When the sea of people surged forward, it seemed as though the mountains themselves trembled.

The actions of the Xia Village garrison caught the Ever-Victorious Army rather off guard. The back-and-forth maneuvering on the battlefield had already gone on for eight or nine days, and the pattern of attack and defense had, in truth, become fixed—the Xia Village garrison was outnumbered by the Ever-Victorious Army, and leaving their fortifications was basically out of the question. These past few days, no matter how brutal the fighting, it had only ever been a matter of trading blows, each side probing the other. Turning the captured troops who’d defeated Long Hui the day before into hostages had indeed been a ruthless move, one that seemed impossible to counter cleanly—but there would always be exceptions.

When the first few captives began refusing to move forward, Guo Yaoshi and the others already sensed trouble brewing, though no one could have guessed it would take this particular shape. What was meant to be a vicious gambit had instead seen the enemy flip the entire board over in an instant.

In that moment, what the other side displayed was a keenness that shouldn’t have belonged to any ordinary commander. The instant the captives began resisting, the commotion within Xia Village gathered and spread within moments, and swiftly became a wild, dangerous, all-consuming eruption across every hillside. Guo Yaoshi felt his heart sink abruptly, unable even to parse the meaning of that feeling. A little ahead of him, Liu Shunren, mounted on his horse and in the middle of ordering his men to execute the captives, suddenly yanked hard on his reins, his scalp prickling with dread, and cursed aloud: “Fuck—!”

The killing cries rose and spread across the sky, a murderous rage gathering within them until it seemed almost to solidify. On a battlefield, vicious shouting was nothing unusual—every elite soldier struck at the enemy with ferocity and resolve—but only under certain special circumstances could one hear this particular kind of cry, the kind that chilled the heart the instant you heard it, the kind that meant true, unrelenting hostility to the death. It wasn’t the empty bluster of common thugs, nor the sort of thing armies used to frighten enemies or rouse their own morale. It was rage and resolve straight from the depths of the soul—and any enemy capable of producing that sound, down to every tooth and every hair on his head, was dangerous.

Even the entire Ever-Victorious Army column faltered for a moment in shock.

But they were, after all, elite troops, and though they hadn’t expected a hornet’s nest to burst open so violently this early in the morning, once the enemy had flipped the board, under the orders of Guo Yaoshi, Zhang Linghui, and the others, the whole army snapped into formation within moments and surged forward.

Across the hillsides, the tide of men and the long serpent of iron cavalry closed the distance rapidly, and then—collision—

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaah—”

Gripping his long saber, Mao Yishan was already charging in the front line. Shouting, eyes bloodshot, he crashed into the fiercely advancing tide of men ahead. Before him stood a burly man of the Resentment Army, in a heavy coat, a full head taller than him; their long blades clashed down together in a violent arc, countless flashes of steel and sprays of blood erupting around them. As the two traded that first blow, Mao Yishan didn’t break stride, slamming into the man’s body, and with a hand gone slightly numb, seized his blade and swung it upward. Blood sprayed across his face; the tall man was knocked sideways, and a comrade’s blade came down on his shoulder, slicing clean through to his waist.

Amid the shouting, Mao Yishan had already taken two more steps forward when another enemy soldier appeared before him, swinging his blade down. Mao Yishan lunged forward, and with one fierce strike, cut upward through the man’s armpit; the man’s arm was severed, blood gushing wildly, and Mao Yishan pressed on, hacking three times in rapid succession into the man’s chest, then smashed the hilt of his blade down onto the man’s skull, finally dropping him. His comrade beside him had already surged ahead, and Mao Yishan lunged forward as well, his blade slicing clean through another enemy’s belly.

Amid the thick stench of blood, countless flashes of steel and twisted, ferocious faces filled his vision. His will burned with a wild fervor, yet the thoughts in his mind were strangely, coldly clear. An enemy beside him swung at him; he raised his arm and blocked it, and as the man from Liaodong kicked out at him, he raised his blade and drove it down into the man’s other leg, the blow punching clean through the man’s thigh. Before the man could fall, Mao Yishan’s comrade beside him hacked open the man’s flank; Mao Yishan seized the man’s arm, yanked his blade back, and drove it once more into the man’s belly, tearing it open with a ripping sound.

