Armies have no fixed formation, water no fixed shape—the way of war is endlessly variable, and what’s called “morale” is often not something so simply grasped. But if one truly tried to quantify and summarize it, there was actually a fair amount of universal truth to be found.
From ancient times to now, in large-scale warfare, what truly causes an army to collapse has never been physical damage alone—one person’s own thinking gets swept up in the collective will of thousands, and what any individual actually thinks has never really been the crux of it. What truly decides victory or defeat is often each person’s perception of the group as a whole—if you could somehow aggregate all of this and take an average, that would be the true measure of an army’s strength.
Rigorous training, every man around you possessing a strong physique, having reasons that forbid retreat, strict military codes, drills carried out without fail—all of this, in the end, adds a kind of weight to a person’s inner conviction: “we are strong,” “none of us will ever retreat.” The heavier this weight, the stronger the army—that’s ultimately all “morale” really is, though achieving it requires being forged through countless trials.
Liangshan’s men, when they first descended the mountain, had originally been an army carrying exactly this kind of conviction—only their belief in being “strong” hadn’t come from training or military discipline, but had formed gradually through watching their enemies’ fear grow with every raid and slaughter. As the Wu Dynasty faced troubles both within and without, and friends from every corner of the martial world flocked to join them, this only lent everyone a growing confidence born of an unstoppable tide of momentum. Unfortunately, this confidence—that they had no equal left in all of Shandong—had also buried far too many hidden dangers.
When all of this was detonated at once over the course of a few days, and the slaughter of battle unfolded, few among them believed they themselves would retreat—they still craved victory, still yearned to win. But so-called morale was never really about that. It lay in whether, when the enemy shouted out those rumors, each person’s heart concluded “impossible” or “possible.”
A distinction separated only by a thin line—but once aggregated into the collective morale of an army, it was exactly this that would determine the fate of thousands upon thousands of lives.
Sunlight shone on the clouds, painting the afternoon scene in brilliant color. Above Zhu Family Manor, the sounds of battle continued without pause, and the shouting from within the estate carried on just as excitedly, wave after wave of men charging up the stone wall only to be cut down again. Only Liangshan’s senior chieftains could truly grasp that their own casualties kept mounting, and that as time passed, the fighting spirit of Liangshan’s soldiers continued to steadily decline.
In barely a single shichen’s time, Liangshan’s casualties had likely already approached three thousand—massive losses caused by the desperate, all-out assaults of numerous chieftains staking everything on this one throw. Countless banners had surged forward, only to be pushed back again. That ring of stone wall around Zhu Family Manor grew ever more solid and imposing in the eyes of Liangshan’s men.
By this point, the pace of Liangshan’s casualties had begun to slow. As the initial fervor faded, amid the ceaseless shouting from within, morale wavering and fighting spirit dropping, wave after wave of brothers charging up the wall were swallowed up, and the soldiers pressing the frontal assault had grown increasingly hesitant. Even some mid- and small-level chieftains had begun weighing whether withdrawing might be the wiser course—no one had ever imagined that fifteen thousand men would end up locked in a grinding war of attrition against just three thousand.
“What’s there to discuss! We knew this from the start! If we can’t take this estate, we won’t even be able to go back!” On one side of the battlefield, Lu Zhishen, his wound bandaged, picked up his monk’s staff and began organizing the next wave of assault, his eyes already bloodshot from the killing. “Whoever’s got the guts, charge with old me again!”
On the other side, Lin Chong and the other generals kept rallying their men too. When familiar brothers or subordinates from the mountain came over, hesitating, to ask whether they should preserve their strength, whether things had gotten bad enough that command might be considering a retreat—it was precisely these same chieftains who, before Song Jiang’s rallying speech, had voiced some opposition to the all-out assault, who now chose to press forward with the most unwavering resolve.
With morale already thrown into disorder, those who came asking directly might still be kept in check. But in an army like this, no one knew how many held such doubts silently in their hearts without voicing them—that was the real problem.
But the bow had already been drawn; there was no arrow to call back now.
For Liangshan’s men, enduring the mounting, enormous casualties, feeling morale crumble and fighting spirit waver, the pressure was immense beyond measure. But for the people of Zhu Family Manor, holding off wave after wave of assault with a mere three thousand men, even with Liangshan’s soldiers now fighting at a shockingly degraded level, the pressure on them was surely no less. Casualties accumulated on their side too. The attacking force, however things went, still numbered well over ten thousand and could sustain a saturated assault indefinitely; but the defending side likewise had to sustain a saturated defense.
Whenever they could no longer maintain that saturated defense, that was when the real opportunity would arrive.
Inside Zhu Family Manor, Ning Yi, constantly shielded by the wall of shields, could feel this clearly himself. The wounded and dead being carried away without pause, the crying of women and children within the estate—all of it spread anxiety into every heart, and some had even rushed over crying, asking, “Where is the imperial army! Where is the imperial army!”
