Under the night sky, across the autumn fields, scattered points of fire spread out beneath the vast heavens.

Viewed from above, the battlefield of a hundred thousand men resembled almost the scale of a city—row upon row of tents stretching endlessly out of sight, dim shadow and bright fire alternating as the massed crowds gathered, weaving together into something that looked like a true ocean. And the charge of nearly ten thousand men carried that same ferocious intensity.

Five thousand men, driving over six thousand routed soldiers before them, pressed toward a camp of seventy thousand—like a cup of cold water poured into boiling oil.

It exploded.

Forty thousand held the rear in defense, while another thirty-thousand-odd faced the city they were meant to be besieging. And as the Black Banner Army charged, the gates of Yan Prefecture opened as well—the Zhong family’s forces began emerging, gradually growing in number, and after several rounds of regrouping, launched their own charge from that direction.

The Jurchens’ thousand-strong cavalry swept down from the north, making a threatening show at the edge of the camp; at the same time, the Black Banner Army’s main force of over ten thousand cut in obliquely from the northeast, pressing aggressively to drive a wedge between the Jurchen main force and Yan Zhenguo’s army—the footsteps of these twelve-thousand-plus men shook the very ground, an astonishing sight to behold.

Fire arrows rose into the sky; everywhere, the human sea spread wider. The siege catapults continued their slow work, hurling stones into the air. The three massive hot-air balloons drifted toward Yan Prefecture, dropping explosive charges as they went, the thunderous blasts and bursts of fire in the darkness striking an especially dreadful sight.

Upon arriving at Yan Prefecture, in their haste to begin the assault immediately, Yan Zhenguo’s camp defenses had been thrown together with startling carelessness—there was simply no way to build fortifications capable of defending a hundred thousand men. With such a massive force at his disposal, backed by the Jurchens standing in reserve, all of his army’s strength had been poured into the siege itself; if it ever truly came under attack, any defense would have to rely on nothing more than raw positional combat. And now, being the single largest force on this battlefield, his army had truly fallen into the mire of “when immortals fight, mortals suffer.”

“The Huaxia Army is here! Turn your blades on your own and you’ll live! All others, no mercy—”

“Don’t come any closer! We’re all brothers here—”

“Damn it, get out of my way—”

“Come any closer and I’ll kill you—”

“We’re all dead anyway, I’m taking you all down with me—”

To the southeast, the six or seven thousand men being driven by the five thousand Black Banner soldiers toward their own main camp were perhaps suffering the most agonizing fate of all. Naturally, they had no wish to clash with their own comrades—but the killers behind them moved with terrifying speed and showed no mercy whatsoever, accepting no surrenders; even those who threw down their weapons and knelt in submission were met with nothing but a blade to the head. On either flank of the routed mass, a small contingent of Black Banner cavalry drove them relentlessly forward, and this surging tide of humanity had already lost any chance of scattering to escape.

And ahead, the massive defensive formation of tens of thousands couldn’t possibly open a gap to let the routed men through first. Both sides shouted desperately at one another, and in the final moment before crossing into arrow range, a few small clusters among the surging routed troops still turned to fight against the Black Banner soldiers pursuing them from behind—only to be instantly scattered and swallowed into the river of blood and bodies.

The speed of this scattering, crushing charge could no longer be stopped. When the two sides finally collided, frenzied screaming erupted everywhere. The routed men at the front, knowing death was certain either way, hacked wildly at their own former comrades; the resulting front line of contact became like some vast grinding wheel, crushing everyone caught within it into pulp and blood.

“Get out of the way! Out of the way—”

“I don’t care if I die either—”

“Yan Zhenguo surrendered to the Jurchen dogs, acting against all decency—turn on him, all of you!”

“The Huaxia Army is here! You can’t win! The Huaxia Army is here—you can’t win—”

Voices boiled over amid the violent collision; for some men, these were the very last words they would ever cry out.