“…Eat them!”

He remembered that cry, and found himself echoing it aloud, and in the midst of his charge, sent another enemy crashing to the ground with a body-slam. The two of them grappled and tore at each other in the snow; when the long blade was pinned beneath their bodies, the man from Liaodong landed two heavy blows on Mao Yishan’s body, and Mao Yishan returned one—and as he clenched the man in a death-grip, catching sight of his face swimming before his eyes, he opened his mouth and bit straight down onto the man’s head.

The bite landed on the man’s cheek; the man thrashed wildly, landing two blows on Mao Yishan’s stomach, but Mao Yishan’s mouth was already full of the taste of blood, and with a violent wrench he tore half the man’s face clean off. The man screamed savagely, thrashing, and struck Mao Yishan once across the mouth—and in the next instant, Mao Yishan, still gripping half the man’s face between his teeth, reared his head back and slammed it forward without restraint, a headbutt landing square between the man’s brows. He raised his head and struck twice more. Then he scrambled up, gripped his blade, and dragged it once across the man’s belly before driving it down into his throat.

As he rose to his feet, a soldier of the Resentment Army came charging at him, swinging a blade at his head; he dropped to one knee and swept his blade in a horizontal arc, severing the man’s entire right leg mid-stride—the man toppled forward, blood spraying across Mao Yishan’s body.

In these few moments, he had become drenched in blood, savage as some fiend from hell.

What was there to fear in death!

As he raised his blade to charge forward again, the Resentment Army soldier before him caught sight of his appearance and couldn’t help but take half a step back before raising his blade to strike—but Mao Yishan had already driven his blade viciously through the man’s chest!

In moments of life-and-death combat like this, the senses become extraordinarily strange. As tension surges up, an ordinary man’s body typically grows hot all over, his vision narrows, his coordination dulls—sometimes so much that he trips over things on the ground while running. After killing so many, Mao Yishan had gradually shaken off these negative states, but to say he could face death as calmly as in ordinary training was still impossible; after every kill, a flicker of relief at still being alive would pass through his mind. The great terror between life and death, after all, never truly disappeared.

Only this time, what governed him was a thought and feeling even he himself couldn’t put into words. After days of watching so many die, after witnessing the wretched state of those captives, his spirit had been pressed to the very limit of oppression—and when the order to attack finally came down from above, all that remained in his heart was a bloodlust, a pure desire to unleash himself in slaughter. The Resentment Army soldiers before him had, in his eyes, all but ceased to be human.

If they were still human, he would have feared the blades and spears they swung at him; when their limbs snapped, when their blood sprayed, when their organs spilled out, he would have felt fear or disgust. But strangely, this time, not a trace of such feeling arose in him at all.

His mind had never been clearer, his control over his own body never sharper, his field of vision never wider. The blades swung at him were simply things to be dodged, nothing more—and the enemies before him, however numerous, brought him only pleasure. Especially when he tore into their bodies and thick blood sprayed forth, when they fell, thrashed, suffered, and lost their lives—in Mao Yishan’s mind, all that flashed by was the image of those captives being tortured to death, and from that, still more pleasure welled up.

Blood soaking his body no longer felt sticky to him—he even craved, with an aching hunger, the scent of that spraying blood. Only the fact of blood gushing from the bodies of the enemies before him could, in some small measure, satisfy the hunger gnawing at his heart.

He surged forward alongside his comrades, cutting his way through the wall of enemies ahead!

Similar scenes were now playing out across many parts of the battlefield.

Among the eastern hills, near the banks of the Yellow River, since the Resentment Army’s defenses there were slightly weaker, the general Sun Ye, leading over a thousand men, was pressing an assault toward the forest in that direction. Great numbers of soldiers bearing blades, shields, and spears drove forward like a blade’s edge into the weak point, and in the blink of an eye, the trail of blood had already extended a considerable distance—though by now, the advance had begun to slow.

