The conversation had been going smoothly, yet Fu Qi’s spirit suddenly became hazy and indistinct, as though it might drift away and vanish — the sight gave Lang Jiuchuan a fright, and instinctively she reached out her hand to catch him.

The gesture was entirely reflexive, but the moment she made contact with Fu Qi’s soul, her consciousness was seized by him and pulled away from that space.

Thud.

Lang Jiuchuan’s consciousness severed from her body, and she collapsed to the floor.

Boom, boom, boom.

The thunder of war drums was deafening.

Lang Jiuchuan stood atop a tall city wall, looking out at the mass of cavalry blanketing the ground before Fenghuo Pass — well-equipped and powerful, numbering in the tens of thousands. On Fu Qi’s side stood only a meager three thousand gaunt and sallow Fu Family soldiers, who could do nothing but make use of Fenghuo Pass’s formidable natural terrain to stubbornly resist the enemy.

They could not retreat. The moment they fell back, the barbarians would breach Fenghuo Pass and reach Fengyang Pass — the final gateway into the heartland of the Central Plains. The civilians still evacuating behind them had not yet safely reached Fengyang City; they dared not retreat.

The drums roared like rolling thunder. The northern wind beyond the pass was biting as a blade, mercilessly cutting at the pale, yellowed faces of Fu Qi and his soldiers, worn down by cold and starvation. They gripped their weapons tighter, their gazes still keen and sharp, their formation not the slightest bit disordered.

Below the weathered, pitted city wall, the barbarians were laughing wildly and shouting vile insults, their crude and debasing words at their most wretched, as they yanked their reins to rear their horses high before letting them crash back down — a display meant to intimidate, to flaunt their power.

In this battle, they had fought bitterly for a month and still had not breached the city wall — partly because of the formidable natural terrain, but also because the Fu Family soldiers under Fu Qi’s command were strict in discipline, able to fight ten to one, and their commander Fu Qi was bold and fierce in battle, matchless in courage. It was for these reasons that they had still not taken the pass.

But no matter how loyal and brave a man was, it was nothing against a court behind him that failed to deliver — with provisions and reinforcements unable to keep up, Fu Qi, who had never suffered a defeat in his life, was destined to fall at this Fenghuo Pass, to lose this city.

Fu Qi was already at the end of his strength.

“Report—” A scout stumbled and scrambled up the city wall, his dry, cracked lips — still bearing crusted bloodscabs — parting as ice chips fell from the corners of his mouth. In a trembling voice he said: “General, the northern gorge and the southern riverbank have both been sealed off by the barbarians.”

To the east, avalanches had long since blocked all passage.

No way out.

Their only path back was Fengyang Pass behind them — and they could neither retreat to it nor dare to.

This was as expected.

Fu Qi gripped the large blade in his hand and stared straight ahead at the endless line of crimson torches, the handle of the blade scraping against his armor with a sound like a dull knife dragging through flesh and bone.

Lose Fenghuo, and Fengyang falls. Once the heartland was entered, the Liang Kingdom’s imperial capital could be reached in less than half a month.

For this month and more, they had waited for reinforcements that never came, and due to the extreme snowstorm conditions, no provisions had been able to reach them. They had eaten the civilians’ grain stores and even slaughtered their own warhorses. They had long since fallen into a desperate, hopeless situation. And now the barbarians were launching their final assault. This was their backs-to-the-wall stand.

And their certain defeat.

Fu Qi turned to look at his remaining three thousand soldiers. They stood amid the sweeping ice and snow, their armor battered and ruined, dry straw stuffed beneath the plates for warmth, the sharpness long since gone from their spears, the hands gripping their weapons frozen stiff — yet those straight-held spines had not bent even the slightest fraction.

Iron bones, unyielding to the last.

“General — we would rather die than surrender. Let us fight them — kill one and we’ve already gained, kill two and we’re ahead!” a soldier said with a grin.

Fu Qi’s lips moved, wanting to say something — but looking at those pairs of eyes, resolute and holding a quiet finality, he found he could not produce a single word.

There was no need to say anything. Nothing needed to be said.

“Bring the wine.” Fu Qi called out in a great voice.

A soldier retrieved a wine sack and presented it with both hands. Fu Qi took it, drank a mouthful, then passed it down the line. He cupped his hands in a salute and said: “My brothers — dare I say, do we not have our cloaks to share? I raise this wine in salutation to every one of you.”