To the west, the charging Zhong family troops fell beneath a hail of boulders and arrows; Zhong Lie, leading his forces, had already crashed into that same sea of humanity, the sounds of slaughter rising to a fever pitch. The core of the Zhong family army was itself a battle-tested elite force, unafraid of such a violent clash. As time wore on, the entire vast battlefield began disintegrating amid the frenzied fighting; Yan Zhenguo’s seventy-thousand-strong army seemed to be boiling alive in a cauldron of molten iron. Yan Zhenguo tried desperately to call for Jurchen aid, but received only the stern reply that they were to hold their position and defend at all costs—even Sahalin, the Jurchen general sent to oversee the battle, dared not commit his own cavalry into a hundred-thousand-man battlefield that could collapse at any moment.

To the north, the fighting hadn’t yet reached such vast, frenzied proportions. Night had fully fallen, and the Jurchen main camp stood lit by fire, showing no movement yet. The Jurchen general Loushi had dispatched, named Manduyu, led two thousand Jurchen cavalry, continuously harassing and skirmishing with the Black Banner Army in scattered, loose formation.

These Jurchen riders were superbly skilled horsemen, moving in small clusters of three to five, some carrying torches, riding with a piercing, howling cry. Their formation was loose, yet this force of over two thousand moved like a school of fish—seemingly scattered, yet remarkably agile—constantly weaving along the edges of the battle line. Drawing close to the Black Banner Army’s main formation, they would light fire arrows and loose them in scattered volleys, then withdraw swiftly. The Black Banner soldiers at the formation’s edge held their shields raised, standing firm and alert; archers returned fire as well, but hitting the loosely scattered Jurchen riders proved exceedingly difficult.

On a hillside not far from the main formation, Han Jing led two thousand cavalry, keeping constant watch on this scattered Jurchen force. Under the occasional cover provided by his cavalry’s movements, a hot-air balloon currently hovered in the sky, several warhorses towing it along by long ropes to shift its position. The balloon didn’t fly especially high, but it was more than sufficient for observation purposes—the observer above would occasionally shout down or release fireworks, sending down bamboo tubes along the rope line to report on how the battle was unfolding. As the Black Banner Army’s main force advanced, the two thousand elite Jurchen cavalry made several attempts to harass them, hoping to find an opening to charge in and shoot down the balloon—but each time, they were turned back by Han Jing’s forces.

At the Black Banner Army’s main formation, the soldiers at the edges held their shields raised, moving cautiously in formation. In the center, Qin Shaoqian watched the situation at the Jurchen camp and signaled to those beside him; wooden cannons and iron cannons were unloaded from the pack horses, fitted with wheels, and pushed forward. Behind them, across the battlefield where nearly a hundred thousand men were locked in slaughter, brilliant flashes of fire lit the darkness—but that battle was never the true core of the conflict; the enemy there was already collapsing. What would truly decide everything was the more than ten-thousand-strong Jurchen force standing right before them now.

Just as the Black Banner Army began advancing toward the Jurchen camp, at a certain moment, the fires suddenly flared to life. It wasn’t a gradual brightening—in a single instant, across the hillside opposite, the previously silent Jurchen camp erupted entirely into blazing light.

The Black Banner Army did not fear battle. Nor did Wanyan Loushi.

And after that, the Jurchens moved.

…

To the southeast, Yan Zhenguo’s resisting forces had already begun to collapse entirely.

Men screamed and fled, scattering in every direction like headless flies. Some chose to turn their coats, shouting slogans as they began hacking at their own former comrades; the sprawling camp descended into chaos like a pot of boiling water. Flight had already begun, and even more men found themselves suddenly uncertain of which way to run. The five thousand Black Banner soldiers had already crashed through, leaving bloodshed in their wake wherever they went, breaking down layer after layer of resistance. Amid the chaos of battle, Zhuo Yongqing, following Mao Yishan, never quite managed to land a kill of his own—there were men who resisted, but far more who simply surrendered; some even joined the Black Banner charge, pressing forward alongside them, and there were even officers who declared, righteously, that they had long despised Yan Zhenguo’s surrender to Jin and had always intended to turn against him. Zhuo Yongqing, in the chaos, managed only to cut one man down, though not fatally.