The stretch from the southeast of the camp to the main gate had originally been a key point of the Resentment Army’s assault, and now, the surging clash of men had turned it into a veritable sea of blood. The several thousand men led by He Zhicheng had already suffered enormous losses in the earlier fighting, but the fierce combat had also tempered them into their finest form; riding this new wave of momentum, amid a surging roar, they were forcefully driving back an enemy force twice their number—the clashing battlefield of thousands upon thousands had become like some vast meat-grinding machine.

On the flank, the cavalry led by Yue Fei had already cut into the ranks of the Resentment Army’s troops. Near the main gate, the general Li Yi was leading his men in combat, pressing this way; the surviving captives were fleeing toward this area as well, and the Resentment Army’s elite cavalry had already crossed the ridgeline, sweeping in diagonally like some vast flood. Before the black-armored heavy cavalry could reach them, Li Yi organized a spear formation and met them head-on, wave after wave; for a moment the tide of blood boiled over, and a great number of cavalrymen found themselves, in this cramped space, actually blocked by their own comrades, unable to build up any charging momentum—they were forced to spread out in other directions instead.

“Kill!—”

Liu Shunren swung his war blade, driving his men forward with the same half-crazed fury.

The instant the Xia Village garrison launched its all-out assault, he had realized that even if they won today, it would come at a horrific cost. In that moment, it wasn’t that he hadn’t considered retreat—but a single glance back told him the thought held no possibility whatsoever: Guo Yaoshi was watching him coldly from the high ground.

This general, seasoned through countless battles, would not allow himself to be stabbed in the back a second time.

At this moment, the forces of both Zhang Linghui and Liu Shunren had been entirely pinned in the middle of the battle line, with Liu Shunren’s position by far the most perilous. To his west surged the Resentment Army’s cavalry; behind him were Guo Yaoshi’s own core troops. Xia Village’s cavalry, with black-armored heavy horse leading the way, was cutting in diagonally from the northeast, meaning to cross through his formation and clash head-on with the Resentment Army’s cavalry. And ahead of him, separated only by a thin, chaotic scatter of fleeing captives, came the combined charge of Xia Village’s two forces from the main gate and the southeast. At least on this morning, the will to fight that these troops—after such extreme suppression—had suddenly unleashed had, within moments, become astonishing to an extreme degree; the spear formation on the side of the main gate had, after ferocious fighting, actually managed to halt the advance of the Resentment Army’s cavalry. Even though the terrain prevented the large cavalry force from building full charging momentum, this was, in the whole course of this southern campaign, an unprecedented first.

In any case, for the moment, all Liu Shunren could do was drive his soldiers forward with all their might; they charged past the flank of the fleeing captives, hoping to break into the trenches and obstacle formations in front of Xia Village’s main gate. At this point, the cavalry led by the black-armored heavy horse was still tearing through the forces of Guo Yaoshi on the flank; once they broke through, this frontal area would likely become the main battleground where the two cavalry forces clashed.

Amid the drifting morning mist, the slaughter, shouting, and stench of blood spread across every hillside; with the spears and blades crossing throughout the vast battlefield, the ridges, and the valleys, and since the Resentment Army still outnumbered the Xia Village forces by a wide margin, the battle, at a glance, still appeared to be locked in a stalemate.

Mao Yishan had no idea how long he’d been fighting since charging in; his whole body was soaked in blood, yet the hunger in his heart still felt unsatisfied. The wall of enemies before him had finally begun to thin, though the boiling sound of battle still surged all around; aside from his comrades, most of what lay on the ground now were corpses. Having cut down one more enemy and finished him with a second blow, he looked up to find that within a radius of some ten feet ahead, only a single Resentment Army soldier remained, gripping a steel blade and retreating slowly. Mao Yishan and a few others beside him fixed their eyes on him and advanced, blades raised; the soldier finally let out a roar and charged, swinging his blade—it was blocked, and Mao Yishan brought his own blade down onto the man’s head. The others struck at his chest, belly, and limbs; one drove a spear straight through his chest and out his back.

