Chapter Eight: Battle to the Death

Piercing screams and shouts rang out, stirring the heart. Below the city, the robust figures of Jingzhou's soldiers surged like waves, their voices rising in earth-shaking cries.

“Kill!”

Zifan gripped his long spear, charging left and right, embodying the saying: soldier against soldier, general against general. With his blade drawn, he challenged all comers. His eyes, sharp as a serpent’s, his spear technique swift and deadly, and with the power of a warlord granted by the system, his strength was unmatched.

Suddenly, Zifan leapt forward, seizing the moment to strike directly at Zhang Liang, the Yellow Turban chieftain. His straightforward attack forced Zhang Liang to dodge hurriedly. Zifan feinted with his right hand, his spear darting toward Zhang Liang again. Gritting his teeth, Zhang Liang struggled to parry, but he was no match for Zifan.

With a sidestep and a powerful kick, Zifan sent Zhang Liang flying, crashing him harshly to the ground.

Several Yellow Turban leaders, seeing their commander wounded, hurled flying knives and shouted, “You dare harm our lord!” Zifan met them with his spear, blood spraying as each leader fell lifeless to the ground.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Zhang Liang fled to the rear ranks to regroup and command anew, determined to redeem his earlier disgrace.

He personally beat the war drum, shouting, “The Yellow Turbans rule the way! The gods lend us strength!” The shrill cries, the madness of slaughter, and the blazing fires fueled the soldiers’ fury, and the battle grew ever more intense.

Though the Black Cavalry fought valiantly and the Tiger Guard was full of heroes, the enemy’s numbers were overwhelming. Exhausted, they retreated to the city walls.

Zifan pressed forward, but the situation was dire. In the distance, he saw Zhang Liang leading a charge, seeking glory as the Youzhou army faltered.

Seizing his bow, Zifan drew an arrow, pulling the string to its fullest, and aimed at Zhang Liang a hundred paces away.

With a thunderous twang, the arrow shot forth like a bolt of lightning. Zhang Liang heard its whistling flight, but in his panic, he failed to evade. The arrow pierced his throat. He collapsed into a pool of blood, convulsing as life ebbed away, dying on the spot.

Witnessing this, the soldiers of Youzhou shouted:

“Zhang Liang is dead! Surrender now if you wish to live!”

Throw down your weapons and your lives will be spared...

Seeing their leader slain, the Yellow Turban rebels dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Those who continued to resist were quickly cut down by Dian Wei’s mighty axe, falling dead in an instant.

“Ding Feng! Ding Feng!”

“My lord, I am here.” Covered in blood, Ding Feng stepped forward. Hearing his voice, Zifan hastened to his side.

“Tend to the wounded, count the dead, and imprison the surrendered rebels.”

“Yes, sir!”

Blood stained the earth, corpses lay everywhere, and not a blade of grass remained. At some point, dark clouds gathered and heavy raindrops began to fall, washing the blood from the battlefield as if performing a final rite for the fallen warriors.

Though Zifan was now accustomed to war, the sight still made his scalp tingle. Brothers who moments ago fought with vitality now lay still and cold.

“General, in this battle we lost more than two thousand men, with over three thousand wounded,” reported Ding Feng, bowing.

“I understand. Go now, and see to the wounded. Summon every healer in the city for their treatment—they were injured defending this place. Count the dead, and give five taels of silver to each bereaved family. Go.”

“Yes, sir!”

From ancient times, war has been ceaseless, armor revered. Across a thousand miles, a single campaign can bring peace to the realm. With sword in hand from desert sands, songs of triumph fill the imperial capital. Let all generals remember: military glory is to be won.

“Brother, the Yellow Turbans are destroyed, but many rebels have surrendered. If some among them conspire to rebel again, what should we do? Why not starve them, and when they are weak, have them killed?”

Zifan paused and considered, “No. Youzhou already lacks enough soldiers and officers. Better to accept the surrender of the Yellow Turbans and replenish our ranks.”

“My wise brother, come with me to see for yourself.”

Standing before the prisoners’ camp, Zifan surveyed the dark mass below. The rebels, their heads bowed, still flashed venomous, snake-like eyes.

“Do as you will—kill me if you must. In eighteen years, I’ll be a hero again!” From the corner of his eye, Zifan saw a towering man, nine feet tall, with a full beard and bold features—clearly a leader among the Yellow Turban rebels.