The stench of blood and fire was overpowering; there were simply too many people. After several rounds of fighting, his head spun with dizziness. Zhuo Yongqing was, after all, still a new recruit—despite all his daily training, the sheer mental strain had by now worn him down entirely. Reaching a pile of supplies, he paused for a moment, leaning against a wooden crate, retching dryly a few times. It was then that he noticed movement in the darkness not far away.

It was a hidden soldier, who locked eyes with Zhuo Yongqing and froze in place for an instant—then, with a scream, lunged at him, blade swinging.

In the split second as the blade flashed toward his face, Zhuo Yongqing clenched his jaw and, on pure instinct from his training, swung his own long blade upward, his body shifting backward slightly before he struck forward with all his strength. Thick blood splattered across his face; the body crumpled and fell. Zhuo Yongqing stood there, gasping for breath for a long while, the blood on his face making him feel sick with nausea. He glanced back at the corpse on the ground and realized that the blade that had swung at him a moment ago had, in fact, passed within inches of his own face.

Not far off, amid the surging crowd, someone was shouting: “Where’s Yan Zhenguo!? I’m asking you, where’s Yan Zhenguo—take me to him!” Zhuo Yongqing turned his head slightly—that voice belonged to Company Commander Luo Ye, usually mild-mannered and easygoing, but nicknamed “Mad Luo”—and only now, on the battlefield, did Zhuo Yongqing understand why. Behind him, more of his comrades charged past; some glanced his way, but no one paid any attention to the corpse on the ground. Zhuo Yongqing wiped the blood from his face and followed after his squad leader up ahead.

As the five thousand Black Banner soldiers cut their way from the southeast straight through toward the western side of Yan Prefecture, Zhong Lie’s forces were still locked in fierce combat to the west, though the enemy had already begun steadily falling back. With little more than ten thousand men facing tens of thousands, and with the enemy on the verge of total collapse, Zhong Lie fought with tremendous exhilaration, driving his troops forward, almost shouting with the sheer thrill of it.

Then, a warning flare rose from atop the city walls, and the sound of hoofbeats came thundering in from the north!

This sudden Jurchen cavalry force loosed arrows with deadly precision straight at the flank of the Zhong family army—caught mid-charge and without a proper defensive formation. The thousand-strong cavalry force was still accelerating; Zhong Lie ordered his own cavalry to intercept, but they were a step too slow. That thousand-strong Jurchen cavalry split into two groups mid-charge: four hundred, loosing arrows as they went, drove straight at the hastily assembled Zhong family cavalry, while the other six hundred plunged into the weakly defended rear flank of the Zhong army, tearing open a breach with blade and arrow.

The Zhong army’s rear flank contracted swiftly; the six hundred cavalry, having struck, wheeled around sharply and retreated, while the four hundred exchanged mounted volleys with the Zhong cavalry in a circling skirmish, sweeping past the front of Yan Zhenguo’s army before merging with the other six hundred not far off. Once reunited, the full thousand loosed one more scattered volley of arrows before riding off unhurried.

Though this strike by Sahalin couldn’t turn the tide of the greater battle, it did cost the Zhong family army over a hundred additional casualties, and for a moment, it lifted the spirits of some among Yan Zhenguo’s forces. And just as the Black Banner Army continued its unstoppable advance, to the north, the fires had already begun to blaze.

The Jurchen cavalry surged out from their camp like a tide, carrying scattered points of fire; in the darkness, they looked like two great dragons, advancing in overwhelming force, curling around to encircle the Black Banner Army’s main formation. Before long, arrows began falling from every direction like rain!

The Black Banner soldiers held their shields, defending with grim determination, the clatter of impact ringing out ceaselessly. On the other flank, Manduyu’s two thousand cavalry were also circling around like venomous serpents; with the Black Banner Army gathered densely together and the Jurchens spread thin, returning arrow fire against them accomplished little.

Within the formation, Qin Shaoqian looked out at the Jurchen cavalry, now nearly forming a massive half-circle in the darkness, and drew a deep breath…

And so, the war began in earnest—