Lü Bu Marches on Fontaine
Zhang Liao, drenched in blood, leaped from the city wall.
He slew three thousand, burned a thousand suits of armor, and collapsed, waiting for death.
As the Fatui and Fontaine coalition was about to breach the gates,
a horse's neigh tore through the sky.
Lü Bu arrived, his Sky-Shattering Halberd splitting the heavens.
Three thousand soldiers of the Trapped Camp smashed into the enemy lines like a black hammer.
A volley of musket fire was blown away by Lü Bu's aura.
The Prince's water blades shattered like glass before his halberd.
Tartaglia could not believe it, even as he died:
"A mortal… how could this be…"
The surviving Traveler could only watch as that blood-soaked figure
stomped the Fontaine banner into dust.
Where the halberd pointed—
not one among a hundred thousand dared advance.
The stench of blood and fire hung thick,
clinging to every shattered brick of the Court of Fontaine.
Zhang Liao hung from the edge of the wall,
where a small tracked mech had torn a massive gash.
His left arm hung limp, clearly broken.
His only remaining hand gripped his notched saber until his knuckles whitened.
His once-fine armor was tattered and perforated.
Deep, bone-exposed wounds gaped open.
Blood streamed down the plates, pooling at his feet into a dark, muddy stain.
He gasped, each breath tearing at his lungs, his vision darkening.
Beneath the walls, the enemy stretched as far as the eye could see.
Sandrone, the Marionette, stood atop a massive command mech in the distance,
her cold metallic face expressionless.
Tartaglia, the Prince, raged on the front line.
His usually playful blue eyes burned with pure battle-frenzy.
Water blades danced in his hands, and every swing was met with the screams of defenders.
Further back, the Traveler Aether,
Hu Tao of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor,
Yae Miko of the Grand Narukami Shrine,
and Clorinde, Fontaine's Champion Duelist,
led twenty thousand remaining Fontaine troops.
They were not fully aligned with the Fatui,
but they shared one goal: take the city.
Of the original one thousand defenders, fewer than a hundred still stood.
Deputy General Cheng Lian had been pinned to a watchtower pillar by a strange elemental bolt.
Cao Xing, while igniting the last jar of fish oil to block the steam-spewing mechs,
had been consumed by the explosion, leaving no remains.
Is this the end?
Zhang Liao's blurred gaze swept the battlefield.
The small, nimble tracked mechs—no taller than a man—swarmed like steel locusts,
reassembling with a bone-chilling creak, preparing their final assault.
There must have been a thousand of them.
Behind them, the Fatui vanguard and Fontaine's musket troops stood in formation,
ready to flood in the moment the gates fell.
He could not retreat.
There was no way back.
His lord… had not yet arrived.
A surge of unknown strength erupted from his broken body.
Zhang Liao let out a hoarse roar, like a dying tiger.
Pushing off the wall with his broken arm,
he threw himself from the nearly ten-zhang-high wall.
"General!"
The remaining soldiers on the wall cried out in despair.
Wind howled as he plummeted.
His mind went blank, filled only with the instinct to kill.
He hit the ground, rolled, absorbed the impact, and sprang up.
His notched blade cut a cold arc.
Two Fatui skirmishers fell, blood spurting from their throats.
He charged into the mass of tracked mechs.
His blade became an extension of his body.
Every slash struck a joint or an energy core.
The screech of twisting, shattering metal filled the air.
He was soaked in blood—his own, and far more of the enemy's.
Every step left a bloody print on steel wreckage and corpses.
He targeted the mechs carrying fish-oil tanks.
Where his blade passed, tanks ruptured, thick oil spilling across the ground.
"Fire!" he roared at the walls.
One final fire arrow, carrying the defenders' last hope, arced down.
BOOM—!
Flames exploded into the sky,
devouring a hundred clustered mechs at once.
A chain of explosions turned the area into a steel furnace.
The stench of burning flesh and oil choked the battlefield.
Zhang Liao staggered out of the inferno.
His armor was charred, his hair and beard burning.
Yet he still stood.
Leaning on his sword, he glared at the enemy,
paralyzed by his suicidal charge.
Three thousand… at least. And these iron turtles… worth it…
His consciousness began to slip away.
Heavy exhaustion drowned him like a tide.
At the edge of his vision, Tartaglia charged, dual blades whirling, a torrent of water.
Fontaine's musketeers raised their guns.
Clorinde's rapier glinted with deadly light.
It's over.
My lord… Wen Yuan has done all he could.
At that moment—
From the heavens, a horse's neigh split the sky!
No mortal steed could make such a sound—
hot, domineering, arrogant enough to silence the entire battlefield.
A crimson meteor plummeted from the distant mountain top,
faster than reason should allow.
BOOM!
It crashed into the heart of the battlefield.
The earth shook. A violent shockwave exploded outward,
blasting dozens of Fatui soldiers—armor and all—into the air.
The smoke cleared.
A divine stallion, blood-red from head to hoof, reared up.
Its iron hooves, as big as bowls, shattered the ground.
It snorted, breathing out scorching white steam.
On its back stood a warrior.
Nine feet tall, wearing a three-pronged purple-gold crown,
a red silk robe embroidered with a hundred flowers,
a beast-faced iron cuirass, and a lion-headed belt.
