation opened just enough for Naksh's archers to step forward. They didn't fire traditional broadheads. Instead, they released a specialized volley that streaked toward the city ramparts—arrows that bled red smoke into the air upon impact. The top of the wall was instantly transformed into a crimson fog, blinding the prince's archers and masking the true strength of the approaching force.
"Approaching the one hundred yards!" Drystan shouted, his voice tight with adrenaline.
Behind the wall of horses, the ground troops moved in perfect synchronization. For every archer preparing a counter-shot, a shield-bearer stood beside them, raising their protection to create a portable fortress. They were no longer just men; they were an iron tide, inexorable and cold, closing the final distance to the West Gate.
Behind the city walls, the red smoke was a suffocating curtain. It poured over the ramparts and bled into the streets, sending both soldiers and civilians into a frantic disarray. To the people of Ntsua-Ntu, it felt as though the air itself had turned to blood; they abandoned the West Gate, screaming and running for cover as the reality of the war finally crashed down upon them.
On the walls, the situation was worse. The soldiers were trapped in a nightmare of light and haze. The rising sun caught the swirling red particles, creating a blinding, incandescent glare that robbed them of their sight. They pulled their bowstrings, but they were aiming at ghosts.
On the ground outside, the Eastern Military seized the momentum. With practiced precision, the front-line soldiers slammed their heavy shields into the dirt, locking them together to create armored "nests" for the infantry following close behind.
"One hundred yards!" The voices of the cavalry rose in a terrifying, unified roar that shook the air.
Suddenly, a volley of arrows hissed upward from the Eastern ranks. They tore through the red mist, invisible until the very last second. The sound of flesh being pierced and the guttural screams of the prince's soldiers echoed across the wall before the smoke could even clear. Then came a second volley. Then a third.
Zhi sat atop his warhorse, his eyes cold as he surveyed the carnage. He turned to Khawn. "Battering ram forward."
Then, he looked to Jeet, pointing toward the foundation of the gate. "Arrow Machines—aim at the base of the city. Keep their heads down."
From a distance, the sky above the West Gate was bruised with the second bloom of red smoke. General Chong and his captains, who had remained as motionless as stone statues since their arrival at the North Gate, turned to look at one another. The signal was unmistakable: Zhi had engaged. The second phase of the obliteration had begun. Now, it was their turn.
Chong's hand tightened on the hilt of his blade until his knuckles turned white. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to rush forward, to let the "Iron Tigers" of the Ginmiao tear through the gates and settle the old debts of blood. He could still remember the screams of his men when the Northern Army had launched wave after wave of attacks to reclaim Nue-Li City. The grudge was a living thing, cold and heavy in his chest.
But the city was no longer just a target; it was Chinua's prize. And the command of the defense lay with Haitao.
Chong took a long, stabilizing breath, forcing the ghosts of Nue-Li to remain in the past. He knew this was the ultimate test. To Chinua, he was a man on probation. To his men, he was a leader of Ginmiao. But to himself, he had to be a man of his word.
He looked at his captains, his eyes reflecting the cold fire of the morning sun. "We do not break rank," he commanded, his voice a low growl of restraint. "We follow the scholar's path. We follow Hye's plan to the letter. We will prove that a Ginmiao's word is as unbreakable as his steel."
"Baterdene!" Chong's voice boomed, carrying across the clearing with the force of a battering ram. "Don't be a coward and hide behind a closed gate! Come out and fight me! One on one!"
The soldiers standing in the ranks behind Chong erupted in a synchronized roar. They began beating their swords against their shields—a rhythmic, metallic thunder that shook the air and mocked the silence of the city.
"Or at least open the gate and let the people out!" Xao shouted, his voice dripping with mockery. He leaned back in his saddle, looking as relaxed as if he were at a festival rather than a siege.
"We are tired of standing and watching you!" Konn added, his laughter carrying up to the ramparts. "Why don't you send out your captains and have some fun with us? Or are they too busying hiding under the prince's robes?"
On the North Wall, the soldiers of Ntsua-Ntu shifted uncomfortably. They looked at their commanders, waiting for a retort or a command, but there was only the sound of the Ginmiao's rhythmic clashing. The insult wasn't just to their bravery—it was a reminder that while they were trapped inside, the "Ginmiao" they once looked down upon were the ones who truly owned the field.
On the high ramparts of the North Wall, a young captain stepped forward, his face flushed with indignation. He looked at Baterdene and slammed his fist against his chest. "General, let me out! Let me fight them and silence their tongues!"
Baterdene's jaw was tight, his teeth gritting together so hard the sound was audible to his nearby guards. The mocking laughter from below was a poison he could no longer swallow. "Go," Baterdene hissed. "Take down the head of whoever that Ginmiao sends. Show them the Northern edge."
