"Standby? Standby again? Why are we still on standby?"
"They are right before our eyes! What are we waiting for? Why not charge and kill them to our heart's content?"
"That's a mistaken view. We have only thirty thousand cavalry, while they have a full two hundred thousand. A frontal confrontation would be disadvantageous!"
At the Ulaav Mountains, the various tribes of the steppe were already arguing fiercely.
Ever since the Palatine army entered the steppe, they had been in the mountains, digging wells and hunting game in the mountains.
If they hadn't brought enough dry rations, they could never have sustained the feeding of thirty thousand men and horses.
But the Palatines were in the same situation; the logistical pressure of two hundred thousand men was even greater for them.
However, Jaghatai Khan had not permitted them to harass the Palatine supply lines, ordering them only to annihilate the scouts sent into the mountains for reconnaissance.
This strategy successfully misled the Palatine army, making them believe there were only small bands of steppe cavalry ambushing in the mountains. While these could attack scouts, they were insufficient to threaten the logistics transport.
But the long-term ambush had also made the warriors of each tribe eager for battle. They didn't know how long they would have to wait, growing increasingly anxious about missing the main battlefield.
Until the eleventh day, a Kheshig messenger galloped in, holding a command flag high: "The Great Khan has an order!"
"What does the Great Khan say?" a tribal chieftain asked impatiently.
"He says... we can advance!"
...
"Fools! They're all fools!" K'tugul Sorgon's voice erupted in a hysterical roar from behind his golden faceplate. His gem-encrusted sword viciously hacked at a banner, severing it.
"That was a full sixteen thousand cavalry! Even if they were sixteen thousand pigs, those barbarians wouldn't have slaughtered them so easily! And yet, they lost them all in a single charge?"
His whole body trembled as if sieving grain. Despite the winter cold, cold sweat soaked through his garments, the icy silk sticking to his back like a venomous snake slithering.
"Your Majesty," Duke Charles sighed deeply, "I beg you to order an immediate retreat!"
Hearing his voice, Sorgon seemed to grasp a lifeline, suddenly clutching the old general's wrist. "Duke Charles, please advise me!"
Even if Sorgon was utterly incompetent and muddle-headed, he was now soberly aware that the tide of battle had turned irreversibly. All he wanted now was to bring the remaining one hundred eighty thousand troops back to the Palatine Empire!
However, Duke Charles didn't even give him that shred of hope.
"Your Majesty, this is the enemy's trap to lure us in deep. Our army has already advanced over ten days into the steppe. While we still have four thousand armored knights, breaking out now is still possible."
The implication was to abandon the one hundred eighty thousand infantry.
It took over ten days to advance this deep; it would take over ten days to return.
It wasn't excessively deep, but the tribes of the steppe wouldn't simply let them leave.
Their pre-battle preparations hadn't been sufficient to begin with, and now those barbarians of the grassland would certainly cut the army's supply lines. Their provisions were only enough for seven days; what about the remaining time?
A few days without food or water, and an army of over a hundred thousand would starve to death.
But as long as they had the protection of four thousand armored knights, the steppe tribes, with only light cavalry, surely wouldn't dare to engage them head-on.
Relying on the horses' speed, they could return to the Palatine Empire in just two or three days.
Though breaking away from the main army's protection was risky, it was currently the most viable strategy, far better than staying and waiting for death.
Faced with this difficult choice, Sorgon still wanted to grit his teeth and try one more time. "Duke Charles, what if we take just twenty thousand men?"
The private soldiers of other nobles could die, but the royal army should have some privileges, right?
Duke Charles slowly shook his head.
Especially the royal twenty thousand couldn't be taken, because they were almost all heavy infantry, which would severely slow them down.
"Your Majesty, the steppe people's reinforcements haven't arrived yet. There's still time."
"No!" Sorgon flatly refused Duke Charles's suggestion. "They are all brave warriors of the Palatine Empire. I must bring them home! Besides, Duke, how do you know those pissants have reinforcements?" Seeing he couldn't persuade him, Duke Charles ceased his efforts, leaving only a sigh that condensed into white mist in the cold wind.