His face was handsome, his gaze sharp as a falcon's.
Every glance radiated killing intent.
In his hand: a halberd of unnatural length—
the Sky-Shattering Halberd.
Its cold blade glowed with a dark red light,
as if drunk on blood.
Behind him, three thousand armored soldiers stood in silence.
Heavy plate covered every man, only their cold, emotionless eyes visible.
Spears rose like a forest, blades shining white.
No shouts, no noise—only a heavy, tangible aura of slaughter
that blanketed the entire battlefield.
The Trapped Camp.
Lü Bu's gaze swept the field.
In an instant, he saw everything:
the situation, the chaos,
and Zhang Liao—bloodied, charred, leaning on his sword, barely standing.
A cold, thin smile tugged at his lips.
He did not speak.
He raised his Sky-Shattering Halberd and pointed forward.
"March."
Simple. Brutal.
The three thousand moved.
No battle cries, only synchronized, earth-shaking footsteps.
A black tide of steel, silent and unstoppable,
crashing into the disorganized ranks of the Fatui and Fontaine coalition.
The true slaughter had begun.
The Trapped Camp moved with perfect coordination—three-man teams,
spears thrusting, shields blocking,
efficient killing machines.
The Fatui's famed elemental shields and sturdy armor
tore like paper against the Trapped Camp's monstrous strength and armor-piercing weapons.
The sound of twisting steel and shattering bones was relentless.
Lü Bu himself became a red whirlwind.
Chitu—the Red Hare—galloped at ghostly speed,
carrying him through the midst of ten thousand troops.
The Sky-Shattering Halberd spun like a wheel of death.
Wherever it passed, men and horses fell,
limbs and entrails flying.
Fatui Debt Agents tried to sneak attack.
Electro Hammer Vanguard soldiers charged brute force.
Cryo Gunners unleashed blizzards.
None mattered.
All were sliced, crushed, sent flying in an instant.
"Stop him! Musketeers, full volley!" Clorinde shouted.
The front line of Fontaine's shooters fired.
Smoke filled the air. Lead bullets rained toward the red figure.
Lü Bu did not even bother to block.
An invisible, furnace-hot aura erupted around him.
Bang bang bang bang!
The bullets struck the aura
as if hitting an invisible wall of iron.
They deformed, bounced away,
not leaving a single scratch.
"What?!"
Clorinde's eyes widened in disbelief.
Tartaglia's blood boiled.
This was the foe he had dreamed of.
"Your opponent is me!"
He laughed wildly, unleashing his Delusion.
Water elements raged around him,
condensing into two ultra-compressed water blades.
He shot toward Lü Bu like lightning.
"Ant."
Lü Bu spoke two words,
soft but cold, authoritative enough to cut through the battlefield.
Against Tartaglia's full-force cross slash,
Lü Bu simply swung his halberd.
No technique. No flair.
Only absolute power and speed.
CRACK!
The water blades—forged from Tartaglia's life's cultivation—
shattered like fragile glass the moment they touched the halberd.
The blade continued unimpeded,
easily piercing his hastily raised elemental shield,
slashing across his neck.
Tartaglia's charge stopped dead.
His frenzy froze.
Blue eyes filled with utter shock and confusion.
He opened his mouth as if to speak.
"A mortal… how could…"
His head flew into the air.
His headless body collapsed before the Red Hare,
blood gushing forth.
Until his last breath,
he could not comprehend such a monstrous existence.
"Tartaglia!"
Aether's eyes bloodshot, he charged with his dull sword,
accompanied by Yae Miko crackling with lightning,
and Hu Tao channeling the rites of Wangsheng.
Lü Bu swept his halberd.
Lightning scattered.
Funeral rites were torn apart.
Aether's sword nearly flew from his grip.
Aether spat blood.
He, Yae Miko (bleeding from the mouth),
and Hu Tao (pale-faced)
were sent flying by an irresistible force,
crashing into the chaotic ranks, buried by routing soldiers,
fate unknown.
Clorinde's rapier didn't even graze Lü Bu's clothes.
The halberd's wind struck her.
Her soft armor shattered.
She coughed up blood, seriously injured,
snatched away by her bodyguards at the cost of their lives.
Lü Bu did not glance at them.
The Red Hare reared.
Iron hooves slammed down,
stomping the Fontaine banner—flag and pole—into splinters.
He reined in the horse.
His Sky-Shattering Halberd pointed diagonally forward
at the hundred thousand-strong coalition,
broken, demoralized, fleeing.
A bizarre scene unfolded on the battlefield.
Lü Bu stood alone on horseback before the entire army.
Behind him: mountains of corpses, seas of blood,
the Trapped Camp advancing silently, reaping lives.
Before him: the still-massive coalition—
Fatui elites, Fontaine soldiers—
not one dared take another step.
Not one dared look directly at that blood-soaked, godlike figure.
Only the Red Hare's heavy snorting,
and the soft plink of blood dripping from the halberd's tip,
echoed across the silent battlefield.
On the distant wall,
Zhang Liao, nearly unconscious,
stared through blood-blurred eyes.
He saw the broken Fontaine banner.
He saw the halberd pointed at thousands.
He saw that towering, mountain-like back.
His mouth twitched weakly.
And finally, he let the darkness take him.
My lord… has come.