Chapter 8: Clash at the Riverbank
The dawn came cloaked in mist, heavy and pale, veiling the world in ghostly gray. The river, usually clear and reflective, rolled sluggish and dark as though it too sensed the weight of what was to come. Along its western bank, Khan and his fifty warriors stood arrayed in tight formation. Shields locked, spears steady, eyes fixed on the treeline across the water where their enemy lurked.
Khan's gaze swept over his men. Their armor was mismatched, their weapons forged from scavenged iron and beast bone, yet not a single hand trembled. Each man stood firm, bound not by discipline alone, but by the knowledge of what lay behind them—families, children, the fragile heartbeat of Great Qing.
Han Long paced at the front line, spear resting across his broad shoulders. "Let them come," he muttered, loud enough for the men around him to hear. "We'll show these wolves that the river belongs to the dragon."
The words sparked a ripple of pride. Shields thudded once against the earth, a rhythm of readiness.
From the eastern forest came the sound of drums. Deep, rolling beats echoed through the mist, steady as a heartbeat but growing louder with each passing breath. Then came the answering roar of voices, guttural and savage. The enemy emerged in ranks, their numbers far greater than Khan had hoped.
At least two hundred men crossed the shallows, splashing through the river in a surge of armor and steel. Their shields bore the wolf's-head emblem, painted in crimson. Their leader—the scarred inheritor of the Wei Clan—strode at the forefront, his jade token gleaming faintly at his chest.
"So the dragon cub dares stand," he bellowed, laughter rough as gravel. "Today, I grind your bones into the riverbed!"
His men roared in answer, weapons raised high.
Khan stepped forward, his own token pulsing faintly at his side. His voice cut through the din like a blade.
"Listen well, Wei Clan! This land will not bow to cruelty. Your hunger will not devour our homes. Today, the river itself bears witness—Qing stands unbroken!"
His words surged into his warriors' hearts. They pounded their shields in unison, the sound like thunder rolling across the mist.
The drums fell silent. Then, like wolves unleashed, the enemy charged.
The river churned as the two forces collided. Water splashed high as shields met shields, the crash of metal ringing out, spears thrusting and swords hacking. The first clash was chaos—shouts, screams, the sickening crunch of steel through flesh.
Han Long was at the center, his spear a storm of strikes. He impaled one man, ripped free the weapon, and swung the shaft sideways to break another's jaw. His roar echoed over the din. "For Qing!"
On the flank, Zhang Wei directed archers hidden among the reeds. At his sharp command, arrows hissed from their bows, cutting into the advancing foe. Warriors stumbled, shields raised too late, blood mingling with riverwater.
Mei Lan moved among the wounded, her robes splattered crimson. With calm efficiency she bound wounds, pressed herbs to gashes, whispered words that steadied panicked breaths. Her presence was a quiet anchor amid the storm.
Khan fought at the front, sword in hand, every movement precise. He cut down one foe, sidestepped another's blade, and struck with cold efficiency. His mind was not only on his own strikes, but on the flow of the battle—where lines wavered, where strength needed shoring, where opportunity waited.
The Wei Clan leader waded into the fray, laughing as he swung a brutal axe. With each strike, men were hurled aside like broken dolls. He caught a Qing warrior's shield, ripped it free, and split the man's skull in one savage blow. His soldiers howled at the sight, their morale surging.
Khan saw it and knew: if that monster broke through, the line would crumble.
"Han Long!" Khan shouted above the clash. "With me!"
Together, they surged toward the enemy leader. The man spotted them, lips curling into a grin. "Ah, the cub comes for the wolf!"
Their weapons met in a storm of sparks. Khan's blade struck fast, Han Long's spear darted like lightning, but the man's strength was monstrous. He parried one, caught the spear-shaft with his gauntleted hand, and nearly tore it free.
"You are children playing at war!" he snarled, axe whistling toward Khan's skull.
Khan ducked low, water splashing as the blade missed by inches. His sword lashed out, biting into the man's thigh. The enemy roared, staggering back, but his eyes blazed with savage delight.
Han Long pressed the attack, driving his spear at the man's chest, only for it to be knocked aside. The inheritor's axe swept down, cleaving through the shaft of Han Long's weapon, sending splinters flying.
"Too weak!" the man spat.
But Khan was already moving. He leapt forward, sword arcing high, and brought it down toward the man's exposed shoulder. At the last instant, the enemy raised his axe to block. Steel clanged, sparks flying, both men gritting teeth as the clash shook their arms.
Around them, the battle raged, neither side yet breaking.
Time blurred into a haze of steel and blood. The river ran red, bodies drifting in the current. Khan's men fought with desperate resolve, holding back foes who outnumbered them four to one.
Zhang Wei's archers rained death whenever gaps opened. "Loose! Loose again!" he shouted, voice hoarse, fingers stained with ink and blood alike. Each volley slowed the enemy's push, buying precious moments.
Mei Lan dragged wounded men to the rear, her hands trembling though her face remained calm. For every man she saved, two more fell, but she did not falter.
Khan's arms burned, his breath ragged, yet he pressed forward, step by step, refusing to yield. Across from him, the scarred inheritor grinned through blood, the thrill of combat shining in his eyes.
"You fight well," the man admitted between strikes. "But you are no wolf. You will break."
Khan met his gaze, sword steady despite exhaustion. "Then let the wolf learn that dragons do not break—they rise."
With a final surge, Khan drove his blade forward. The enemy twisted to block, but Han Long, weaponless and bloodied, hurled himself at the man's legs. The scarred inheritor stumbled, balance faltering.
Khan's sword struck true, slicing deep across the man's chest. Blood sprayed, his roar turning to a gasp. He staggered back, clutching the wound, but before Khan could finish him, his soldiers surged in to drag him away.
A horn blared—long, mournful. The Wei Clan forces began to retreat, dragging their wounded and dead alike across the river. Their morale shattered with their leader's fall.
The field was left littered with corpses, the river stained red.
Khan stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, sword dripping crimson. His warriors raised their shields and spears high, their voices a ragged but victorious roar.
The enemy had not been destroyed—but they had been driven back. Great Qing had stood its ground.
Han Long staggered beside him, face pale but eyes burning. "We showed them, Lord Khan. We showed them Qing is no prey."
Khan looked at his men, at the bodies, at the river that whispered with death. He raised his sword high, voice carrying across the field.
"Remember this day! Not for blood, not for glory—but for unity. For Qing. This is only the beginning. Let the world know: we will not bow!"
The warriors roared again, their voices echoing across the misty river.
And somewhere, deep within the dragon-marked token at his side, Khan felt a pulse—a recognition from the primordial world itself. His path was set. War had only just begun.