A lone city with its banners hanging
The sudden betrayal at the entrance to Ghost Valley, like a thunderclap tearing through the rainy night, instantly turned the tide of the battle. Huyan Zhuo's ferocious wolf-headed banner retreated in panic amidst the chaotic flames and howls. The fierce Di Rong cavalry was cut in half, leaving behind hundreds of corpses and terrified warhorses, retreating in disarray from the death trap of Black Stone Ridge. When Xiao Yuxuan led his blood-soaked remnants and refugees to the valley entrance, he saw only a devastated battlefield and the traces of a mysterious group that had vanished like ghosts into the stormy forest—several simple, unconventional bronze arrowheads, deeply embedded in the mud, their shafts long gone.
"Who was it?" Sheng Guo asked breathlessly, wiping the blood from her face, her eyes filled with the shock and disbelief of someone who had survived a calamity.
Xiao Yuxuan bent down and picked up an arrowhead. The cold, bronze feel of it, its edges polished exceptionally smooth and sharp, bore no military markings, only an indescribable, battle-hardened aura. "The Hanging Blade..." he murmured, gripping the arrowhead tightly in his hand. This legendary "blade," said to exist outside the realms of other nations, maintaining a terrifying balance through extreme means, had appeared amidst the crisis in Hexi. Its intentions were unfathomable—friend or foe? The blade hanging above his head seemed even closer.
However, Hexi's respite did not last long. Repelling Huyan Zhuo only temporarily dispersed the wolves that were within reach, while a more deadly storm was quietly brewing in and around Anyi City, Hexi's only remaining stronghold.
Anyi, this strategically important earthen city on the Hexi Corridor, was now like a lone boat on a raging storm, poised to capsize at any moment. The aftershocks of the Luo River's breach had not yet subsided; the lower reaches were now a swamp, and the upper reaches were also affected. The influx of refugees into the city was like a burst dam, instantly filling the already small city to capacity. The narrow streets were muddy and crammed with emaciated men, women, and children, their faces pale and their eyes vacant. They huddled under dilapidated eaves and along the city walls, using whatever scraps they could find to barely shield themselves from the rain. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, mud, and the putrid smell of festering wounds, and a deeper, suffocating odor of despair.
Even more terrifying, the shadow of plague, like a leech, clung to the refugees. What began as sporadic vomiting and high fever quickly spread like wildfire in the crowded and filthy environment. Coughing echoed throughout the crammed camps, and those delirious with high fever were hastily isolated in makeshift thatched huts in the corners of the city walls, their groans incessant day and night. The stench of death began to stubbornly overpower other smells, lingering over Anyi City, refusing to dissipate.
Just when the city was gripped by fear and hope seemed lost, Huyan Zhuo's revenge, like a venomous snake with fangs, once again bared its claws. Though he had suffered a setback at Guijianchou, he had not gone far. The Di Rong cavalry, like vultures smelling carrion, began relentlessly circling Anyi City day and night, spying and harassing it. They ambushed and killed groups leaving the city to fetch water, burned the newly sprouted seedlings outside the city, and beheaded captured civilians, their heads hung on arrows and shot into the city… These atrocities continuously exacerbated the panic within the city. Finally, Huyan Zhuo's main force, like a dark cloud pressing down on the city, established a continuous encampment three miles outside Anyi City. War drums thundered day and night, horns blared mournfully, and tens of thousands of elite Di Rong soldiers surrounded the beleaguered city like an iron barrel! The siege had begun. Their goal was clear: to starve, wear down, and exterminate them! To wash away the shame of Guijianchou with the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians of Anyi City!
