The battlefield of Bù Zhèng was a sucking maw of mud, blood, and screams.
I watched from the crest of a low ridge as the front line dissolved under General Zheng Yùhao's assault. His southern infantry surged like a dark wave, shields locked, spears thrusting. Behind them, archers moved with unnerving discipline, loosing volleys in staggered rows that blackened the sky.
My Black Tigers struggled to hold. I could see them through the drifting smoke — gaunt, blood-streaked men driving their axes into armored bodies, only to be forced back step by muddy step. Already, the dead lay in tangled heaps. Some still moved, gurgling in the filth as booted feet crushed ribs and tore through bowels.
To my left, the Golden Dragons under Han Qing tried to form a wedge to break through the southern flank, but Zheng's cavalry hit them first. Horses slammed into the line, shattering spears, flinging bodies aside. I saw men thrown from the saddle, limbs twisting unnaturally before they vanished under trampling hooves.
A rider galloped toward me, his horse foaming at the mouth. "Prince! The left is folding. Zheng's forces are sweeping around our flank — we can't hold much longer."
I didn't answer him. My eyes were on the fortress in the distance. Its black stone walls loomed over the plain, banners of pale green rippling above. Each tower bristled with archers. From here, it felt less like a stronghold than a hungry god watching its sacrifice.
Closer still, General Zheng himself rode just behind his forward ranks. Even from across the field, I could see his posture — upright, confident, sword raised high. His voice carried above the clash of steel, driving his men forward with a cold, certain rhythm. His lines never broke. Never even wavered.
Shen Yue pulled up beside me, her face streaked with dirt and dried blood. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but calculation — the frantic, desperate kind. "We're losing, Wu An. Do you see it? The Black Tigers can't keep pace. The Golden Dragons are already half in retreat, and Han Qing's flank is near collapse."
"I see it," I said.
And I did. All too clearly.
Zheng was clever. He wasn't chasing us in reckless charges — he was methodical. Driving wedges, rotating fresh units, conserving his strength. My men were being worn down by inches. We could inflict wounds, kill scores — but Zheng's lines closed over the dead as if nothing had happened.
A group of my riders tried to wheel and smash into the southern right. I watched them hit the line, swords flashing. For a heartbeat, they pushed through — then the southern ranks simply bent, folding inward. The cavalry was swallowed, hacked down in a whirlwind of curved blades.
Their horses screamed like dying children.
I drew a slow breath. The taste of iron was thick in my mouth.
"Zheng Yùhao fights like a man who knows exactly how many bodies he can spend," I murmured. "He's breaking us cleanly, patiently. By dusk, we'll have nowhere left to fall but into the river."
"Then order a retreat!" Shen Yue snapped. "At least pull the core back to regroup. You're the only reason half these men still stand."
"Am I?" I turned my head to meet her gaze. Her eyes searched mine, looking for doubt, panic — some sign I shared her urgency.
She found nothing.
Because there was still something under my ribs. Patient. Certain. Watching.
I let my gaze drift back to the slaughter below. A Black Tiger captain tried to rally his men for another push, brandishing a severed southern helm as a trophy. An arrow took him in the throat. He fell soundlessly, blood spurting in a bright arc. His men faltered.
The southern advance pressed harder, shields slamming into axes, spears piercing exposed ribs. Everywhere I looked, my lines wavered, bent, bled.
And still Zheng rode behind them like a sculpted demon of old. Directing reserves. Shifting companies. His composure never cracked. Even his horse seemed to stand taller beneath him, nostrils flaring with pride.
My men? They were shadows of what they'd been. Half of them still bore scars from Cao Wen, from the starving march north. Their armor was patched, their eyes sunken. They fought like wolves forced into a corner, snapping with desperation that could only carry them so far.
"Wu An," Shen Yue whispered, voice low with something close to despair. "If we fail here — if Bù Zhèng holds, if Zheng drives us back — your brothers will cut you down themselves. You know this. Wu Kang already wants your head on a pike. Wu Jin would do it with poetry. We have to—"
"Shh."
I raised a hand. Not to silence her — to steady myself.
Because below, something finally cracked.
I saw Zheng's elite foot guard press forward with halberds lowered. They hit my weakened center like an iron hammer. The Black Tigers stumbled, fell back — and Zheng surged in to split them completely.
For a moment, I thought it was over. My center opened like a torn wound. Southern troops poured in, carving through exhausted men with almost casual efficiency.
I heard someone behind me gasp. Another voice — one of my own lieutenants — started praying aloud.
I just exhaled. Slowly. Letting the cold burn in my lungs.
Then I spoke. Calmly. "Send the signal to Han Qing. Now."
A scout blinked. "But my prince — Han Qing is still locked with their cavalry. He—"
"Now."
He galloped off.
Shen Yue stared at me. Her mouth worked once, twice. Then she closed her eyes, drew her blade, and rode to gather the reserves.
Because she trusted me. Or she was mad. Likely both.
A fresh trumpet call sounded across the plain. A ragged note, cracked at the edges.
Then, through the drifting smoke, I saw Han Qing's battered Golden Dragons pivot — not away, but toward Zheng's encirclement. They formed into ragged columns and charged directly at the southern rear.
It was a mad gamble. Half his riders were without lances. Many carried only battered swords. But they hit like a thunderclap all the same.
Zheng's second line staggered. His perfect formations faltered for the first time that day. I saw him wheel in the saddle, shouting commands — too late. The impact sent men sprawling. The southern line rippled, broke in places.
And through that break, I sent my last reserve.
Peasant levies armed with pikes. Dirty, terrified men who would have fled days ago if not for the walls of Bù Zhèng barring their escape. But I didn't need their courage — only their weight. They surged forward in a desperate tide, pushing southern soldiers back into their own comrades, sowing chaos.
I rode down the ridge into that maelstrom, Shen Yue at my side. The screams of the wounded were like a choir, rising and falling. I cut through them all — men in green, men in rags, men who might have once been boys tending goats. None of it mattered. Only the press of flesh, the hot reek of blood, the crack of steel on bone.
Somewhere in the crush, I caught sight of Zheng Yùhao again. His helmet was gone, his face smeared with grime. For the first time, his mouth was open, barking orders with something close to panic.
My lips curved. Not in triumph — but in recognition.
Because I knew. Even if we were still losing by the count of corpses, I had already won something far more important.
His certainty.
And I still had one move left. Buried deep. Watching. Waiting.
Tonight, Bù Zhèng would learn exactly what it meant to face a prince with nothing left to lose.