Volume One: Flames on the Frontier Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Warriors Who Scaled the Walls to Their Death

"Your Highness, our army's provisions will last less than a month. We've already been delayed three days; if we don't attack now, not only will our supplies dwindle, but morale will suffer as well. Since the enemy tampered with the wells, they surely anticipated our need for water and would have set ambushes along the way. We should simply send more men to fetch water."

"That's right, Your Highness. Give the order to attack the city and let them see our true might."

Murong Lin had already made up his mind, and seeing his generals share his determination, resolved to order the attack, sending his hungry soldiers to storm the city. The battle plan had long been drawn up; one command set everything in motion. In the camps of Later Yan, drums and horns resounded as countless armored soldiers, shields raised and siege engines in tow, surged forward like a dark, unstoppable tide.

What must come, comes at last. When Tuoba Yan received word of the assault, he showed no sign of panic. He ascended the city walls with Cui Liang, He Yu, and others to survey the enemy's movements.

The Yan army deployed in a three-pronged assault: feigning attacks on two sides, concentrating force on the third. Tuoba Gui had defied all counsel to build Pingcheng as a capital, sparing no expense in manpower or resources. Now the massive, sturdy walls—complete with battlements and barbicans—stood like a mountain, an imposing barrier before the Yan forces.

Once an army surpasses ten thousand, it seems endless. He Yu looked down at the sixty thousand soldiers below, iron armor gleaming, filling the hills and plains—a truly awe-inspiring sight. In his own experience, the largest drill he'd witnessed was at the division level, barely ten thousand men. But here, sixty thousand charged forth at once. Far from fear, a strange sense of exultation rose within him—so must a true man meet his fate.

Murong Lin gazed at the great city before him, raised his Deer-Slashing Sword, and gave the command to attack. The blade caught the sunlight, flashing with cold brilliance—it was time for blood.

As thunderous drums shook the air, the Yan army began its assault. The earth itself seemed to tremble: arrows fell like locusts, massive stones slammed into the walls, and the cacophony of horns, shouts, screams, and the clash of arms churned the clouds above. In an instant, Pingcheng became a hellish battlefield.

The difference between regular troops and the motley bands of the fortresses was like night and day. Tianxiong Fort had been formidable, but compared to Murong Lin's disciplined army, it was nothing. As the fighting began, He Yu marveled at the Later Yan soldiers—seasoned warriors, fearless, clad in heavy armor, curved blades in hand, wave upon wave scaling the walls. One fell, and another leapt up without waiting for orders, as if ignorant of fear. Their archery was also superb, on par with the Northern Wei soldiers.

The battle raged for a full hour. Below the walls, corpses lay piled deep; atop the parapets, blood splattered like rain, and bodies were strewn everywhere. Though He Yu had anticipated the brutality of ancient warfare, he was still unprepared for its sheer savagery. He had killed with his own hands before, but the scale of slaughter here magnified the horror. Tuoba Yan and Cui Liang, helms and armor donned, commanded from the front; He Yu and the other officers each held their sectors, fighting desperately to hold the line.

Suddenly, an enemy began climbing the wall—slow but heavily armored, only a pair of strange eyes visible, wielding an unusually broad and long saber. This was an elite of the Yan army, a "wall-scaling death warrior," unleashed only in stalemates. For Murong Lin to send them in from the very start meant he was staking everything on this assault.

He Yu’s guards rushed to push the iron hooks of the scaling ladder away. The ladder was cleverly designed; once hooked onto the battlements, its iron claws formed an unyielding anchor. Unless the claws were severed, it was nearly impossible to dislodge.

With a single swing, the death warrior chopped through the pole. One foot already on the parapet, two soldiers beside He Yu, without waiting for orders, charged with their blades.

Slash—slash—

Their swords left gashes at the death warrior’s neck, splitting the mail, but beneath that layer were several more, rendering the blows futile.

The death warrior, enraged, swept his saber wide. Two screams rang out as the guards were hewn in half, blood spraying everywhere.

To become a wall-scaling death warrior, one had to have slain over a hundred men in battle—these were the most elite of Later Yan. The Chiluobi that He Yu had once killed had also been a death warrior, though he’d relied on cunning and surprise then, not this kind of direct confrontation.

He Yu was shocked by the Yan soldiers’ ferocity. Seeing fear in the eyes of those around him, he gritted his teeth, drew his sword, and charged.

Encased in heavy armor, the death warrior moved slowly. He Yu, whose martial skill was exceptional, darted in and thrust his mighty sword straight for the warrior’s heart. Even after piercing several layers of armor, the blade failed to penetrate. This had never happened before; the ancestral sword had always pierced enemy armor, save for the time it failed against Murong Lin’s treasured mail.

