The Ruins of the Hearth
The broken walls of the Hearth stood silent in the twilight, like rows of tombstones forgotten by time. The wind stirred the ashes on the ground, carrying the stench of char and blood, brushing past Zhang Liao's stern face. He reined in his horse at the front line, his dark armor glinting coldly in the setting sun, his crescent halberd slanting toward the earth. Its tip shimmered with killing intent, unbridled, just like the gaze in his eyes.
"Form up."
His low voice spread on the wind. Behind him, hundreds of elite cavalry spread out silently, like a deadly fan sealing off every exit of the ruins. The horses stamped restlessly, exhaling white breath. The soldiers gripped their blades and bows tightly; the air grew so thick it seemed ready to burst.
They were Lü Bu's sharpest blade—and Zhang Liao was the one who wielded it. Tasked with wiping out the "Servants" holed up here: Arlecchino and the remnants of the Fatui under her command, he would accept nothing less than total victory.
Deep within the ruins, shadows stirred.
A figure slowly stepped out from behind a broken porch. Her attire, woven with deep red and black, outlined a slender yet dangerously lethal silhouette. A mask concealed her features, but a pair of ice-blue eyes locked onto Zhang Liao through the dusk, utterly devoid of warmth. That gaze was as frigid as a winter spring, sharp with scrutiny… and a flicker of pity.
"The wolf of Bingzhou—when did you become a mad hound for Lü Bu to command as he pleases?" Arlecchino's voice was calm, betraying no anger or joy, yet clear enough for every soldier to hear.
Zhang Liao's eyes narrowed slightly. He did not flare up, only slowly raised his crescent halberd. "Rebels and traitors dare speak of Lord Wenhou? Arlecchino, the Hearth is already gone. Today, I send you to sleep with it."
"Hah…" A soft laugh. Arlecchino moved.
Her figure flickered like a ghost, leaving a faint afterimage in place. In the next instant, she was before the formation. Her strangely shaped weapon—a pair of blades, a fusion of elegance and death—sliced a cold, cruel arc through the air.
"Kill!" Zhang Liao roared like thunder. His horse reared. The crescent halberd tore through the air with a shrill howl, crashing down head-on.
Clang!
A deafening clash of metal erupted, sparks flying. The two passed each other, the ground beneath them cracking, dust billowing.
First exchange: evenly matched.
Zhang Liao felt a faint numbness in his arm, his heart jolting. This woman's strength was unnatural—far from ordinary. He wheeled his horse around, his halberd technique unfolding like a surging river. Arlecchino drifted like willow catkins in the wind, weaving through the storm of strikes. Her blades blocked, then stabbed with cruel precision, angles so sharp she deflected fatal blows at the last moment and struck back with icy ferocity.
Halberd winds howled. Blades glinted.
Zhang Liao's style was broad and unyielding, forged in the chaos of thousands of battles. Every strike held the power to split mountains and shatter stone, designed for efficient slaughter. His crescent halberd chopped, swept, lifted, pierced—carrying the bloodlust of the battlefield, plowing deep furrows into the earth. Shattered bricks and stone were torn up by his aura, flying in all directions.
Arlecchino's combat style was eerie and agile, like a dance of death. She vanished and reappeared, her blades weaving an invisible net, trying to trap and kill Zhang Liao within. A frigid aura spread with her movements, fine ice crystals forming in the air. Any soldier brushed by her stray energy was instantly covered in white frost, stiffening and falling.
Twenty exchanges. Fifty…
They fought from the edge of the ruins to its center, then from the broken walls to the roof of the still-intact main building. The clashing of weapons continued without pause, like a downpour beating against metal. The soldiers could only stare upward, watching the two figures twist into an unending whirlwind of death beneath the twilight and rising moon.
Zhang Liao fought harder, his blood boiling. Frost had settled on his dark armor, only to be steamed away by his blazing life force. His halberd strikes grew wilder, his power pushed to the limit, each blow heavier than the last.
Beneath her mask, Arlecchino's breathing seemed to quicken. Her technique was exquisite, but under Zhang Liao's overwhelming brute force, she was gradually pressed. The tremendous force jolting her blades left her arms numb, her blood churning.
On the seventy-third exchange, Zhang Liao feinted a flaw. Arlecchino's blades struck like vipers, aiming for his ribs.
But Zhang Liao did not dodge or block. His crescent halberd spun in an impossible arc, and with a sharp crack, sheared off the tip of her left blade.
Arlecchino grunted, leaping back. For the first time, shock flashed in her eyes.
"Battle is no child's game!"
Zhang Liao pressed his advantage, charging after her. A mountain of halberd strikes sealed every escape route.
Eightieth exchange!
Arlecchino's old strength spent, new strength not yet risen—her form wavered mid-air.
Zhang Liao's eyes flashed like lightning. He seized the fleeting opening.
With a roar that shook the heavens, he poured all his power into his right arm. The crescent halberd became a black lightning bolt tearing through the night, unstoppable, piercing straight for her.
Thud.
The dull, clear sound of metal sinking into flesh.
The tip of the crescent halberd jutted out from Arlecchino's back, carrying a spray of vivid, tragic blood.
Time seemed to stand still.
Arlecchino froze. She looked down at the blade piercing her chest. The light in her ice-blue eyes dimmed rapidly. Beneath the mask, a nearly inaudible sigh escaped, tangled with indescribable complex emotions.
Zhang Liao twisted his arm and ripped the halberd free.
Her slender figure fell like a bird with broken wings, slamming onto the rubble-strewn ground, motionless. Only her fading eyes still stared up at Fontaine's gray sky.
All was silent, save for the wind whimpering through the ruins.
Only then did the soldiers dare to breathe again, their gazes filled with awe as they looked at Zhang Liao.
Zhang Liao stood astride his horse, breathing slightly. Eighty exchanges of full-out combat had cost him dearly. He stared at Arlecchino's corpse, his gaze cold and unyielding, no emotion stirring. In this chaotic era, each served their lord—life and death, no resentment.
He was about to order the battlefield cleared when a scout scrambled frantically toward them, face streaked with dust and terror.
"Report—!"
The scout threw himself to one knee, his voice trembling with raw fear.
"General! Disaster! The Fortress of Meropide we captured in Fontaine—invaders have breached it! The man… calls himself Tartaglia! He says… he says he will demand justice from you and Lord Wenhou… for his 'dear comrade'!"
Zhang Liao's pupils constricted sharply.
He had just fought a brutal battle, his strength drained, his men exhausted. The Fortress of Meropide was a strategic stronghold—losing it would be unthinkable. And Tartaglia… among the Fatui Harbingers, he was a man who reveled in combat, a powerhouse of unfathomable strength…
He tightened his grip on his bloodstained crescent halberd, lifting his gaze toward the Fortress of Meropide, his eyes sharp as a falcon's.
A new storm had arrived.
And his halberd was still warm.