Inside Anyi City, the atmosphere was oppressive, like leaden clouds solidified before a storm. Xiao Yuxuan, temporarily chosen as the commander-in-chief of the city's defenses, stood behind the rammed earth city walls, scarred by swords and arrows, watching the smoke rising from the Di Rong camp outside and the forest of spears and halberds, his brow furrowed. The forces at his disposal were far too meager: a few hundred survivors from the Battle of Black Stone Ridge, plus hastily armed, battle-hardened refugees, totaling no more than two thousand men. Their armor was tattered, and arrows were scarce. Even worse, the city's food supplies were exhausted, barely surviving by scavenging the remaining grain abandoned by the fleeing Legalist nobles and digging up wild vegetables and roots; every day, corpses of the starved lay dead in the streets. And the plague was raging wildly among this weakened population, silently devouring the city's defenses.
A pervasive sense of despair, like the stench of decay that filled the city, eroded the will of every person. The soldiers guarding the city leaned against the cold battlements, their eyes numbly fixed on the campfires of the Di Rong camp outside. A commotion began to rise among the refugees; some attempted to storm the city gates, trying to escape this certain death, but Sheng Guo and his men forcefully suppressed them, eliciting cries and curses. Yan Song and his cronies had already retreated into the few remaining sturdy stone fortresses within the city, their gates tightly shut, stockpiling their last provisions and water, oblivious to the hellish scene outside, waiting only for the city to fall so they could either surrender or cling to life in the fortresses for a few more moments.
"General, more than a dozen more have died in the thatched huts at the south corner of the city... all from persistent high fevers and vomiting black fluid." A young soldier on patrol rushed in to report, his face ashen, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "And... the refugees in the west of the city killed two people over a bowl of thin porridge..."
Xiao Yuxuan listened in silence, his fingertips digging deep into the rough cracks in the brickwork. Defend the city? With what? The morale of the people was on the verge of collapse; hunger and plague were far more terrifying than the Di Rong outside the city. A tremendous sense of powerlessness, like an icy tide, almost overwhelmed him. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a thin figure crouching in the mud in a corner of an abandoned stable near the city wall, intently fiddling with something. The person was dressed in dark, coarse cloth, almost blending into the shadows, but Xiao Yuxuan recognized the familiar silhouette at a glance—Jing Zhi!
She was still alive! The floodwaters of the Luo River had not swallowed this Mohist's life! An indescribable emotion surged into his heart instantly—was it relief? Was it anger? Or was it the complex lingering fear of that fierce debate about destruction and protection? Xiao Yuxuan didn't have time to think it through and immediately strode down the city wall.
Jing Zhi seemed to sense someone approaching, her movements pausing slightly, but she didn't turn around, remaining focused on her work. A sheet of oilcloth lay before her, upon which were several utensils and strange parts that Xiao Yuxuan had never seen before, gleaming with a cold, hard metallic luster. She was rapidly assembling something with a small tool. Her face was almost translucent with paleness, her lips cracked, and her damp hair clung to her skin, clearly suffering from hunger and exhaustion. Yet, her eyes shone brightly in the shadows, burning with an almost obsessive focus.
"You still dare to show your face?" Xiao Yuxuan's voice, hoarse and suppressed, rang out behind her.
Jing Zhi's hands didn't pause for a moment, nor did she raise her head. Her voice was cold and calm, as if stating a fact unrelated to herself: "I came not for you. I came for the artisans in this city, like Ji Zhai, who just want to survive, and... those children." She finally raised her head, her gaze sweeping over a young child curled up in his mother's arms in the mud not far away, sobbing incessantly from hunger and cold. A barely perceptible flicker of emotion flashed in her eyes.
"What can you do?" Xiao Yuxuan's gaze fell on the intricately crafted metal object that was gradually taking shape in her hand. It resembled a thickened arm guard, made of several layers of thin but tough metal plates, with exceptionally smooth edges and what appeared to be a soft leather lining on the inside.
“Defend.” Jing Zhi uttered this word, embedding the last component into the groove. With a soft “click,” the arm armor was assembled. She stood up and handed it to Xiao Yuxuan: “‘Mo Shou’ Part Three, Arm Shield. Layered steel plates, lightweight and tough, capable of blocking ordinary blades and arrows, protecting the vital forearm. Not for killing, but to give one more chance of survival when a blade is at one’s neck.” Her gaze was sharp as needles, fixed on Xiao Yuxuan. “Remember, it is only for defense, only for protecting the lives you can see and touch. If you use it for offense, or if it falls into the hands of a Legalist cruel official, I will destroy it with my own hands, along with your people!”
