The order fell.
Hu Zhen did not hesitate.
"Build the bridge."
Iron chains were dragged forward—heavy, cold, clanking like shackles of fate. Small boats pushed into the current, men hammering spikes into wood and riverbed alike, fastening the chains in place.
One boat.
Then another.
Anchored.
Locked.
Bound together.
Piece by piece, a path took shape across the Yellow River—a bridge not of stone, but of will… and inevitability.
Planks were laid over the floating spine.
A road for slaughter.
"Advance!"
Hua Xiong moved first.
Two thousand cavalry thundered across the bridge, hooves pounding against wood, the river churning beneath them like something alive.
Hu Zhen followed close behind with three thousand more.
Then came the infantry—five thousand men.
A thousand remained behind.
Guarding the bridge.
Guarding the only way back.
Ten thousand surged forward like a drawn blade, cutting toward Wang Kuang's position.
Hua Xiong did not charge straight ahead.
He curved.
Like a predator circling prey.
Then—he struck from the rear.
Wang Kuang knew nothing.
His attention remained fixed ahead—on Niu Fu.
Behind him, death approached.
It wasn't until the ground began to tremble that something felt wrong.
"What is that…?"
He turned—
Too late.
A blood-soaked soldier stumbled forward, collapsing before him.
"My lord—the Xiliang cavalry—!"
"What?!"
Panic ignited.
"Form ranks! Quickly—!"
But the command had no time to take root.
Hua Xiong's cavalry crashed into them like a storm.
No resistance.
No structure.
No chance.
Men were cut down before they could even turn.
Hu Zhen's forces struck from the flank, completing the trap.
Five thousand cavalry tore through Wang Kuang's army, carving it apart, splitting it into fragments that no longer resembled an army.
Niu Fu pressed forward from the front.
Then the infantry arrived.
Fifteen thousand untrained men—already broken.
Ten thousand hardened veterans—merciless, efficient.
The outcome had already been decided.
To the north—cavalry.
To the west—cavalry and infantry.
To the south—the river.
Nowhere to run.
Wang Kuang held for a moment.
A brief, futile moment.
Then he fled.
East.
With a handful of guards.
He abandoned his banner—left it standing as a lie, a decoy, a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.
It didn't matter.
Behind him, his army collapsed.
Men threw away weapons.
Armor.
Honor.
Anything that slowed them down.
The Dong forces pursued without mercy.
The river turned red.
Some, remembering what had been done to surrendered soldiers before, chose the river instead.
They jumped.
Into the current.
Into chance.
Into death.
Thirty li to the east—
Zhang Xin struck.
Han Hao's army was mid-crossing at Wen County, stretched thin and vulnerable.
Then—
cavalry appeared.
From the west.
Silent no longer.
Iron-clad.
Cold.
The banner at their center cut through all doubt:
Han Marquis Xuanwei Zhang.
Han Hao's face drained of color.
"A trap…!"
He shouted frantically.
"Form ranks! Quickly—!"
But panic had already taken hold.
Men stumbled, turned, collided—formation dissolving before it could even form.
Zhang Xin raised his hand.
"Faster."
No hesitation.
"Charge."
The signal flag rose.
Dian Wei relayed it instantly.
The cavalry surged forward.
What little order remained in Han Hao's ranks shattered under the impact.
They were split apart—cut into pieces before they could even resist.
The slaughter began.
Back at the pontoon bridge—
The guards waited.
And complained.
"We're cursed," one soldier muttered, tossing his weapon aside. "Everyone else earns merit—we guard wood and rope."
Another scoffed.
"The Chancellor's plan already turned them against each other. Who's coming here? No one has troops to spare."
Even their commander was unconcerned.
The battle was elsewhere.
Victory was certain.
This was nothing more than routine.
Then—
hooves.
Distant at first.
Then growing.
They looked east.
"Over already?"
But no one came.
The sound…
was wrong.
The general frowned, then dropped to the ground, ear pressed to the earth.
A moment passed.
Then his face changed.
"Not east…"
His voice broke.
"West."
He shot to his feet.
"Enemy cavalry! Five thousand strong! Form ranks!"
To their credit—
they did not panic.
They moved.
Fast.
Efficient.
A circular formation formed in moments—shields raised, spears angled outward.
Then they saw them.
Not Xiliang cavalry.
Different.
Foreign.
Shaven heads. Leather armor.
Wuhuan.
"Zhang Xin…!"
The realization hit like a hammer.
"We've been deceived!"
Jishu rode to the front.
No hesitation.
"Mounted archery!"
The Wuhuan cavalry moved as one.
Bows drawn.
Released.
A storm of arrows descended.
Then they split—flowing to the sides, making way for the next wave.
But the Dong soldiers did not break.
Shields rose.
Spears lifted.
Deflecting.
Redirecting.
The formation held.
When the arrows fell silent—
only a few dozen bodies lay on the ground.
The rest stood firm.
Unshaken.
Unbroken.
Xu Huang rode up beside Jishu, voice sharp.
"This won't work."
His gaze locked onto the formation.
"We don't have time to wear them down. The lord ordered us to take the bridge—quickly."
The truth was simple.
Every moment wasted here—
tightened the noose elsewhere.
Jishu's expression hardened.
He knew it.
This was no longer a skirmish.
It was a race.
And they were losing time.
He turned slightly.
"In your opinion… what should we do?"
The battlefield held its breath.