"Yes, General!" The captain bowed slightly, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. He turned and rushed down the stone stairwell.
In the courtyard below, the heavy bolts of the small side sally-port groaned. The door swung open just enough for a single rider to burst through. The horse's hooves thundered against the packed earth as the captain charged into the open field, a lone figure of defiance against the Ginmiao line.
Across the field, Konn's eyes lit up. He turned to Chong, a predatory grin on his face. "General, let the honor be mine. I'm tired of just shouting."
Chong looked at the young warrior, his expression stern but his eyes showing a flicker of affection. "Be careful," Chong warned, his voice low. "Don't fall off that horse. If you do, I'll have a hard time explaining it to your father."
Konn let out a short, confident laugh. "He'll be more upset if I don't bring back a trophy."
Without another word, Konn spurred his horse forward. He leaned low in the saddle, his spear held steady in his right hand, the tip glinting like a star as he raced to meet the Northern captain in the center of the killing field.
The air between the two armies turned brittle as the distance closed. On the ramparts, the Northern soldiers held their breath; on the field, the Ginmiao stopped their rhythmic shield-beating. The only sound left was the frantic, rhythmic drumming of hooves against the dry earth.
The Northern captain let out a guttural war cry, swinging his saber in a wide, shimmering arc. He was aiming for Konn's neck, intending to end the "Ginmaio's" life in a single, honorable pass.
Konn didn't shout. He leaned so low his chest touched the horse's mane, becoming a smaller target. As the horses pulled level, the captain's saber whistled through the empty air where Konn's head had been a second before. In that same heartbeat of a second, Konn shifted his weight. He didn't just strike; he drove the butt of his spear into the captain's chest with the force of a falling boulder.
The impact was sickening. The captain's ribs snapped, and he was lifted clean out of his saddle.
But Konn wasn't finished.
As the captain began his descent toward the dirt, Konn spun his spear with predatory grace. Before the man could hit the ground, Konn drove the steel tip downward, impaling the falling captain through the shoulder. With a roar of triumph, Konn yanked the reins, wheeling his horse around in a tight, dusty circle.
Instead of releasing the body, Konn kept his spear lodged deep. He spurred his horse into a gallop, dragging the screaming, wounded captain across the jagged rocks and dirt. The Northern soldier's pride was literally being dragged through the dust.
Konn rode straight back toward the Ginmiao line, the body bouncing behind him like a discarded rag. As he crossed the threshold of his own ranks, the Ginmiao soldiers erupted. They parted to let him through, their cheers shaking the very foundations of the North Gate.
Konn raised his blood-stained spear high, the captain still slumped at the end of it, as the Ginmiao "hoorays" turned into a deafening roar of psychological victory.
Baterdene slammed his fist down onto the stone edge of the rampart, the impact vibrating up his arm, though he felt no pain—only a searing, white-hot rage. His eyes darkened, narrowing into slits as he watched the dust settle. There, in the center of the field, was the bloody trail left by his captain, and there was Chong, slowly walking his horse forward again with the casual arrogance of a king.
The silence on the city wall was deafening. The Northern soldiers looked at the empty space where their comrade had just been, their grip on their spears loosening.
Then, Chong's voice cut through the cold morning air. It wasn't a shout this time; it was a clear, ringing projection that felt even more humiliating than the sight of the wounded captain being dragged away.
"Who is next to die!"
The question hung in the air for a heartbeat before the Ginmiao ranks erupted. The cheering voices of the "Iron Tigers" rose in a wave of sound that crashed against the stone walls. They weren't just cheering for Konn; they were cheering for the inevitable fall of the men above them.
Baterdene looked down at his own soldiers. He saw the sweat on their brows despite the cold. He saw the way they avoided his gaze. Chong wasn't just asking for another duel—he was announcing that every man behind those walls was already a corpse in his eyes.
"Send a message to Prince Dzhambul," Baterdene commanded, the words coming out as a low, dangerous hiss through his gritted teeth. He didn't look away from the field, his eyes fixed on Chong's mocking silhouette as if he could burn the Ginmiao General where he sat. "Ask him for the royal decree to launch a full-scale counter-attack. I will not sit behind these stones while they drag our honor through the mud. I want every man at the North Gate to surge forward. I want Chong's head on a spike by noon."
The messenger bowed hurriedly and scrambled down the ramparts.
Chong, sensing the hesitation on the walls, didn't move. He simply waited, his horse shifting beneath him. He knew that every second Baterdene spent waiting for a reply from the palace was a second where the West Gate was being hammered and the East Gate was being emptied.
The North was being "frozen" in place by their own pride, exactly as the plan had dictated. The "Iron Tigers" stayed in their perfect, terrifying lines, their laughter fading into a chilling, expectant silence. They were the bait, and Baterdene had just reached for the hook.