Zhu Biao and the others kept rallying the people of the estate: “You can see it! Liangshan’s scum are getting weaker and weaker! They’re about to collapse! If we hold today, they’re finished——”
Liangshan’s men were indeed growing weaker, but the assaults led by their chieftains were still nothing to underestimate. Ning Yi had already divided the crossbows around him into two groups specifically to counter these elite chargers, and the various pre-arranged shouting was continuing to have its effect. But as for how the battle would actually unfold, at what point Liangshan’s men might finally break—lacking real combat experience, he genuinely couldn’t tell.
Liangshan’s greatest weakness had always been its fractured structure, with too many separate factions—but for now, while most of its many chieftains still retained their reason, they could each maintain a baseline level of control over their own men, using their personal charisma to keep launching wave after wave of attacks.
If, at this moment, some major chieftain could truly be induced to defect on the battlefield, that alone might well decide the outcome of the entire battle. Unfortunately, though many could already sense Liangshan might be facing defeat, getting them to commit to switching sides outright was something he still couldn’t offer them enough confidence to do. At most, they would choose to preserve their own strength and then withdraw.
Whatever tricks could be played had already been played. Ning Yi led his men running back and forth within the estate, doing his best to plug whatever gaps he could see, repelling wave after wave of assault. Meanwhile, as the battle reached its most intense pitch, within the prison cells of Zhu Family Manor, something else was quietly unfolding—several men held captive there had already used tools prepared in advance to pick the locks on their cell doors.
Over the past several days, Ning Yi had given tasks to the prisoners he’d released; once they completed them, they could return to seek shelter within Zhu Family Manor. Naturally, such shelter wasn’t immediately granted as honored guests—they were still kept locked in the cells, given good food and drink, to be dealt with properly after the battle, to avoid any mishaps. It was precisely because of this arrangement that Wu Yong had deliberately selected certain men beforehand to return to Zhu Family Manor as planted double agents. Now, with Zhu Family Manor stretched too thin to spare attention even for guarding the prison, these men cleared the obstacles and slipped quietly out of their cells.
What awaited them outside was chaos and smoke on every side. The estate was like an isolated island in a raging storm, shaking constantly under the overwhelming assault…
……
Still-burning branches came crashing down from the stone wall.
Zhang Shun rolled across the ground, leaping over a half-charred corpse, and charged toward the crowd to the side.
“Brother Zhang——”
“Charge——”
Amid the assault, someone shouted hoarsely at the top of his lungs—the minor chieftain leading the charge, whom he recognized. Following Zhang Shun’s shout, the man grabbed a ladder and charged up, with Zhang Shun right behind him. But before he could even reach the top of the wall, blood suddenly sprayed from above—a long spear thrust into the chieftain’s body, driving him back down. Several villagers from Zhu Family Manor appeared at the top, one of them thrusting down with the very blood-soaked spearhead. Zhang Shun blocked it with his blade, but seeing more coming, he too had no choice but to retreat.
The battlefield churned like a sea of men. The point of Liangshan’s frontal assault kept shifting, and Zhang Shun, running through the fighting, soon found himself joined by Yang Zhi. Seizing an opening, they positioned three long ladders and led their men in a fresh assault, forcing their way up. They killed several men atop the wall and gathered a dozen or so brothers together, but when they saw Zhu Biao leading men over to counter them, they immediately abandoned that spot on the wall and, with about ten men, charged into the estate itself.
The wave-like assaults had already stretched Zhu Family Manor’s defenses thin; if they could stir up chaos within the estate itself, the enemy would surely have to divert more men to contain them, freeing up any point on the wall for a fresh charge. Though nicknamed “White Stripe in the Waves,” Zhang Shun was genuinely formidable and fierce by nature—paired with Yang Zhi, even with only a dozen or so men, he wasn’t afraid of much. In a flash, they surged toward another section of the wall, cutting through several buildings, killing two villagers who crossed their path. Suddenly, on a parallel road separated by a row of houses, they caught a glimpse of an iron shield flashing past.
“Hah, Thunderbolt Hand of Primal Chaos!”
Running at full speed, Yang Zhi pointed that way and said in a low voice to Zhang Shun, “Kill him.”
The dozen or so men rushed forward, reaching a crossroads ahead, turning to charge directly toward that spot. On that stretch of road, figures finally came into view—iron shields, crossbowmen, and at the center, that noble young master, turning his head toward them.
“Kill——” Yang Zhi gripped his blade with both hands, charging forward like a man possessed, Zhang Shun right alongside him. The crossbows opposite had already risen to aim their way—there was truly not a moment’s hesitation left—but suddenly, Zhang Shun caught sight of that face, the man standing there, tilting his head slightly.
“Thunderbolt Hand of Primal Chaos,” Lei Feng—before this, even with Liangshan already thrown into utter chaos, he’d considered this man a serious problem, but honestly, he’d held no particular feeling toward him personally. When Yang Zhi said to kill him, he’d simply thought: naturally, he must die.
