The Crimson Demon of the Sand Sea
In the Thousand-Gorge Desert, two hundred and fifty thousand Sumeru troops swept across heaven and earth like a golden tide .
Lü Bu stood unyielding with just three thousand of the Trap Camp elite. A crimson aura erupted toward the sky.
With a single swing of his halberd, he split a rift valley a hundred li wide; eighty thousand enemy soldiers vanished in an instant.
The Trap Camp's iron cavalry cut through them like a scythe through wheat—fifty thousand heads rolled into the yellow sand.
Just as he was about to stamp out the remaining foes, a sandstorm suddenly erupted and swallowed the battlefield.
From the wind and sand roared Lü Bu's voice:
"Your lives are spared for today… but on the morrow, I will slaughter your entire clans to the ninth generation!"
The Thousand-Gorge Desert.
A land forsaken by the gods. Russet sand dunes rolled endlessly like the stiff spine of a dead behemoth; bottomless gorges crisscrossed the earth, unhealed scars upon its face. The scorching sun hung high—no cloud dared dim its majesty. It poured down unrelenting, searing light and heat, baking every grain of sand. The air twisted in the high temperature; everything in sight shimmered, steaming with the breath of death.
Above this dead sea of sand, a tide of gold moved.
Not the gold of sand, but a metallic surge of armor, weapons, and countless banners. Two hundred and fifty thousand Sumeru soldiers spread like an ocean of gold across every dune and valley as far as the eye could see . Spears and halberds stood like a forest, glinting with blinding sunlight—a steel woods grown from the sand. War flags snapped in the heavy, burning wind, emblazoned with the sun sigil of Sumeru . The men tramped the burning sand; their footsteps, the clink of armor, and the cries of camels and horses merged into a deep, thunderous roar that made the very gravel tremble. This vast host advanced with the might to crush all, as if the entire desert groaned beneath their feet.
Before the tide rose a jagged "reef."
A formation of merely three thousand men. Few in number, yet they exuded a chilling, suffocating stillness. All wore black heavy armor, scarred by sword and axe, standing silent in the sand like three thousand statues cast of iron. Their spears pointed outward in unison, blades glinting cold in the sun. A tattered standard bearing the character LÜ stood defiant at the center, its fabric stained tawny by wind and sand.
At the very front: one man, one horse—the center of the world.
He stood colossal, beyond mortal measure, radiating the weight of heaven and earth. On his head a three-pronged purple-gold coronet, his body clad in a red-brocade floral robe of Xichuan, over it beast-headed interlocking armor, and around his waist a pierced lion-studded war belt . His face was handsome and stern, jawline chiseled like stone—but his eyes held no human emotion, only bottomless, icy arrogance that scorned the world. In his hand: the Sky-Scorching Halberd, its shaft dark red as if soaked in endless blood, its crescent blades perfectly curved yet exuding a murderous aura that reaped lives.
This was Lü Bu .
Behind him: the Trap Camp—feared throughout the realm.
Before the Sumeru lines, supreme commander Guribal tightened his reins. A veteran of a hundred battles, his face was rock carved by wind and frost, stern and authoritative. He stared at the absurdly small black formation in the distance, brow deeply furrowed. Too quiet. Not like an army—more like an abyss waiting to devour life.
"General—shall we order the full advance? Crush them with thunderous force!"
Deputy commander Rahman rode closer, voice sharp with confidence in their overwhelming numbers.
Guribal slowly shook his head, gaze locked on that fiery figure.
"Something's wrong… Rahman. Look at him. Look at his men… They're smiling."
Rahman stared hard. True—beneath the silent visors of the black-armored soldiers, cruel smiles curled. Not fear of death, but the thrill of hunters watching prey fall into a snare. And the red-cloaked leader? He did not even glance at the two hundred and fifty thousand strong host. He simply lifted his chin, gazing at the blinding sun as if admiring a view.
An absurd, bone-deep chill crept over the two Sumeru commanders.
Then Lü Bu moved.
He slowly lowered his gaze. Those cold eyes, for the first time, truly "saw" the golden sea ahead. No words, no roar—he merely squeezed his horse's flanks. The divine stallion Red Hare let out a neigh that split the sky, carrying him slowly forward.
One step. Two steps. Not fast.
But as he moved, an unspeakable terror exploded outward from him like a shockwave.
W—O—M—M—
The air whined under the strain. Around Lü Bu, visible crimson energy swirled and coiled—like hell's magma flowing over his skin. Sand beneath him was repelled by an invisible force, forming a widening shallow crater. The crimson aura thickened, swelled, until it burst upward as a colossal pillar of blood-red light, piercing the clouds.
The sun, blazing overhead, seemed stung by that blood-pillar—its light dimmed. The blue sky was stained a sinister dark red, as if drenched in the blood of millions. The heavens shifted; the entire desert darkened. Only that blood-pillar and the figure beneath it remained—the sole color, the sole focus in all creation.
The two hundred and fifty thousand Sumeru troops fell utterly silent. Every soldier felt soul-deep terror clamp their heart; breath came hard, limbs turned to ice. Their weapons felt heavy, armor like frost. Horses stamped nervously, whinnying in fear—no whip could make them advance another step.