The death warrior’s saber whooshed by. He Yu dodged, bending low to slash at the man’s leg. Sparks flew as the blade bounced off—no effect.

Two spears thrust in at once.

Thud—thud—

The shafts bowed with the impact, and one spear, driven too hard, snapped at the tip.

Though the death warrior’s armor absorbed the blows, the force was unavoidable—his leg went numb, his chest ached. Suddenly, he dropped his saber and lunged at He Yu with hooked fingers. Amid the chaos atop the wall, He Yu had no space to retreat; caught off guard by the desperate attack, he was seized.

The death warrior, monstrously strong, hoisted He Yu into the air, preparing to hurl him down. Though He Yu was the superior fighter, once airborne, his strength was useless. In desperation, he locked his arms around the warrior’s neck, refusing to let go, and together they crashed to the ground.

He Yu hoped to find a chance to break his foe’s neck, but the death warrior’s throat was protected by a collar of chainmail—no grip to be found. The man was massive and savage; wrestling with him was like brawling with a wild beast. No matter He Yu’s skill or strength, it availed him nothing.

Since his arrival in this world, He Yu had never been bested in single combat—until now. The death warrior’s body seemed impervious, and even as He Yu pummeled him, drawing blood, the man clung to his neck with a death grip.

He Yu’s breath grew short. Seizing an opening, he jabbed his fingers into the warrior’s eyes. The man tried to twist away but was too late—blood spurted from ruined eyes, and he was left blind.

The death warrior howled, embracing a strategy of mutual destruction, pouring all his remaining strength into strangling He Yu. He Yu grasped the man’s fingers, wrenching them apart, even as he heard the joints popping.

Seeing their commander in peril, He Yu’s last surviving bodyguard threw himself into the fray. These guards were the army’s elite, each worth two ordinary soldiers. In the Wei army, it was an unwritten rule: if the commander died, all his guards would follow him in death, their families doomed to slavery. Thus, saving the commander was also saving themselves. Crude as such laws were, they were ruthlessly effective—and so He Yu’s life was spared.

The guard, thinking fast, dropped his sword and snatched up a chunk of stone from the ground, smashing it down on the death warrior’s head. Locked in struggle with He Yu, the man couldn’t dodge; the stone shattered with a crash, blood oozed from beneath his helmet, and his grip loosened.

Gasping, He Yu kicked the death warrior aside, grabbed him by the ankles, and flung him from the wall. Whether the man had survived the blow was uncertain, but falling from such a height, his fate was sealed.

He Yu, shaken but alive, bent to retrieve his sword when a sudden shadow loomed overhead. Instinctively, he rolled aside as a boulder crashed down, splattering his faithful guard to pulp.

The wall-scaling death warriors were like human tanks. Once they gained a foothold, waves of enemies would pour up behind them. For Murong Lin to commit them at the outset meant this first assault was to be the decisive one. Unless the death warriors were stopped, holding the city would be all but impossible.

He Yu cut down two more foes, forcing the attackers in his sector to retreat. Elsewhere, the fighting was fierce; some of the garrison troops from the local clans had begun to falter, losing their nerve. By contrast, the Northern Wei soldiers fought with reckless valor, refusing to yield.

"So, compared to the Xianbei, the Han people's will to fight truly is weaker," He Yu thought. The retinues brought by the gentry clans were supposedly elite, yet in the heat of battle, they could not match regular troops.

One man's retreat can shake a hundred men's courage—the time had come to enforce strict discipline.

Sure enough, the horns sounded, and the Wei army’s supervisory squads entered the fray. Standing behind the ranks, they waved red flags; any soldier who fell back past the central line of the wall was executed on the spot. The effect was immediate: the wavering troops steadied, turned, and fought with renewed desperation.

The Yan assault faltered, and the two sides settled into a grim deadlock atop the walls—it was a contest of endurance, to see who could hold out longest.

Below, corpses piled high; above, storm clouds gathered. Suddenly, lightning split the sky, and rain poured down in torrents. The deluge blurred vision, favoring the attackers. Murong Lin, overjoyed, rode beneath the walls, saber raised, exhorting his men.

His shouts carried up on the wind:

"The first to scale the wall shall be granted ten thousand households! The first to scale the wall shall be granted ten thousand households!"

"Any who fall back—your clan shall be exterminated! Any who fall back—your clan shall be exterminated!"

Thus: whoever first reached the battlements would be rewarded with a vast fief; whoever retreated would doom their entire family to death. Life and honor hung on a single moment’s resolve.

The war drums thundered, shaking the earth. Clearly, Murong Lin intended to take Pingcheng in this very battle.