Below, the kitchen soldiers passed around ceramic jars of rough, murky spirits — each man took a sip and passed it on.

“Dare I say — do we not have our cloaks to share!” The raw, gravel-scraped roar of their voices resounded from the foot of the wall through the city, rising to the very heavens.

Then Fu Qi took the oil bucket from the kitchen soldier’s hands, removed his tasseled cap, and tipped it over his own head. The other soldiers followed his lead, removing their helmets and doing the same, dousing themselves from above.

Lang Jiuchuan’s expression changed drastically. She now understood why the air had been carrying that greasy, oily smell — fire oil had been spread throughout the city, and now Fu Qi and his men were pouring it over themselves as well.

They were turning their own bodies into oil vessels — using fire as their weapon!

“My men, open the city gates. Follow me to meet the enemy.” Fu Qi leapt down from the city wall, gripping his long blade and striding toward the gates.

Creak, creak — the sound of feet marching in unison through snow, heavy and solemn, like a mournful and magnificent rhythm.

Someone suddenly began to recite the Wanderer’s Return. Then another voice joined in humming along, keeping pace with the drums, the sound deep and resonant as a great bell.

The city gates swung open. Fu Qi’s toes barely touched the ground as he drew on his qi, seized his curved blade, and charged straight at the enemy commander. Behind him, his soldiers surged forth like a tide at the greatest speed they could muster, crashing headlong into the barbarian formation without order or pattern.

Boom.

Boom, boom.

As the Liang soldiers threw themselves into the barbarian ranks, they let their firestrikers drop onto their own oil-soaked bodies. The fire ignited and blazed up — one by one, human torches went charging and careening through the enemy formation. The barbarians’ warhorses were thrown into terror, throwing the enemy into chaos as well. Soon the flames spread and merged into great swathes of fire. Some enemy horsemen drove their mounts charging into the city.

Lang Jiuchuan watched those blazing human torches scattered throughout the barbarian ranks, her eyes turning red, her fists clenching tight.

Boom.

A thunderous explosion erupted somewhere behind her — some number of soldiers had ignited the fire within the city. Caught by the wind, the flames swept through the entire city in an instant. Screams rang out without end.

Lang Jiuchuan’s vision filled with a vast sea of fire. She looked back up at the city wall — the battle standard bearing the character for Fu, whipping in the wind, stood tall and did not fall — just like those spines that had refused to bow before the enemy, not even by a fraction.

Her knees gave out beneath her. She pressed a hand over her heavy, aching chest and closed her eyes.

The wind howled.

Heavy snow fell and fell, burying those iron-boned loyal souls beneath a shroud of white.

She did not know how much time passed before Lang Jiuchuan opened her eyes again — but the sight before her made her eyes go wide with horror.

How could this be?

Fu Qi was standing on the city wall again. The scout was stumbling up again to make his report. The spirits were drunk, the oil poured, the fire lit…

Once, twice, three times — again and again, without end.

With every fall of snow, with every opening of eyes, that scene repeated itself.

The Fu Family soldiers, dead two hundred years, were replaying that magnificent and tragic final stand at Fenghuo Pass over and over.

“Child, let me ask you — guide my Fu Family soldiers through this crossing.” Fu Qi appeared at her side, at some point she had not noticed, his voice trembling with a faint plea: “Two hundred years — they have never left Fenghuo Pass.”

So that was it. No wonder Fu Qi had said that the moment he opened his eyes, he found himself at Lang Jiuchuan’s shop — because he had never left the battlefield of that day’s fighting. Over and over he relived the act of forging a final line of defense with fire and flesh and blood, using their lives to shield the people one last time.

The Central Plains was in peril; the land was not yet at peace. They had not dared to leave.

This was their obsession — an obsession that had formed into an endless loop, repeating that magnificent and tragic tableau, trapping them within it, unable to break free.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes grew wet. She looked at those brilliant, blazing human torches and gave a single nod: “All right.”

(Author’s note: Writing this chapter, my laptop was so slow it nearly made me throw it across the room — it wasn’t my brain lagging, it was the machine that couldn’t keep up with my thoughts. One character at a time it would output, and even restarting didn’t help. I spent two or three hours writing one single chapter and was absolutely fuming. Does anyone else know this feeling?!)