Luo Jing stood alone at the front. When he charged, no one was permitted to advance past him — and no one could.

As a general, Luo Jing was without peer. As a warrior, he was without rival.

The lance-tip crashed forward and sent the shield-bearer ahead flying backwards; the shield-bearer collided with the spearmen behind him and was killed by his own comrades. The lance shaft swept left — four or five men were launched off their feet — then swept right, and a whole rank went flying.

He alone opened the road; the fighters and personal guard troops behind him needed only to follow in his wake and drive forward.

“Dismount and fight on foot! Use the horses as a barrier!”

Luo Jing roared the command as he cut his way through.

The rear Tiger-Leopard Cavalry riders leapt down and formed an arrowhead formation to break through the shield-wall’s defense; their warhorses, left in place, became the defensive line that held back the Jizhou soldiers trying to close in from behind.

People say the world’s most unyielding shield and the world’s sharpest spear are set against each other — which wins?

There is no fixed answer. The more valiant one wins.

Tiger-Leopard Cavalry soldiers on foot were still the most formidable fighters in the world, and above all, they had the world’s most formidable general.

A rank of long spears drove toward Luo Jing. He pulled back half a step, then exploded upward from the ground, pressing his lance shaft horizontally down —

The shaft came down and pinned more than a dozen spears beneath it.

Luo Jing released his grip. He stepped onto the shafts and ran forward along them.

“Let go!”

A thunderous shout.

Then a white flash erupted before anyone’s eyes.

He drew his saber from his hip and swept it through in a single stroke. More than a dozen men — throats cut open, or faces cut open.

After cutting down more than a dozen in one stroke, Luo Jing reached back and caught up his lance, gripping the butt end in one hand and sweeping it around — another several men were swept to their deaths.

On the city wall, Zeng Ling’s expression darkened.

He had known Luo Jing was brave. He had known from the beginning. But only now that Luo Jing had become his enemy did he understand how far Luo Jing’s bravery exceeded everything he had already recognized.

Nothing could stop him.

He had set layer upon layer of shield-and-spear formations along the south gate interior — like stacking row after row of thick, solid stone walls.

Even the sharpest blade dulls against stone this heavy and solid. Yet Luo Jing was no ordinary blade; Luo Jing was a divine weapon without peer.

Before him, men fell one by one. Those who rushed up next had only put off their deaths by a single breath.

Zeng Ling set layer upon layer, and Luo Jing broke through layer upon layer.

Luo Jing surged forward, planted a kick on the shield before him — the kick sent the shield-bearer flying, who crashed down through the spearmen behind.

Luo Jing was the tip of the arrowhead formation, the point of the arrow, the edge of the saber, the head of the lance.

And behind Luo Jing, the dozens of fighters who kept close at his heels widened every gap he tore open.

Those fighters swung their battle-axes downward; shields of any size could not stop them. At this rate of breakthrough, it might not be long before Luo Jing reached the gate.

“Who can stop Luo Jing?!”

Zeng Ling on the wall cried out in desperation.

“I’ll go!”

The general Jinzu answered and was already sprinting toward the stairs that led down from the wall.

“Luo Jing!”

Jinzu came rushing down from the walls, an infantry saber in hand. He pushed through the crowd as he moved forward, shouting as he went: “Come and fight me!”

Luo Jing, in the heat of his killing, heard the shout and looked. He recognized Zeng Ling’s fiercest officer, Jinzu.

But why would he care who had come?

“A mere common soldier. How dare you presume to stop me?”

Luo Jing snorted and continued forward.

Jinzu’s feet gathered force. His figure blurred forward like a bolt from a crossbow; the saber in his hand rose high. When he reached Luo Jing, the blade swept down.

Luo Jing glanced at the saber and held his contempt.

The blade fell. Luo Jing retreated half a step; as the blade descended, he brought his lance shaft down hard against the flat of the blade.

The edge of the saber had all but grazed Luo Jing’s body as it came down — but that half step had been perfectly placed.

The shaft struck the flat of the blade, and the saber — already falling with ferocious force — accelerated further; Jinzu couldn’t pull it back; with a clang it drove into the ground, splitting the flagstone clean in two.

