Chapter Thirty-Two: The Secrets of Everstead

To everyone else, this resounding victory—the likes of which had not been witnessed in over a decade—was cause for celebration. Yet to Zhao Hengyi, it was far from enough to guarantee the safety of himself and his fellow soldiers in the Black Standard Battalion. The walls of Yonggu City loomed close, but even with the moon high overhead, Zhao Hengyi dared not order a retreat back to the fortress.

Today’s battle had granted him a clear, visceral understanding of the barbarian forces’ prowess. In terms of sheer quality, the enemy soldiers were far more formidable than their frontier counterparts. Years of lopsided records had instilled in the barbarians a psychological edge that was nearly insurmountable. On the battlefield, this advantage was plain for all to see—it was the difference in morale.

Even among the daring warriors of the Black Standard Battalion—who for years had held the line outside Yonggu City against barbarian hordes—there was still fear, still the urge to flee when faced with the savage howls of the enemy charge. This was the bitter fruit of decades, even centuries, of relentless defeat for the armies of the Yan State. Within the defensive lines of Yonggu City, aside from the Black Standard Battalion and General Zhang Chaoyang’s own Invincible Guard, the rest of the troops were deeply entrenched in the belief that the barbarians were unbeatable.

The situation was starkly clear. This year’s drought on the grasslands had driven the barbarians to invade with unprecedented ferocity. The nomads, who had always treated Yan as their personal granary, would not be satisfied with their usual routine of raiding and withdrawing. If the barbarian horde broke through the defenses, untold suffering and slaughter would be inevitable; it might even trigger the total collapse of the Yan State—a nation rotten to its very core.

Perhaps at first, the barbarians had not intended to conquer all of Yan, nor did they possess such an appetite. But as their cavalry pushed ever deeper, discovering that this decaying nation could mount no real resistance, their greed would only grow, driving them to utterly bury this corrupt regime. Such events had occurred more than once in history, and their consequences were more than any subject of Yan could bear. When the nest is overturned, how can any egg remain whole?

Though Zhao Hengyi loathed the court and the nation of Yan, he now found himself compelled to do everything in his power to keep the kingdom from ruin. Clearly, the old general Zhang Chaoyang, who commanded from Yonggu City, shared this view. Thus, even after the Black Standard Battalion’s great victory, Zhang Chaoyang did not recall his troops for a well-earned respite within the city. Instead, he sent more supplies and reinforcements, determined to hold the Narrows at all costs.

In previous years, Zhang Chaoyang might have chosen to withdraw his forces behind the sturdy walls of Yonggu City, relying on its fortifications to secure the entire line. Even if barbarian cavalry bypassed the city, they dared not venture too deep, for the garrison could always cut off their retreat; their raids were usually limited to the outskirts. But this year was different. Should the barbarians break through at the Narrows, they would have the manpower to encircle the city—and might even launch a full-scale siege.

Others might not grasp the true state of Yonggu City, but as its commanding general, Zhang Chaoyang knew it all too well. For all the troops quartered within, if a real siege came—if those brutal barbarians stormed the walls—the city could not hold out for many days. Years of embezzled funds and supplies had left even basic defensive provisions perilously short.

Thus, Zhang Chaoyang’s only viable plan, the only hope he could cling to, was to hold the Narrows at any cost. He dared not imagine what catastrophe would ensue if the city’s shortcomings were exposed to the enemy.

Zhao Hengyi, entrenched at the Narrows, had come to the same conclusion, but for his own reasons: he simply did not trust the border troops. What he had seen and heard was enough to convince him of a truth he wished were not so.

Soon, Zhang Chaoyang’s deputy returned, bringing with him a large detachment of supply troops for Zhao Hengyi to command. The entire logistics corps worked around the clock to produce the equipment Zhao requested. Even a neighboring battalion volunteered to take charge of the barbarian prisoners.

To Zhao Hengyi, these prisoners were utterly worthless. Their hands were stained with the blood of Yan’s people, and his plan was to have them all executed at dawn, right in front of the lines. Such unorthodox conduct shocked Zhang Chaoyang’s deputy, who made a mental note to report this matter upon his return to the city.

In the torchlight, the rear of the Black Standard encampment was abuzz with activity. Supply and auxiliary troops toiled ceaselessly, felling great trees from the ridges flanking the Narrows, transporting them to the rear, and fashioning them into all manner of defensive devices at Zhao Hengyi’s behest.

Their victory over the barbarian cavalry owed not to the soldiers’ personal valor, but to the new, specially designed weapons they wielded. To hold this narrow pass, Zhao Hengyi had to keep inventing ever more effective arms.

The horse traps and iron caltrops had already inflicted severe losses on the enemy. No doubt, by tomorrow, the barbarians would have devised countermeasures. All Zhao Hengyi could do was to draw them into a war of innovation—a deadly contest where each side wagered the lives of its soldiers.

The Black Standard Battalion’s morale soared, but as commander, Zhao Hengyi remained painfully aware: their fighting spirit was not simply the fruit of his rousing words, but above all, the fulfillment of his promise—he had led them through the first onslaught alive. To keep this hard-won spirit intact, he had to keep winning. Not a single defeat could be allowed.

After suffering under Chen Yongzhong’s misrule for months, the Black Standard could not survive even a single loss. Should they falter just once in open battle, collapse would be swift and unstoppable.

Suddenly, a commotion arose at the front lines; the sounds of fighting and shouting followed. The archers, who had been waiting in readiness, loosed volleys of flaming arrows. The kindling, placed in advance, ignited at once, casting a bright glow on the barbarians, who were attempting a stealthy assault with their warhorses in tow.

“Sir, it’s just as you predicted—the barbarians are launching a night raid!” an excited officer reported. “We torched a good number of them with a single blaze!”

Zhao Hengyi’s face lit up with satisfaction. He instructed his personal guards to record the deeds of those who had held the line that night, and only then dismissed the officer.

Once the man had left, Zhao Hengyi’s expression returned to its usual calm, though exhaustion lined his features. He turned to his loyal captain, Zhang Can, and said, “Brother Zhang, bring me the topographic map once more. The lives of all our brothers rest in my hands; I dare not allow a single oversight.”

With utmost respect, Zhang Can fetched the map. In his eyes, his master’s wise companion seemed almost possessed by the spirit of a great strategist—always one step ahead. Most remarkable of all, this Mister Zhao was adept in every art, excelling even in managing the roughest soldiers in camp with flawless composure. Truly, a man of rare talent.