But in this instant, a complicated feeling surged up in his heart at the sight of that man’s face—this person was… this person was…
He remembered that day of blood and fire…
The man let out a sigh, perfectly ordinary: “Ah… Zhang Shun.”
……
Outside the stone wall, part of the assault force suddenly heard a hoarse, blood-curdling scream: “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh——”
Such screams weren’t unfamiliar to them—when men made a desperate charge against the wall, screams mixed with courage, cries against the terror, were common enough. But outside this section of the wall, a few men could tell exactly whose voice this was.
They simply couldn’t understand why Zhang Shun would be crying out like that from within the estate.
This side happened to be closest to the slope where Song Jiang and the others were watching the battle unfold. Xi Junyu and the others were watching that section of the wall, having just been saying: “Brother Zhang Shun and Brother Yang Zhi have already broken in—once they stir up chaos, there might be an opening…” Faintly, that scream carried over, and everyone held their breath, listening. Then, sure enough, a stir of commotion emerged from within the wall—fighting was underway inside.
“Full assault! Tell the nearby brothers to press the attack!” Xi Junyu pointed that way, shouting, signaling the soldiers. Lin Chong, among the nearby chieftains, led his men in a converging assault. Before the ladders were even fully set, figures suddenly appeared atop the wall—several silhouettes being driven back in a frenzy, forced up onto the wall, then stabbed down over the other side. Among them was Zhang Shun, several crossbow bolts embedded in his body. What was pushed forward now was a row of iron shields, with long spears thrusting continuously from behind—Zhang Shun’s body was pierced through by two or three spears in mid-air before falling.
Several iron shields lined up against the wall, and the crossbows behind them began firing down. Song Jiang’s tiger-eyes brimmed with tears, his gaze burning with fury, and at that very moment, another sudden turn of events unfolded atop that stone wall.
Several men crept up from the side, suddenly breaking into the shield formation atop the wall.
Wu Yong, bracing himself against the tree trunk, rose to his feet: “Hah, they’ve moved! They’ve moved! My plan is working! Kill him! Kill him!”
That sudden attack caused a small pocket of chaos atop the wall, and everyone watched intently. Even a scout who came hurrying from the rear to report something to Song Jiang and Wu Yong was waved off impatiently by Wu Yong, told to wait. Xi Junyu, seeing Wu Yong’s reaction, understood something of what was happening: “Keep pressing the assault! Coordinate and keep pressing!”
The fighting atop the wall was fierce and merciless—the men Wu Yong had planted were genuinely skilled at assassination, and catching the defenders unprepared, they broke through in an instant. The guards flanking the area couldn’t react in time; two were killed, and one of the iron shields toppled. Song Jiang, Wu Yong, and the others watched with rapt attention; Xi Junyu too watched intently. Finally, the two men charged toward that Thunderbolt Hand Lei Feng—after a brief exchange, that Lei Feng appeared to stumble backward in disarray, even knocking over someone beside him. The two assassins pressed forward immediately—one was pierced through by a flying spear, while the other swung his steel blade down in a direct strike.
Xi Junyu and Wu Yong gritted their teeth, leaning forward.
A sharp crack rang out atop the stone wall, and a spray of blood burst from behind the assassin.
Suddenly, everything around seemed to go hollow and silent. The words that had already risen to Xi Junyu’s throat suddenly stuck there, unspoken, as something dawned on him.
Not far off, Li Kui, who had just raised his axe to charge, froze at the sound. Near the slope, two others stood as well, each reacting differently—the wounded “Sickly Guan Suo” Yang Xiong, and “Brocade-Furred Tiger” Yan Shun, who had just arrived.
Atop the wall, that noble young master shoved aside the corpse of the assassin who’d fallen on him. Beneath the tree here, Wu Yong’s hand slowly reached out and patted the trunk. “So… failed again…” he murmured with a sigh, though the frustration rising in him now felt strangely muted. Recalling the scout who’d come to report just moments before, seemingly urgent about something involving the “Wuru Battalion,” he turned to ask about it, only to suddenly notice that several of his brothers’ faces had gone strange. “What’s wrong?”
Yan Shun looked over there, raised a hand to point, opened his mouth, then instinctively glanced at Xi Junyu before speaking, his lips seeming almost parched. “That’s… that’s…”
Song Jiang turned his head. “A pity we still failed to kill that Thunderbolt Hand of Primal Chaos…”
“But that’s… the Bloody-Handed Butcher…”
“That one from Jiangning…” Yang Xiong murmured under his breath.
Song Jiang froze. “What Bloody-Handed Butcher?” Others too shared this confusion, unable to place it at first—but a moment later, as everyone suddenly recalled certain things, an overwhelmingly complex and eerily cold sensation descended in silence.
“…He, he’s… huh?”
Smoke and flame surrounded them, the slaughter continuing without pause, blood and life draining away endlessly. Across the raging battlefield, this strange, uncanny feeling settled in, carrying with it the weight of days of setbacks and mounting pressure.