“Scum! Come on—!”

Mao Yishan raised his long blade and shouted this into the air, glancing around; in the distance, fierce fighting still raged, but nearby, only some ten yards off, cavalry were surging past. Not far off, Pang Lingming raised his blade toward that direction—this tower of a man was likewise drenched head to toe in blood, his eyes fierce and savage: “You all saw it!”

Someone shouted back: “We saw it!”

“Cut them down—!”

At this shout, one of the officers among the Resentment Army’s elite cavalry over there turned his attention this way as well. Mao Yishan brandished his long blade and roared, “Come on—!”

Pang Lingming shouted too: “Old Wu! Spear formation—!” he bellowed, “Everyone up front, fall back! We’re going to skewer him—!”

This shout jolted Mao Yishan into action as well; he glanced left and right, then sheathed his blade and bent down to snatch up a spear lying on the ground. The spear was still slick with flesh and blood, and still gripped tightly in the hand of a dead Resentment Army soldier; Mao Yishan had to stamp on it twice to pry it free. Behind him, the forest of spears was already advancing; someone pulled at his arm: “Get over here!” Mao Yishan shouted back, “Charge!” In the enemy cavalry ranks ahead, a minor officer was already brandishing his steel blade in this direction as well.

The men surged forward, the spear formation advancing like a tide, and the horses on the other side charged in response; the distance between them was short, and within moments the two forces crashed together. The instant the spear tips struck the bodies of the warhorses, a tremendous force surged back through them; Mao Yishan shouted and forced the butt of his spear down against the ground with all his strength, the shaft bending, blood spraying wildly—and then he felt his own body sent flying by some impact.

Pain and agony washed over him; in his hazy, half-conscious state, he seemed to feel hoofbeats pounding past beside him, and instinctively he curled his body up, rolling slightly. When his awareness returned somewhat, the cavalry charge had already broken apart, and the fighting all around had become a chaotic melee. Mao Yishan staggered to his feet, and once he’d confirmed his limbs still worked, reached down and drew his long blade.

Not far ahead, someone else was also getting up; through his blurred vision, it seemed to be that same minor officer of the Resentment Army who had waved his blade to signal the cavalry charge. The man glanced at his warhorse, now speared to death, then turned and caught sight of Mao Yishan; gripping his long blade, he strode forward with great steps. Mao Yishan, still swaying unsteadily, moved to meet him, and the other man swung his blade down in a flash.

That minor officer, too, was among the more skilled fighters of the Resentment Army; seeing this Xia Village soldier drenched in blood, staggering as he walked, he judged the man must be badly wounded, and meant to finish him with a single blow. But as that blow came down, Mao Yishan suddenly swung his own blade upward, tracing a great arc through the air, then slammed it down hard, pinning the man’s long blade against his own side; both men strained with all their strength, their bodies nearly colliding. Mao Yishan’s face and head were entirely covered in blood, his savage gaze bloodshot, his mouth full of blood as well; he stared into the officer’s eyes, and with a sudden surge of force, let out a great roar: “Waaaah—!” Blood sprayed from his mouth as he cried out, the sound like the furious roar of a tiger. The minor officer, shaken by this ferocious, overwhelming force, then felt a sudden stab of pain in his gut.

Roaring, Mao Yishan pushed him backward step by step, twisting and tearing his intestines apart with his blade.

The seemingly deadlocked stalemate that had gripped this vast battlefield throughout the morning was, in truth, being paid for by the sudden, enormous casualties now being inflicted on the Resentment Army. On the slope above, watching all of this unfold, Guo Yaoshi issued orders even as he anxiously reined in his horse, the warhorse beneath him turning in circles, unconsciously reacting to its master’s agitation.

Guo Yaoshi could see that even a massive commitment of troops couldn’t hold back the Xia Village soldiers’ advance through the eastern hills; he could see that in the middle of the ridgeline, his cavalry was even being cut off and dammed up by the enemy’s spear formations. Amid the enemy’s suicidal ferocity, some of his own fresh reserves had already begun to waver and grow fearful; Zhang Linghui’s several thousand men, pinned at the front, were even beginning to verge on collapse, wanting to turn and flee—something he naturally could not allow.