'The Kheshig had only five thousand cavalry, yet with five thousand, they shattered our sixteen thousand. Even if they had no reinforcements before, after the news spreads, the steppe tribes will surely come upon hearing it.'
'Now the Kheshig seem to have only three thousand cavalry left, posing no threat to the Palatine Empire's one hundred eighty thousand troops. But once they join forces with the cavalry of other tribes, then we truly won't be able to escape even if we want to.'
'The strength of cavalry lies in their mobility; they always hold the strategic initiative.'
'His Majesty probably still clings to the sheer hope of having the enemy cavalry charge our infantry formations, believing the Empire's heavy infantry and musketeers can repulse the steppe people's charge.'
'But would the steppe people be so foolish as to use cavalry to charge infantry?'
'Heavy cavalry could, but the steppe people have no heavy cavalry.'
'The steppe people can encircle and not attack, but we must remain constantly vigilant. Even with rotating rest, we must always live in fear.'
'After over ten consecutive days, the army will surely be exhausted.'
'If we don't run now, in a few more days, not a single one will escape.'
'Now His Majesty is both unwilling to part with this one hundred eighty thousand army and too concerned with saving face. Then let him await death.'
'Perhaps death would be better. I can only hope his incompetent son can seize this once-in-a-millennium opportunity. Even if he cannot dominate the Palatine Empire, at least he can carve out a territory and proclaim himself king.
Several noble generals approached Duke Charles under the cover of the command tent's shadow, lowering their voices. "Duke Charles, should we run?"
"If you want to run, then run. Wait until after dark and escape under cover of night."
"And you?"
Duke Charles shook his head: "His Majesty has treated me well. I will write a last testament. Please take it back for me."
They were all smart people; otherwise, they wouldn't have come to consult him.
The nobles all had private soldiers, each with over a dozen cavalry guards. Combined with those light cavalry who escaped back, gathering together, they could muster several hundred cavalry. There was a chance to escape back to the Palatine Empire under the cover of night.
Duke Charles wouldn't run because his status precluded it; he simply couldn't escape.
Moreover, what if Sorgon actually managed to escape back?
Then all the nobles who deserted their posts would be purged. If a Duke like him ran, he would certainly be at the top of the purge list.
Duke Charles only hoped his son, upon reading this last testament, would come to his senses in time.
....
"Great Khan, lead us in one more charge!" The young Kheshig's voice trembled with suppressed excitement.
He was shaking all over with exhilaration.
The steppe people had no prior experience with large-scale warfare against the Palatines, but a victory of five thousand over sixteen thousand was something they could boast about for a lifetime, a legendary feat of defeating a larger force with a smaller one.
The Kheshig were mostly young; it wasn't strange for them to get carried away with victory.
But they could afford to be carried away; Jaghatai Khan could not.
"Wait." Jaghatai Khan's voice remained consistently calm. "Wait for the steppe tribes to join forces with us. No one is to charge the enemy formations without orders."
Caelan: "Cavalry has an advantage over infantry, but that advantage is definitely not established through charges. In ancient Terra, there was a general named Li Ling, grandson of the famous general Li Guang. His most renowned feat was holding off over seventy thousand Xiongnu cavalry with five thousand infantry, inflicting over ten thousand casualties on the Xiongnu at the cost of two thousand of his own men!"
Qin Xia asked curiously, "What happened later? Such a brave warrior must have achieved fame and success, right?"
"Later, he was pushed to the brink by the Xiongnu, running out of supplies and ammunition. With no reinforcements, he was defeated and forced to surrender. Then, because someone with the same surname as him was training troops for the Xiongnu, his commanding general Li Guangli used this to frame him. The emperor also believed the slander, thinking it was Li Ling training troops for the Xiongnu, and ordered the execution of his three clans."
The Kheshig fell silent upon hearing this.
"What about Li Guangli?"
"Li Guangli later also suffered defeat and surrendered to the Xiongnu. His three clans were executed, and he himself was killed by the Xiongnu as a sacrifice to the heavens."
The restless mood of the Kheshig gradually settled. Although they didn't know Li Ling, Caelan never lied.
If he said it was true, then it certainly was.
If they rashly charged the Palatine Empire's formations, they would only be seeking death like the Xiongnu.
