Dawn was breaking. In the eastern sky a pale gleam spread like the belly of a fish, light piercing the clouds and shining upon a snowfield thick with killing aura.
Wu Tong leapt forth, saber in hand, his voice ringing like thunder:
"I urge you all—turn back while there is still time. Do not plunge blindly into ruin!"
His words struck like a morning bell, shaking hearts, yet no one in the Tibetan ranks responded. Instead, a hulking warrior stepped forward, leading a stout warhorse. Without a word he drew his blade and with one brutal stroke hewed the beast down.
The horse screamed shrilly, blood spraying as it crashed into the snow, its hooves twitching in death. Gasps rippled through the crowd at the sheer savagery of the act.
The warrior smeared its blood across his own face, eyes turning feral, like a beast drunk on gore. In moments, dozens of Tibetan fighters followed suit, painting their faces in horse blood, becoming ghastly visages of hellish demons. Their expressions grim and resolute, their eyes blazed with a death-defying fervor. It was clear that they meant to fight to the last breath, never to retreat.
The heroes of the Central Plains were shaken. Such ruthlessness—killing steeds to summon killing spirit, vowing to fight unto death—was chilling beyond measure.
Wu Tong's fury ignited. He shouted:
"You people chant sutras by day, yet by night commit such cruelty! To slay your own mounts only to heighten slaughter—what difference is there between you and demons?"
Grand Dharma King Kunbu gave a cold laugh, eyes glinting with disdain:
"Ignorant youth. Tibetan warriors are invincible, conquering all before them. Today, we shall not return empty-handed!"
Liu Yun, face pale with rage, cried:
"So cruel, so inhuman! Brother Tong, no more mercy!"
Beggar Sect Chief Fei Jin too frowned deeply, his voice steady and grim:
"Tong'er, we have shown all courtesy. These foreign monks will not stop until the Yellow River runs dry. Show no softness!"
The Tibetans, far from cowed, grew even more fervent. Their eyes shone with fierce light, their bodies taut with murderous intent.
Wu Tong gazed at them, and a sorrowful thought stirred within him. He recalled Jing Ke's doomed mission into Qin, and the song of Yi River: "The wind moans, the Yi waters chill; the warrior once gone returns no more." He sighed inwardly: Every man must die. Perhaps these warriors too have no choice but death…
Yet pity could not blunt his resolve. Tibetan soldiers believed death in battle meant rebirth in another life—they did not fear the grave.
Wu Tong inhaled deeply, then raised the Wolong Saber high, voice booming like a great bell:
"Today, the Wolong Saber will slaughter demons and devils! Those unafraid of death—come forward!"
His eyes locked upon Kunbu, a cold smile curling his lips:
"Grand Dharma King—don't cower like a turtle. Come out and fight!"
Kunbu's face twitched, then twisted into a sneer:
"Kill him! Rewards for all!"
A roar shook the field as Tibetan warriors surged forward like beasts unleashed, blades and spears flashing. The battle erupted with earth-shaking ferocity, dawn's pale light shining on a storm of blood and steel.
"Follow me!" bellowed Gongbu, the Demon Blade King of Tibet. The horde rushed, but Wu Tong burst into their ranks like a lightning bolt, saber sweeping in the form "Clouds Rise, Rain Falls." He cut left, slashed right, stabbing and hacking in a blur. In moments, five warriors fell beneath his blade.
Hatred burned in him for Kunbu. Summoning his qi, he launched himself high, soaring more than ten feet, blade flashing straight for the Dharma King. Kunbu reeled in shock, scrambling aside as gasps rose from all around. Guards leapt in, blades swinging, but Wu Tong's saber flashed, cutting down four in succession.
He whirled, blade howling. Kunbu, gravely wounded, thrust desperately with his weapon. Wu Tong twisted his wrist, knocking it aside, then swept in one stroke. The blade split him clean in two, blood staining the snow. Shouts of horror erupted—Kunbu, Grand Dharma King of Tibet, lay in halves upon the ground!