And directly ahead, Liu Shunren’s forces had achieved some modest gains—perhaps because the mass of fleeing captives had somewhat blunted the Xia Village soldiers’ killing intent, and because the charging cavalry had placed enormous pressure on the defenders near the main gate. Part of Liu Shunren’s force had already broken into the trenches and obstacle zone ahead, his rear ranks still pouring in, trying to avoid the slaughter of Xia Village’s iron-armored elite cavalry. However…

Guo Yaoshi, gazing at that stretch of trench area from a distance, suddenly thought of something, and shouted to the man beside him: “Send the order to Liu Shunren, tell him to…” But there, he stopped himself.

His warhorse turned another circle beneath him. “Never mind,” he said. “Wait and see, wait and see…”

More soldiers poured into that stretch of trenches.

“Forward! Forward—! Push through! Kill your way in, all of you—!”

Charging through trench after trench, Liu Shunren bellowed. Ahead, the main gate of Xia Village stood wide open; since the fleeing captives had cleverly split the battle line, and the enemy cavalry on the other side had drawn off the bulk of Xia Village’s main force, Liu Shunren had found a gap and was pressing his assault in this direction. Xia Village’s central command, under its commander’s banner, was charging out from within the camp, but regardless, this might well be the best opportunity he could find. With morale surging and the whole army charging forward, it seemed only natural that some mistake might slip through—even, perhaps, a lapse in guarding the safety of the rear command post.

—In his heart, he hoped fervently that this was, indeed, just such an ordinary lapse.

Then he paused above one of the trenches.

An explosion rang out.

A violent blast suddenly rose up directly ahead of him, fire, smoke, and churning earth and stone. Then wave after wave of them came, overwhelming everything like a collapsing mountain range; his body froze, his personal guards threw themselves toward him from all sides, and then a tremendous force sent him flying through the air.

From a distance, Guo Yaoshi watched the explosions suddenly erupt across that trench zone; in that morning light, thick smoke and flying dust momentarily swallowed up the entire scene before him. His mouth opened, trembling faintly a few times, but in the end no sound came out. The core of Liu Shunren’s forces had been engulfed in the blasts; on the outer edges, the Xia Village soldiers finally began crushing forward, facing Resentment Army troops whose morale had utterly collapsed. Across the entire trench area, what followed was nothing but a massive slaughter.

Liu Shunren staggered up out of the smoke and dust; everything around him had turned scorched black, the earth churned up loose and soft, making it hard to keep his footing. Likewise, a few other figures were rising up out of that blackness here and there, their bodies streaked red and black; some of them began making their way toward Liu Shunren.

The slaughter was spreading inward from the outer edges.

Liu Shunren’s ears were ringing; he couldn’t make out much of anything, but he could already sense the overwhelming stench of blood and death. All around him, the forest of spears and wall of blades closed in like a tide, and when he finally managed to make out the tide of men advancing from the black, smoke-shrouded edges, someone over there, amid the dust and pillars of smoke, seemed to crouch down and point in his direction. For some reason, Liu Shunren thought he could hear the man’s voice.

“Look, it’s Liu Shunren…”

Soldiers surged toward him; a spear pierced the body of the guard beside him, then pierced his own body. He gripped the first shaft, then the second; the forest of spears drove into him, forcing him backward. He raised his head, and through the black smoke and white mist, caught a glimpse of a sliver of sky—this was the last thing he was ever aware of.

Not far off, Ning Yi waved his hand, ordering his soldiers to sweep the entire trench area clean: “Kill them all, leave no one alive!”

The blade edge swept onward.

On the battlefield, the black cavalry had already charged into the Resentment Army’s cavalry formation; the ridges and valleys had become an ocean of death and vengeance, men venting their rage and gorging themselves on blood—and this went on for some time. By the time Mao Yishan felt himself nearing total exhaustion, he found that he and the comrades around him had already charged clear out of the bounds of the Xia Village valley…