Luo Jing stepped on the lance shaft, bearing down with his foot.

“Now you let go!”

He pressed his foot down; Jinzu could not hold the hilt. He had no choice but to release; the saber shaft cracked against the ground, shattering the stone to powder.

In a single move, Luo Jing had disarmed Jinzu; in the next, he forced him back; and as the lance swept across, Jinzu fell back beyond its reach.

“An unknown soldier.”

Luo Jing spared Jinzu a single glance, then plunged back into the formations.

Jinzu erupted in fury. He snatched a saber from the hands of a nearby soldier and threw himself at Luo Jing again.

One stroke down — and this time Luo Jing was provoked. That this man still dared to come forward made the killing urge rise within him.

The blade fell. He did not meet it with his lance.

The lance was in his right hand. His left shot out —

The blade came down, and in one instant Luo Jing caught it — bare-handed — against the spine.

That manner of counter. That courage. That audacity. Perhaps there truly was no one else in this age who would do it as Luo Jing did.

A master of any caliber likely had many ways to meet that saber stroke — yet not one other person would catch it barehanded.

What manner of man could fail to treat his own life as worth anything at all, unless he had taken his own confidence to a certain absolute extreme?

If he missed his grip, that saber would have cut him. With a man of Jinzu’s strength behind it, a clean hit meant Luo Jing would be split in two.

Yet the reason the supremely confident justify their confidence is that they have the means to be confident.

Luo Jing’s left hand closed around the flat of the blade and pushed forward — driving the blade and Jinzu’s arm backward — then yanked toward himself, pulling the saber out of Jinzu’s grip.

He held the flat of the blade, his thumb working the spine; the saber spun half a revolution, and the hilt turned to face him.

He seized the hilt.

A step forward. One cut.

All of it without a pause.

Jinzu’s hands were empty; he couldn’t dodge, couldn’t retreat.

Thud. The cut landed on Jinzu’s shoulder.

But just in that instant, a saber came from the side — rising from below and knocking against Luo Jing’s blade with a resounding clang.

That blow lifted Luo Jing’s blade clear of Jinzu’s shoulder.

“Over here!”

General Liu Ge — one saber stroke to save a man.

He stepped into the gap in front of Jinzu, then swept another saber toward Luo Jing’s throat.

Luo Jing deflected the stroke casually with the saber in his left hand. When he saw it was Liu Ge, he still showed no sign of taking the man seriously.

“Another unknown soldier.”

Luo Jing held the saber in his left hand. He cut, and cut again — each stroke faster than the last, each heavier than the last.

Liu Ge had only that first stroke on the offensive; everything after was nothing but desperate defense. With each successive blow landing, the shock ran through his arms until they ached and went numb.

After the first few strokes he could still parry with one hand; the ones that followed, he was forced to grip with both.

Jinzu saw this, snatched another saber, and — ignoring his shoulder wound — swung in from the flank to strike at Luo Jing from the side.

Luo Jing deliberately kept his long lance out of it, using only the saber in his left hand to hold both men — driving both of them steadily back.

Left-side slash, right-side slash, back and forth — an ordinary man would barely have managed one stroke; Luo Jing had already lost count of how many he had thrown.

For military officers like Liu Ge and Jinzu, these were men who had always been supremely confident in themselves, who had never been bested in combat.

But today they understood at last how strong Luo Jing was, understood at last that the martial path has no ceiling.

Jizhou soldiers poured in from every direction, surrounding the fight. Luo Jing was matchless in his valor, but the Tiger-Leopard Cavalry would eventually be encircled.

They had still not fought their way to the gate, and already the rear was being sealed off by Jizhou soldiers.

Even though Liu Ge and Jinzu together were no certain match for Luo Jing, they had slowed his charging advance.

This delay made his rear column vulnerable.

The Jizhou soldiers swarmed in dense formation, releasing arrows in continuous salvoes at the Tiger-Leopard Cavalry. The archers had stopped worrying about their own comrades in the way; every man bit his teeth together, eyes crimson, and fired arrow after arrow as fast as hands could manage.

Luo Jing saw the situation turning against him. In a surge of fury, he hurled the saber from his hand — it drove through several Jizhou soldiers in succession.

