Chapter Fifty: Launching the Charge

Clang, clang...

Fifty archers loosed a volley; though most of the arrows fell harmlessly to the ground, some struck the shields. Yan Luo crouched behind a large shield, shrinking himself beneath its cover. Each arrow that slammed into the shield sent a jarring force through his arm, but he held steady.

“Why? Why are these Macedonian soldiers attacking us?” Zhu Xiaoyong, too fat to be fully sheltered by his shield, found himself regretting all the food he’d eaten that had made him so corpulent.

“Could they be here to attack Greece, and we’re just collateral damage? But even if the Macedonian phalanx went to war, they wouldn’t come this far!” Wang Dongwei was at a loss, when suddenly an arrowhead pierced through the shield.

“This isn’t good—it’s only a wooden shield clad in copper, it can’t withstand much!”

As panic set in, Zhu Xiaoyong suddenly let out a wail, crying, “I’ve been shot! I’m hit—oh, I’m going to die…”

The rain of arrows continued. None of the three had expected to encounter a volley from a corps of archers on the road, and with limited storage space, each had brought only one shield. Suddenly there was a cracking sound—Wang Dongwei’s round shield fractured.

In the distance, the leader of the Macedonian mercenary company, Granet—a man in his forties—smiled faintly. The Macedonians, descendants of Greeks, Thracians, and Illyrians, were known for their rugged valor, yet the Greeks considered them uncouth barbarians. To earn a whole talent of silver from the Athenians, and with a pass to enter the heartlands—this was indeed a stroke of fortune. Killing these few Orientals would be the prelude to a good plunder.

Fifty auxiliaries, each with six arrows, loosed three hundred in total. The ground all around the three men was bristling with arrows, and their shields looked like hedgehogs.

Zhu Xiaoyong lay curled up, sobbing and groaning, arrows jutting from his arm, his side, and his thigh, the tips embedded deep and causing unbearable pain. But Wang Dongwei’s injuries were graver; his shield had shattered after six volleys, and though most wounds were minor, one arrow had struck his chest on the right, its head buried deep. He sat gasping, blood frothing at his lips.

Yan Luo tossed aside his shield, now bristling like a porcupine, and pulled an arrow from his right leg. Blood spurted from the wound, but thanks to his enhanced physique and regenerative abilities, the injury was shallow and already beginning to heal.

Exhaling, Yan Luo straightened his back. A pair of twin sabers appeared in his hands.

“Yan Luo…” Wang Dongwei pressed a hand to his chest, afraid to remove the embedded arrow and risk bleeding out. Blood was spreading from the wound as he spoke with effort, “These are Macedonian troops—not just infantry, but cavalry too… You can’t take them all on alone…”

“How will I know if I don’t try?” Yan Luo’s wound was no longer bleeding, and the twin blades spun once in his hands, reflecting a cold, silvery light in the setting sun.

“Ten auxiliaries forward. Kill the three Orientals.”

Mounted atop his horse, the mercenary leader Granet gave the order. The enemy was but three men—two already incapacitated, easy to dispatch with a single blow—leaving only one. Yet, out of caution, Granet sent ten soldiers.

The auxiliaries discarded their bows, gripped their axes, and advanced on Yan Luo. As they drew within a dozen meters, one of them caught sight of the gleaming blades in Yan Luo’s hands—and realized, by the cold glint, that they were solid iron, more exquisite than Persian scimitars, a fortune in themselves.

“Kill!”

The lead soldier raised his axe to strike at Yan Luo. But suddenly his motion halted, terror filling his eyes, as a bloodied saber was drawn from his chest, unleashing a hot, crimson spray from his heart.

Yan Luo exploded into motion, dodging axes from both sides, slipping between the two attackers like a white crane spreading its wings, and his twin blades sliced cleanly through their necks.

“Dead already?”

In the blink of an eye, three soldiers had fallen. The squad leader, shaken, leapt forward with both hands gripping his axe, muscles bulging as he aimed to cleave Yan Luo’s skull. Yan Luo had no time to dodge; crossing his blades, he blocked the axe, then slid his saber along the blade, severing four of the man’s fingers, before the other blade swept up from below.

A gush of blood, and the squad leader collapsed.

“How is this possible?” Granet’s face darkened. This delicate-looking Oriental was terrifyingly strong—no wonder the Athenians had offered a talent of silver.

