"No quarter."
Zhao Yun's voice was not loud—
But it carried.
Like a sentence already passed.
"No quarter for those who surrender."
The soldiers around him roared the words into the battlefield, their voices crashing like iron against iron.
The Yuan Army faltered.
Some tightened their grip on their weapons.
Some loosened it.
Fear spread faster than blood.
Wen Chou turned.
And what he saw—
Enraged him.
A pale-faced general. Lightly armored. Surrounded by what looked like nothing more than grain troops—men meant to till fields, not hold the line.
Contempt burned away his hesitation.
"Not even armored…"
A sneer twisted across his face.
"Then you are not worth fearing."
He lowered his spear.
Spurred forward.
"Your head—will steady this battlefield!"
His horse thundered ahead, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Behind him, his thoughts aligned—clear, ruthless.
Kill the general.
Break the ambush.
Rejoin Yan Liang.
Return.
Stabilize everything.
Simple.
Clean.
Achievable.
Zhao Yun moved.
No hesitation.
No wasted breath.
He met the charge head-on.
The distance between them collapsed.
Ten paces—
Five—
Three—
Then—
Zhao Yun's heel pressed sharply into his horse's flank.
The warhorse exploded forward.
Too fast.
Far too fast.
Wen Chou's pupils shrank.
This—
This is no ordinary mount—
Understanding came too late.
Steel flashed.
A single strike—
Clean.
Precise.
"—!"
Wen Chou barely twisted aside.
A sharp crack rang through the air.
Then—
Weight vanished from his head.
His helmet flew off, spinning into the mud.
Cold air struck his scalp.
Hair fell loose across his face.
"What—"
Pain followed.
Sudden.
Delayed.
His arm burned.
Blood poured freely.
He hadn't even seen the strike.
"What speed…"
His voice broke.
Not rage.
Not defiance.
Fear.
Raw.
Immediate.
Instinct took over.
He fled.
No order. No dignity. No thought of command.
Only survival.
Zhao Yun did not pursue immediately.
He watched.
Measured.
Then calmly drew his bow.
The battlefield seemed to slow.
One breath.
One motion.
Release.
The arrow vanished.
Then struck.
Deep into Wen Chou's shoulder.
His body jerked violently.
Half his strength fled in an instant.
"So fast…"
His fingers trembled against the reins.
His vision blurred.
Still—
He did not fall.
Clinging desperately to his horse, he forced it forward, fleeing like a wounded beast refusing to die.
Zhao Yun lowered his bow.
A flicker of regret crossed his eyes.
"Still not fast enough."
Then he turned.
And rode back into slaughter.
The Yuan Army broke.
Ambushed.
Leader fleeing.
No command.
No will.
They collapsed almost instantly.
Men dropped their weapons.
Knees struck the earth.
Voices cracked into desperate pleas.
Surrender came not as a choice—
But as collapse.
Zhao Yun did not stop.
He rode past them.
Through them.
Toward Yan Liang.
Yan Liang was already faltering under Zhang Liao's relentless assault.
When Zhao Yun struck from behind—
The battle ended.
Not with a clash.
But with a fracture.
Yan Liang fled.
What remained of order… died with that retreat.
From there—
It became a hunt.
Zhang Liao and Zhao Yun merged their forces, following behind the cavalry like wolves trailing blood.
The Yuan Army disintegrated.
Men ran.
Dropped armor.
Trampled one another.
The field filled with screams.
Yuan Shao fled.
Not as a lord.
Not as a commander.
But as a man running from death.
A hundred guards.
No formation.
No dignity.
Only escape.
Behind him—
Zhang Xin's army advanced without mercy.
Steel rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
Those too slow died.
Those too weak died.
Those who could not run—
Knelt.
And begged.
Later—
The captives gathered in trembling masses.
Thousands.
Unarmed.
Broken.
Waiting.
Left Leopard and Zhao Yun stood before Zhang Liao.
"What shall be done?"
The question hung heavy.
Because they all knew the answer war usually gave.
Kill them.
End the burden.
Spare the grain.
Zhang Liao did not hesitate.
"Deliver the Lord's order."
His voice was calm.
Cold.
Measured.
"Tell them—"
"They were misled by the traitor Yuan Shao."
"This time…"
"They are spared."
A pause.
Then—
"Send them home."
The words spread.
Confusion first.
Then disbelief.
Then—
Relief so overwhelming it became something else.
Something close to reverence.
Mercy—
In a battlefield soaked in blood—
Felt unnatural.
Almost terrifying.
But Zhang Xin had already calculated it.
Dead men consumed nothing.
But living ones—
Carried stories.
Fear.
And truth.
The army withdrew.
Leaving behind not corpses—
But witnesses.
Far away—
Yuan Shao staggered back into camp.
His breathing ragged.
His mind fractured.
Behind him, survivors trickled in.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Incomplete.
Wen Chou returned.
Barely.
Blood-soaked.
Half-conscious.
Then Yan Liang.
With what remained.
Which was—
Almost nothing.
Yuan Shao stared.
Thirty thousand.
Gone.
Like smoke.
Like they had never existed.
Something inside him gave way.
His chest convulsed.
Blood burst from his mouth.
And he fell.
When he awoke—
He wept.
Not quietly.
Not with restraint.
But like a man who had seen the end of himself.
"I should have listened…"
"I should have listened…"
His voice broke again and again.
But it was too late.
War did not forgive regret.
Orders were given.
Men sent out.
Fragments gathered.
But no one believed it would be enough.
At last—
He spoke Xu You's name.
Elsewhere—
Xu You laughed.
Not loudly.
But with certainty.
"I told you."
"No one listens."
"And when they finally understand—"
"It is already too late."
Outside the camp—
A head was raised high above the gate.
Turning slowly in the wind.
Silent.
Final.
War had spoken.
And this time—
It had chosen to teach.