Guribal's face drained of color. He gaped, tried to speak, but only strangled gasps came out. He had fought all his life—but never seen, never imagined, a human could exude such horror… a demon god made flesh.
Lü Bu, within the pillar, slowly raised his Sky-Scorching Halberd.
Upon its blades coalesced not mere crimson aura—but thick, boiling energy of destruction. Dark red arcs crackled and sparked at the tip, hissing with the sound of death.
Then, toward the endless golden sea, toward the two hundred and fifty thousand stunned soldiers—he swung, lightly, casually.
No sound.
Or rather, all sound was swallowed by the "cut" itself.
A deep rift, over a hundred zhang wide, blazed into existence along the halberd's path. Its edges were smooth as glass—fused then instantly frozen. Bottomless darkness seethed within, mixed with still-rising red energy.
The rift shot straight forward, crossing dozens of li in a blink—a giant brush dipped in blood, drawing a line of death across the earth.
All in its path:
Armored soldiers, towering camels, neighing horses, iron shields, sharpened swords—
all dissolved, vaporized, without a trace, not even ash.
One strike. Eighty thousand Sumeru troops—erased.
As if they had never lived.
Time froze.
Surviving soldiers stared blankly, minds unable to comprehend the impossible. Their comrades—eighty thousand living men—vanished like dew in sunlight.
Terror—unbounded terror—exploded and spread through the golden host like plague.
"AAAAAH—!!"
A scream of madness broke out, lit the fuse. The great formation collapsed. Men threw down weapons and armor, fleeing like headless chickens, trampling each other—all to escape that crimson demon.
"Trap Camp."
A calm voice, colder than winter wind, cut through chaos, clear to every black-armored soldier.
Lü Bu's order.
BOOM!
Three thousand men of the Trap Camp moved.
Three thousand unleashed primordial beasts. No shouts—only synchronized clank of armor and thunderous tread. Three thousand men moved with the force of ten thousand; a black flood crashed into the crumbling golden sea.
This was no battle. This was slaughter.
The Trap Camp fought in perfect threes—precision killing machines. Shieldmen blocked and charged; spearmen struck true; archers picked off officers trying to rally. Every move clean, efficient, no wasted flourish. Every slash, every thrust—spurted blood, reaped a life.
The wet slice of blades through throats, crack of bone—replaced drums and horns as the battlefield's song. Scalding blood sprayed wildly, dyeing gold sand dark red marshes. Headless corpses fell like wheat stalks. Fifty thousand heads were severed in moments by that black scythe, rolling in sand—eyes still wide open, frozen in final terror and blankness.
Lü Bu sat his horse. Red Hare snorted, pawing the sand. He watched the slaughter coldly—how the black flood efficiently crushed all resistance, how fifty thousand lives turned to cold numbers. No expression: no joy, no pity. As if it all meant nothing—just wind over sand.
Guribal and Rahman fled in panic, protected by bodyguards fighting to the death. Guribal's standard fell. Rahman lost his helmet, hair wild, face streaked with blood—his or others'. They looked back: the black zone of death spread. And the crimson demon—his gaze pierced chaos, locked onto them.
That gaze froze two veteran commanders to the core. No will to fight remained.
Lü Bu slowly raised his halberd again. Crimson light gathered—ready to bury Guribal, Rahman, and all remaining foes—
"W—O—O—O—M—!!"
Across heaven and earth, a far deeper, vaster, more savage roar erupted.
From the desert's edge, a wall of yellow darkness—sky-high, earth-wide—charged the battlefield like a tidal wave!
The worst scourge of the Thousand-Gorge Desert: a sandstorm.
It carried billions of tons of grit, blotted out the sun, devoured light. Where it passed, even the greatest dunes shifted and buried in an instant.
The sky turned pitch-black in seconds—night fell early. Wind shrieked, stinging faces like knives. The sun vanished, swallowed by the churning sand wall.
The red glow on Lü Bu's halberd flickered—weak, next to nature's wrath. Violent sand and wind slammed into him, reeking of annihilation.
Lü Bu's arm holding the halberd froze.
His scarlet pupils swept the onrushing wall of death… then the disorganized Sumeru remnants, lambs in the storm. His brow twitched—for the first time, a human emotion: fury at being interrupted, denied his kill.
Sand lashed his armor, snapped his red banner. The Trap Camp's slaughter slowed; men fought to stand, not be swept away.
"Hmph!"
A cold snort—like thunder—briefly drowned out the storm.
Lü Bu slowly lowered his halberd. The gathered crimson energy flickered, then faded. He knew: today, he could not finish the job.
He wheeled his horse. Red Hare reared, neighing like a dragon through the sand.
The Trap Camp—precision personified—halted pursuit at once, closed ranks around him, forming a tight defensive shield against the storm.
Lü Bu glanced one last time at the fleeing commanders. His voice was low, but eerily piercing—cold steel, clear in every survivor's ears, searing their souls:
"Your lives… are spared for today."
The storm raged, blurring his form. Only his eyes—burning crimson in the dark—blazed like hell's stars, burned into all who saw them.
"…On the morrow, I will slaughter your entire clans to the ninth generation!"
As the words ended, the great sand wall swallowed the battlefield whole.