Gripping the long lance with both hands, he brought it crashing down; Liu Ge’s saber was knocked away, and the man barely got clear.

Another stroke, and Jinzu’s breastplate was split open.

And at that same moment, a shift occurred outside the walls.

To the west of the city, Luo Geng rose from his camp with long strides, swung into the saddle, and the Youzhou army began crossing the bridge toward Jizhou.

The Qingzhou and Yuzhou forces, ordered to intercept again, quickly formed their lines to hold Luo Geng on the western bank.

Luo Geng spurred his horse to the eastern bank of the river. A Qingzhou general rode forward and raised a hand to stop him, then bowed from the saddle: “Great General — please, turn back.”

Luo Geng looked at him. “Who are you?”

The general answered: “General Liu Desheng, under the command of the Qingzhou Military Commissioner!”

Luo Geng frowned faintly. “An insignificant nobody presumes to stop me?”

“Great General, if you will not withdraw—” Liu Desheng started.

The words never finished. A lightning bolt erupted before his face.

Luo Geng drew — and sheathed — in a single instant.

The blade slid home; Liu Desheng’s skull split open from the center. First the iron helm, then the skull itself, parting to the sides all the way down to the neck.

As the skull cracked open, red blood and white matter poured out together and splashed down.

Luo Geng spurred his horse forward.

“I am passing through like this. Let us see who among you dares to move.”

And just like that, he rode straight through the Qingzhou formation. The Qingzhou soldiers were struck dumb by the sudden turn of events; not one of them dared lift a hand. They fell back on both sides to let him through.

This man whom Cui Yanlai had once mocked as a squat wretch now sent Cui Yanlai’s own Qingzhou army reeling away without daring to raise a hand.

—

Inside the city.

Of the three thousand Tiger-Leopard Cavalry, more than two thousand had been killed or wounded. But this was something Luo Jing had already accounted for. In truth, the rear column’s Tiger-Leopard Cavalry soldiers — and their horses — were there to take the arrows on his behalf.

Luo Jing, with his fighters and several hundred personal guards, was the true striking force aimed at the east gate.

Luo Jing had long since drawn up his battle plan: Tiger-Leopard Cavalry soldiers holding the rear to stop the Jizhou army from encircling him from behind; he himself leading his personal guard to break through the formations.

In all this world, only Luo Jing could think such a thing perfectly natural — that he alone with a few hundred men could simply punch through an enemy formation.

And in truth… he could.

Jinzu could not stop him. Liu Ge could not stop him. The shield-wall and the spear-wall — neither could stop him.

Luo Jing forced Liu Ge back; the space before him had been emptied by his killing. When he looked again, he had cut clean through the Jizhou line. The gate tunnel was before him.

Liu Ge was struck by a lance blow and sent crashing down; Luo Jing stepped past him without pause. He was already inside the gate tunnel.

Jinzu, soaked in blood, led several dozen soldiers to block the tunnel. His body was blood, his face was blood, even his eyes were blood.

“You will not pass!”

Jinzu roared, and swung his saber forward again.

“I will!”

Luo Jing drove his lance into Jinzu’s chest, then swept it side to side, hurling soldiers off their feet throughout the tunnel.

He killed his way into the gate tunnel — more blood covered Luo Jing’s body than even covered Jinzu’s, though not a drop of it was his own.

Luo Jing looked at Jinzu, impaled on his lance tip, then threw him off with a flick — then brought the lance sweeping down, striking the gate crossbar with perfect precision.

Jinzu’s body slammed into the side wall of the tunnel, then slid slowly down to sit against it; a streak of blood was left on the stone. He sat there, the faintest trace of breath still in his mouth. There was a saber on the ground not far from him; Jinzu was still trying to reach for it, yet his fingers barely managed to twitch.

Luo Jing’s lance stroke had split the crossbar through. He turned and looked at Jinzu: “Can you see? I’m through.”

He swung the lance shaft in that direction — boom — the butt of the shaft struck Jinzu squarely in the forehead. Jinzu’s head slammed back against the wall.

The forehead caved in. The back of his skull shattered.

Jinzu — from the moment he stepped forward, there had never been a road back.

—