Li Ling, defeating a larger force with a smaller one, could still achieve a 1:5 casualty ratio. Though the steppe tribes had thirty thousand cavalry, if they dared to directly charge an infantry formation of one hundred eighty thousand, the Palatine Empire could annihilate them all.
Tam scratched his head: "But if we don't charge the formations, how do we annihilate the Palatines?"
Jaghatai Khan's fingertips lightly brushed his bowstring. "Rapid maneuver, sustained attacks, live off the land. The steppe eagles never tangle with their prey. Our horses are swifter than theirs; mounted archery is our strength."
"The range of our warriors' drawn bows is at least a hundred paces. The Palatines' muskets have a range of only a few dozen paces. As long as we control the distance, we remain invincible!"
"Harass them daily without cease. Make them unable to sleep at night, and dare not cook during the day. Wait until their provisions are exhausted and their horses weary!"
Having an effective range of a hundred paces with a drawn bow on horseback, the Chohorians truly are born with divine strength.
The Palatine Empire relies too heavily on black powder and muskets, which ironically puts them at a disadvantage, as their range doesn't even match the steppe people's mounted archery.
Moreover, the steppe tribes have Jaghatai Khan, who is practically a cheat. He can shoot enemy commanders from several hundred paces away. As long as the warriors of the steppe don't foolishly charge the formations, Caelan knows victory is assured.
And the liberation of Barbarus was also reaching its final stages.
...
"He says, we can move!"
When Mortarion's order arrived, the Death Guard at the mountain's foot were all overjoyed.
They were elite warriors among the resistance forces, hence their privilege to participate in the assault on the Overlord.
This was a meticulously planned surprise attack.
Mortarion led his elite Death Guard warriors, stealthily advancing along little-known mountain paths.
He had been here for three years and knew every pass and hidden route in this rugged terrain like the back of his hand.
At the same time, the remaining Death Guard constructed an impenetrable defensive line at the mountain's base, holding back the puppet army sent out to raid, preventing their return to reinforce the Overlord.
The Death Guard believed unshakably that Mortarion would lead them to glorious victory!
Today, they would also achieve their goal in one decisive battle!
Mortarion swung his terrifying great scythe in wide, sweeping arcs. The blade sliced through the air with a soul-shaking hum.
The crescent-shaped edge carved deadly arcs of metal through the mist, coated with sticky filth and shattered remnants of internal organs.
Behind him, he left only a bloody path paved with dismembered corpses, winding away into the mist.
Over the past thirty days, Mortarion had been meticulously weaving his plan of vengeance. The Death Guard had followed him on multiple infiltrations up the mountain. The Overlord's carefully constructed defense network crumbled under their surgically precise strikes.
Necare's supply lines were severed one by one. His flesh-works and slave-pens were burned to ashes. Fortresses and castles were leveled by chemical bombs seized from other overlords. Even the cave networks piercing the mountain ridges collapsed under explosives.
His plan was flawless.
But the closer he got to the plan's conclusion, the stronger the unease grew within Mortarion.
Mortarion's gaze pierced through the rolling poison clouds like a quenched blade. Necare's black castle stood eternally atop the cliff, overlooking the Death Guard's battle with the puppets.
Atop Barbarus's peaks lurked countless dreadful overlords, and the Overlord Necare stood above them all.
The perennial, deadly poison mist at the summit was enough to turn lesser overlords to withered bones.
Only Necare was there. Kill him, and he could end it!
"Why is my heart uneasy? What have I failed to perceive?"
Under the heavy helmet, Mortarion's breathing sounded like the low roar of a trapped beast. His fingers unconsciously clenched, the gloves groaning under the strain.
"Mortarion." Typhon's voice was hoarse in the poison mist. "We're nearing our limit!" Mortarion looked back at his warriors. Each of them wore sealed suits of armor, meticulously crafted based on captured ancient texts.
Enhancing defense was a secondary function; their true value lay in allowing Death Guard warriors to breathe freely within the deadly mountain poison mist.
Though the bulky structure limited movement and the sealed helmets obstructed vision, it was still a groundbreaking creation.
Yet even so, they could only reach halfway up the mountain. The poison mist concentration further up exceeded the armor's purification limits.