Xiao Yuxuan took the arm shield; it felt slightly heavy in his hand, yet far lighter and more maneuverable than the standard military shield. Beneath the cold metallic touch, the slight warmth of her fingertips seemed to linger. This small arm shield, so insignificant in the face of a siege by a vast army, was also so heavy—it carried the Mo family's deepest fear of the misuse of technology, and Jing Zhi's extreme yet incredibly pure desire to protect.
Jing Zhi stopped looking at him, quickly gathered up the tools and a few unfinished parts on the ground, and with a flash, disappeared again into the shadows of the city wall, as if she had never been there. Only the cold arm shield remained, along with an even colder warning.
The days that followed were like walking on a knife's edge. The Di Rong's siege was like a tidal wave, one after another. Clumsy siege ladders were erected on the city walls, and the fierce Di Rong soldiers howled as they climbed upwards. Arrows rained down on the city walls like locusts, suppressing the defenders' counterattacks.
A fierce battle for the city walls has broken out!
"Hold on! Rolling logs and boulders! Smash them down!" Sheng Guo roared, his burly body at the forefront, his long sword already chipped and dulled from cutting. On his left arm was the arm shield left by Jing Zhi, a powerful wolf-tooth arrow embedded firmly in it, the arrowhead piercing the outermost steel plate but held in place by the inner layers! Without this arm shield, that arrow would have been enough to cripple his arm!
"Ah!" A young soldier beside her screamed as a Di Rong soldier who had climbed the city wall slashed his shoulder, blood gushing out! Just as the second blow was about to fall, a small, slender figure suddenly lunged out from the side—it was Jing Zhi! In her hand, a small, round shield, no more than two feet in diameter, with sharp steel teeth embedded in its edge, appeared—"Mo Shou" Part Four, the Gate-Blocking Blade Chariot (Miniaturized)! She didn't parry; instead, she forcefully wedged the steel teeth of the shield into the hilt of the descending scimitar, simultaneously twisting her body violently! The Di Rong soldier felt a strange, powerful force, and the scimitar flew from his hand! Without hesitation, Jing Zhi kicked him off the city wall, her movements clean and swift, without any hesitation. Without even glancing at the falling enemy, she immediately rushed to the wounded soldier, quickly using strips of cloth and some kind of herbal powder she carried to stop the bleeding and bandage his wounds. The entire process was lightning fast, focused solely on saving lives and defense, never initiating an attack.
In the most brutal corners of the street fighting, another device left by Jing Zhi played an unexpected role—the caltrop zone. She poured a large number of small, four-pointed iron spikes with poisoned edges (only paralyzing), mixed with slippery mud and rotting vegetable leaves, at the entrances of several narrow alleyways where the Di Rong might break through. The Di Rong soldiers rushing into the alleys felt excruciating pain and numbness in their legs, lost their footing, and instantly fell to the ground, easily killed by the defenders ambushed behind the rooftops and windows with stones and bamboo spears. Smoke bombs (non-lethal, only slowing) were used in one of the Di Rong's concentrated breakthroughs, thrown into their dense formations. The acrid smoke instantly obscured their vision, causing chaos and buying the defenders precious time to regroup.
However, Jing Zhi's aid was always a drop in the ocean. The Di Rong's offensive was like a relentless tide. Soldiers and refugees defending the city suffered increasing casualties due to hunger, exhaustion, and plague. The city walls were in danger of collapsing in several places, teetering on the brink of collapse from the Di Rong's battering rams. Corpses piled up in the city walls and alleyways, unable to be cleared away, rotting faster under the summer heat and rain, attracting swarms of flies and exacerbating the spread of the plague. A cloud of despair weighed heavier on everyone's hearts than the Di Rong's rain of arrows.