With four dead, the remaining six soldiers were paralyzed by fear, unable to advance. Their faces were pale with terror.

Yan Luo burst forward once more, plunging into the group. The twin sabers flashed in cold arcs, and then he emerged from the crowd, halting several meters away. The six soldiers fell to the ground, each throat deeply slashed.

Armed with dagger-like blades and facing a crowd alone, Yan Luo had no interest in drawn-out combat. Relying on superior physique and icy focus, he struck at their weakest points—heart and throat—delivering assassin-like, fatal blows.

“So fast?” Wang Dongwei gasped, remembering how Yan Luo had slain four men at the Korta camp; now, with ten, he had dispatched them just as swiftly.

Zhu Xiaoyong had stopped crying. Yan Luo hadn’t abandoned them to escape through the river; he dared not disrupt his teammate with further wailing. With the ten soldiers dead in an instant, hope flickered in his heart.

“Gulam!”

At Granet’s call, a man stepped forward—around thirty, towering at nearly two meters, a true giant of his time. The giant Gulam’s face bore several centipede-like scars, making him look monstrous.

“Arm yourself. Kill that man!”

“Yes.” Gulam licked his lips. Soldiers brought him a full suit of chainmail with a solid metal breastplate and black iron helmet—he looked like a living iron tower.

He was the company’s champion, once having slain dozens of Persians single-handedly, and his armor had been taken from a Persian general. Another soldier led up a horse, also armored in chainmail.

With the help of two men, Gulam mounted and took up a six-meter Macedonian lance, sharpened at the tip.

Resting the great lance on his shoulder, its head angled downward, Gulam spurred his horse into a charge at Yan Luo.

“Heavy cavalry charge!”

Wang Dongwei’s face was ashen from blood loss, his mouth full of blood as he shouted, “Get out of the way! That’s heavy cavalry—no one can withstand a charge like that!”

In the age of cold steel, nothing was more terrifying than this: a fully armored man atop a charging warhorse, wielding a six-meter lance. With the momentum of the horse, he could skewer a whole line of infantry like meat on a spit.

Yan Luo exhaled. The recent burst of speed and the ten kills had taken their toll on his stamina. Seeing the armored knight charging from two hundred meters away, Yan Luo threw down his bloodied sabers and gripped a two-point-four-meter iron staff.

The Coiled Dragon Staff.

Holding the staff low, Yan Luo stood firm, its tip aimed at the oncoming cavalryman and his six-meter lance, the enemy’s face hidden by his helmet.

“Danger!” Wang Dongwei cried out—Yan Luo wasn’t dodging? Facing a cavalry charge head-on—was he mad?

Granet smiled from afar. No infantry could withstand a heavy cavalry charge.

Within his helmet, Gulam’s eyes glinted with bloodlust. Zhu Xiaoyong closed his eyes, unable to watch.

The iron staff seemed far too short; the lance’s tip was already upon him. Only someone with absolute composure could remain calm at such a moment.

Yan Luo abruptly twisted his body—the Macedonian lance whistled past, so close it grazed his right cheek, its passing wind cutting the fine hairs on his face.

Every muscle in his body tensed; waist, spine, arms—all his strength channeled into the sixty-two-pound Coiled Dragon Staff as he swung it in a mighty arc.

A sharp whoosh split the air—a visible white streak trailing behind the staff.

Bang!

The staff struck the horse’s skull with a thunderous crack. Blood spurted from its nostrils as its head shattered under the blow; the armored beast, weighing a ton, was hurled five or six meters away, its body flung by the force. The knight crashed to the ground.

“What?” The Macedonian mercenaries gaped. One man, wielding a staff, had knocked aside a charging heavy cavalryman? Impossible!

“Damn brat! I’ll tear you apart…”

Gulam staggered to his feet, his helmet lost and a rib broken. His face twisted with rage and violence, he drew an iron sword.

“Get lost!” Yan Luo spat the word, and it condensed in the air like a golden bullet. Gulam’s expression turned to shock as a bloody hole appeared in his forehead—blood and brain matter oozing down. Disbelieving, he raised a hand to the wound before the iron tower of his body toppled backward.

Panting heavily, Yan Luo suddenly tossed aside the Coiled Dragon Staff and charged toward the Macedonian company two hundred meters away.

One man, unarmed, rushing a whole company?

Granet could hardly believe his eyes.

Had this man gone insane?