The air they breathed was becoming choking, their lungs beginning to feel a burning pain.
This signaled that the Death Guard could no longer accompany Mortarion; they had to stop here.
Mortarion knew his warriors were not cowards; the courage and loyalty they displayed were undeniable.
But they were only human after all; their physiological limits could not surpass the shackles of their flesh. This innate limitation forced the Death Guard to halt here.
Mortarion did not blame them for this; mortal limits needed to be acknowledged.
Mortarion's scythe cut through the thick mist, its blade pointing towards the castle, faintly visible in the mist below. "Go back. Wait for us there!"
"As you command, Lord of Death!"
Skorval pounded his chest in salute. Typhon helped Kwell down the mountain; she had been bitten by a slaughter-hound in battle.
The wound wasn't fatal, but it prevented her from continuing to fight.
Mortarion removed his heavy helmet, blurred by filth and blood, and gazed at Caelan. "Now, it's just us. Help me, father."
His armor would also become useless further up; he didn't want the poison mist to affect his battle with the Overlord. Asking his father for help wasn't shameful, because his father would never refuse him.
A warmth unconcealable tinged Caelan's smile. "I am pleased, little Mo. This time, you didn't try to tough it out."
"My brother is arrogant, but he enlightened me. True resilience doesn't need proving to others. Trying to tough it out is merely the self-indulgence of the weak."
Caelan let out a soundless laugh.
Two years, and Mortarion still held a grudge over Jaghatai Khan's words.
Psychic light suddenly burst forth. A pale blue radiance enveloped Mortarion's towering frame. Pure energy ripples spread out, pushing back the deadly mist that had clung to the mountain peaks for millennia, inch by inch.
And so, Mortarion began the climb.
The path to the summit had long been cut off. Mortarion relied purely on the Primarch's superhuman strength and willpower, arduously climbing the nearly vertical cliff face.
Exposed to the poison mist here, even a Primarch would be exhausted.
But with Caelan here, Mortarion only needed to focus on climbing.
Boom!
The sky was suddenly torn asunder. Dozens of burning, spike-covered meteors poured down from Necare's black fortress.
These hellish projectiles, launched by steam catapults, sliced through the poison mist, tracing scarlet parabolas in the air.
The shrieks they emitted as they fell were like the wails of tortured souls, instantly drowning out all other sounds on the peak.
The first volley of fireballs exploded the moment they hit the ground. Viscous incendiary agents mixed with pitch into a liquid sea of fire.
Blazing white waves of flame shot out like venomous snakes in all directions, turning the entire mountainside into a boiling furnace.
Even more horrifying, humanoid puppets crawled out from the split shells.
These puppets, forged by the intense heat, were wreathed in flames, like devils crawling straight out of hell's furnace. They madly rushed towards Mortarion, climbing the slope.
The moment the scythe cut through their bodies, these sorcery-enhanced puppets burst apart like parchment burned by invisible fire, disintegrating into ash with a bang, scattering across the sky.
"Your sorcery is as laughable as your defenses!" Mortarion snorted derisively from his nostrils.
Mortarion stared at the erupting sea of fire and felt fortunate in his heart.
Typhon's Death Guard had already withdrawn to safety.
Otherwise, even elite warriors clad in sealed armor would be instantly reduced to charcoal under the strikes of these fireballs.
But Mortarion also keenly perceived the Overlord's fear. His foster father did not dare face him directly!
Finally.
As the terrain gradually leveled out, Necare's black castle was now within close reach.
Mortarion stood before the towering castle gates. Dark orange poison mist coiled around the lofty castle like a living thing, yet hissed and recoiled the moment it touched the pale blue psychic radiance.
Inside the radiance was a realm of absolute purity. Caelan rejected the poison mist's request to "stick close."
"Necare, come out and face me!"
Mortarion's hoarse voice roared the Overlord's name, his furious shout echoing through the peaks.
On the castle wall, a black-robed overlord timidly peeked down.
Mortarion's anticipation of imminent vengeance turned to bone-chilling cold the instant he saw clearly. This was definitely not Necare!
"Necare is dead! Don't come any further! I won't come down the mountain! Spare me!"