One evening at dusk, the setting sun, like blood, illuminated the brief, deathly silence on the city walls after a bloody battle. Xiao Yuxuan, dragging his weary body, inspected the battered defenses under the protection of his personal guards. He passed the ruins of a city tower, its flames, recently extinguished by Di Rong rockets, still smoldering. Beneath the charred wooden beams, a dozen or so severely wounded soldiers huddled, their groans barely audible. An elderly woman, her hair white and her face wrinkled, was hunched over, carefully using a broken bowl to collect a small amount of relatively clear water from a simple device—a makeshift jar of pottery and bamboo pipes—from a corner of the ruins. She then tremblingly fed it to a young soldier who was unconscious, his lips cracked and dry. That device was none other than the makeshift water filter left behind by Jing Zhi!
The old woman's cloudy eyes held no tears, only a numb resilience. After feeding the young soldier water, she carefully wiped the dried blood and dust from his face with a damp rag. Not far behind her, Jing Zhi leaned against a half-collapsed wall, silently watching this scene. Her hands were rapidly assembling another water filter, her pale face covered in soot and mud. Only her eyes, reflected in the afterglow of the setting sun, held the old woman's hunched figure and the young soldier's unconscious face, churning with an extremely complex emotion—a weary solace in witnessing technology finally returning to its original purpose of "protection," a compassion for life's fragility yet resilience, and a deep, lingering sense of powerlessness and self-doubt.
She saw the true nature of defending the city: using one's life to prevent further deaths—this in itself was the greatest irony of the ideal of "non-aggression." Every time the Di Rong's attack was repelled, it meant a few more cold corpses on the city walls, a few less rations for the hungry stomachs within the city, and a few more hosts for the plague. The arm shields, gate-blocking chariots, caltrops, smoke bombs, water filters… all these ingenious defensive devices she provided were merely building a precarious low wall on the edge of the abyss of despair, delaying the final collapse. They protected these struggling lives before them, yet could not change their fate of ultimately perishing in hunger, plague, or the next blade.
Why hold on? Just to delay death a little longer? To prolong the process of despair? Jing Zhi's gaze shifted from the old woman and the wounded soldiers, looking towards the endless campfires of the Di Rong outside the city, and further into the distance, towards her former homeland swallowed by darkness. An unprecedented sense of bewilderment and pain, like cold vines, coiled around her heart.
Just then, a suppressed, heart-wrenching cough came from the other side of the city wall. Xiao Yuxuan looked in the direction of the sound and saw a figure wearing a faded, coarse Taoist robe standing beside the ruins of a beacon tower at the highest point of the city wall, his back to the hellish scene inside the city, facing the vast mountains and the campfires of the Di Rong outside the city. The wind whipped his wide Taoist robe, making it flutter loudly, as if he might be carried away by the wind at any moment.
Wanderer!
He had quietly entered the city without anyone noticing. At this moment, he paid no attention to the fighting and groans at his feet, nor did he perform any "miracle" of healing the wounded. He simply stood there quietly, his head slightly tilted back, as if inhaling the thick, unbearable stench of decay, blood, and ashes in the air; his gaze was far-reaching, as if piercing through the pervasive smoke and the iron curtain of the city walls, landing on a wider expanse of land. He saw the fields, bare and covered in black mud, trampled by the iron hooves of the Di Rong; he saw the mountains, barren from excessive logging used as rolling logs and stones; he saw the moat, clogged with corpses and filth, no longer flowing… His brows furrowed slightly, his face showing no pity or anger, only a cold, almost ruthless calm that seemed to understand some grand, unchanging law.
Xiao Yuxuan's heart sank. Yun Youzi's appearance was no accident. His gaze, sweeping across the mountains and rivers, was a silent warning—this siege was tearing apart the lifeblood of this land on a deeper and broader level. Vicious energy was growing wildly both inside and outside this despairing, isolated city.
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