"Kill him! Avenge the Dharma King!" cried Gongbu, eyes red with fury. He rushed in, but wounded and weakened, his movements faltered. Wu Tong unleashed "Blade Rides the Thunder," strikes flashing like lightning, and Gongbu too fell beneath his blade, slain outright.
Yet the Tibetans surged still. Suddenly the air shrieked—arrows rained from afar. Whistles and thuds filled the field as shafts tore through ranks. Caught off guard, more than a dozen fell dead at once.
A squadron of Tang cavalry thundered in, banners snapping. At their head rode a young general, twenty-five or six, voice ringing:
"I am General Guo Xin of the Mobile Cavalry, sent by Grand General Guo Ziyi himself! Tibetans, how dare you trespass on Tang soil? Name your crime!"
Fei Jin laughed mightily:
"This old beggar said it—friends are met with wine, wolves with blades. Now the Tang army has come! Stay longer, and you'll all die here!"
Master Geleba surveyed the field. His forces lay slain or crippled, the proud host in ruins. He sighed bitterly:
"Enough. This defeat is beyond mending. Were it not for your restraint, we would all lie dead. Let us go!"
He bowed, then turned to leave with the shattered remnants.
Zhao Rou called after him:
"Take your dead with you. Do not linger here."
But Geleba only shook his head:
"In Tibet, the sky burial is our way. Let the vultures lift them to heaven. All things have spirit. They came with the wind, let them return with the wind."
Without another word he mounted and rode off, his followers silent, fading into the snowy horizon.
The Central Plains heroes stood astonished. For Tibetans, sky burial was no disgrace but a sacred offering, giving the body to the eagles as a final act of charity, a passage to rebirth.
At that moment, a sonorous voice carried from afar:
"Monk Ishu of the Church of the East greets Lord Aros!"
Through the snow strode a middle-aged man in purple robes, steps steady, expression solemn—it was the Nestorian monk Ishu.
History records that Ishu once aided General Guo Ziyi in quelling rebellion, later honored by the court with the gift of purple robes. Like Buddhist monks, Nestorians shaved their heads, kept vegetarian discipline, and lived by strict vows. Yet unlike Buddhists, they might marry—though some, like Ishu, chose a lifetime of devotion.
Aros, Lord of the Church, beamed, voice warm:
"So it is our great monk Ishu! Truly Heaven's will—it is our church's fortune!"
The two clasped hands with joy, long-separated friends reunited.
The heroes of all factions bowed:
"A monk of such compassion and righteousness, who aids the world—worthy of the highest respect!"
Just then, another rider approached from the Tang lines. A young general clad in light armor dismounted, saluted, and declared:
"This humble officer Guo Xin greets the heroes of the realm!"
He was none other than the famed young cavalry commander, a veteran of many battles, honored for valor. His piercing eyes swept the assembly, full of respect for the martial heroes.
The crowd responded with admiration:
"The general's valor shakes the world—truly a pillar of the nation!"
But Guo Xin waved aside praise, scanning the field in curiosity:
"Just now I saw a youth whose skill was unmatched, his bearing heroic. Surely a champion of the martial world, fit to serve the realm. Who is he?"
At once all eyes turned to one man—Wu Tong.
From the crowd, a voice rang:
"That man is Wu Tong, already appointed by the court, by imperial decree the Twelfth Master of the Hall of Loyalty!"
The speaker was none other than Han Zhen, the Iron-Hearted. His words struck like a thunderclap. In Tang custom, any appointment of the Fifth Rank or above required the emperor's own edict. For Wu Tong to be named master of the Hall of Loyalty was no mere title—it was imperial recognition itself, an honor rare in the martial world.
Guo Xin's eyes blazed with joy. He bowed deeply and cried:
"So this is the young hero of whom Master Han spoke! No wonder your skill shakes the heavens, no wonder no foe can stand!"
The assembly thundered in agreement. Both court generals and wandering heroes now looked upon Wu Tong with new respect.
Though the storm had not yet wholly passed, with Guo Xin and Han Zhen's arrival, the tide at last turned toward the heroes of the Central Plains…