Chapter Twelve: Total Annihilation

Xu Le acted with the swiftness of lightning, so abruptly and decisively that no one could have foreseen it. Who would have imagined that this gentle, cultured youth, whose smile was always warm and radiant, could strike with such ruthless efficiency? For a moment, everyone stood frozen. In the woods, the brittle crack of Chang Shuxin’s neck snapping still seemed to echo in the air.

Han Yue was the first to recover. With a swift kick, he sent the iron shield lying at his feet flying into his grasp, then hurled it with all his might. The shield, whistling through the air, struck the Hawktalon soldier who, arrow nocked and ready, was poised to send a signal. Blood sprayed as the shield’s lower edge—with its three wolf-fang spikes—tore through the soldier’s armored waist. Not even his mail could blunt the blow: he was nearly cleaved in two.

The bow and signal arrow slipped from the dying man’s grasp, vanishing into the grass.

Xu Le brushed off his hands and smiled. “What are you waiting for?”

No one now could see anything warm or gentle in his smile.

The first to respond were the tenants from the Xu clan’s hamlet. Life on the border had always forced villagers to band together for survival, fostering a fierce and unyielding spirit. Whenever bandits, robbers, or even Turkic raiders swept through, every able man mounted the palisades to defend the village. Disputes over water rights often turned into clan skirmishes, leaving men battered and bloodied.

In such a harsh land, those who shared a hamlet or village were bound by life and death, utterly reliant on one another. Should outsiders dare to threaten their home, a single shout would rally everyone to arms.

The authorities, weak as they were, could do little with such hardened border folk. Only because Lord Ren Gong, the Duke of Mayi, was a forceful governor—backed by his elite Hawktalon troops—had the people been cowed by his harsh, almost brutal exactions, forced into sullen submission.

As for the people of the Xu hamlet, they owed their very survival in the Sanggan River Valley to the old patriarch’s protection, from which their village had grown and flourished. Their debt of gratitude ran deep. Otherwise, they would not have risked their lives to follow this scholarly young master on his perilous commercial journey.

At Xu Le’s word, the tenants gritted their teeth, drew their bows, and loosed arrows at the stunned Hawktalon soldiers. Even the short bows of humble tenants, at such close range, could pierce armor. One or two of the Hawktalon men fell at once, screaming. The rest finally came to their senses—one swung his long saber, knocking an arrow aside with a clanging blow, and roared, “Send the signal! Fight them to the death!”

The remaining Hawktalon soldiers shouted, scrambling for bows and signal arrows. The tenants, having loosed their first volley, drew blades and rushed forward to clash with the Hawktalon men. Steel rang against steel in the gloom, sparks flying, coarse Mayi accents snarling curses as the fighting swirled.

Han Yue strode forward to retrieve his thrown shield. The Hawktalon men, wary of his reputation, broke off two fighters to intercept him, swinging their sabers in a furious onslaught. Unarmed, even Han Yue had no choice but to evade, stepping back and biding his time for an opening to seize a weapon. The two soldiers pressed him hard, their eyes bloodshot, hacking at him with wild desperation—determined to keep him at bay.

Meanwhile, the last Hawktalon soldier saw Han Yue forced back and lunged for the fallen horn bow and signal arrow. Behind him, a tenant tried to break through but was checked; in the split second available, he loosed a shot. The Hawktalon dropped to the ground, rolled, and the arrow thudded harmlessly into the dirt, the fletching quivering.

With that roll, the Hawktalon snatched up the bow and signal arrow. He flung himself onto his back, drew the bow at an angle, and aimed skyward, about to send the signal aloft.

Han Yue and the tenants threw themselves into the melee among the trees, steel clashing and voices cursing in a tangled cacophony. Song Bao and the other hired swords, faces deathly pale, watched the chaos unfold in shock. The decisiveness and savagery of Xu Le’s actions had shaken Song Bao to his core.

The tenants, without hesitation, joined the fight against the Hawktalon men, while Song Bao and his fellow swordsmen broke out in a cold sweat.

Xu Le and the tenants belonged to the same clan, their fates inseparable. With Xu Le killing Chang Shuxin, the rest of the Xu clan would inevitably be implicated—they had to see this through to the end.

But Song Bao and the young heroes were only temporary hires, brought on to escort the Xu clan’s caravan. Did they really want to get embroiled in this bloodbath?

Around them, blades clashed and arrows flew. Song Bao and his companions stood paralyzed, uncertain what to do.

A thousand times Song Bao wanted to run, but a single, simple truth kept him rooted to the spot: Xu Le, Han Yue, and the tenants were all natives of Shenwu County. If he ran now, how would he ever show his face here again? His Iron Flying Swallow reputation would be in shambles, his name worth nothing but firewood.

But did he truly want to stake his life fighting Hawktalon soldiers?

As the tenants and Han Yue fought desperately, Xu Le—the one who’d just snapped Chang Shuxin’s neck—stood still, surveying the field, ready to intervene wherever his men faltered. This, too, was his grandfather’s lesson: when your people are fighting at the front, you must oversee the whole field—not simply lose yourself in the frenzy of battle.

When Xu Le saw the Hawktalon man seize the horn bow and signal arrow, and Song Bao gnashing his teeth in indecision, he barked coldly, “Song Bao, do you think you can escape this?”

His shout jolted Song Bao to his senses.

Damn it! There was no way out now. What was he hesitating for? Hawktalon soldiers were already dead and wounded—if they didn’t wipe them out, there would be endless trouble.

With a sudden roar, Song Bao hurled the single-headed axe halberd he’d been clutching tightly, sending it spinning straight into the chest of the Hawktalon soldier drawing the bow.

The weapon’s steel blade punched through the man’s chest, blood spraying. The Hawktalon was pinned to the ground, dropping his bow and arrow as he feebly reached for the axe, but strength left his hand and he slumped, twitching faintly.

Once the killing had begun, Song Bao’s hesitation vanished. His shout turned into a savage cry: “Kill them all!”

At his call, Song Bao and the young swordsmen surged forward, weapons raised, eyes red as they hacked and slashed in a frenzy.

Chang Shuxin was dead; the Hawktalon soldiers’ morale was broken. Han Yue, even unarmed, was already tying up several of them, while the tenants held their own. With Song Bao and the young swordsmen joining in, the remaining Hawktalon soldiers were cut down in a storm of blades, their screams echoing as they fell one after another. At last, Han Yue retrieved his iron shield and, with a final throw, struck down one fleeing Hawktalon, sending him crashing to the ground.

Song Bao raced after him, swift as his Iron Flying Swallow moniker promised; before the fallen man could rise, Song Bao snatched up a saber and drove it mercilessly into his chest.

Gradually, the sounds of fighting and dying faded, leaving only the blood-soaked caravan men panting heavily, staring at one another in shock—many of them now trembling violently.

Xu Le stood with hands clasped behind his back, in the midst of the stench of blood, exhaling almost imperceptibly. Then, in a low, urgent voice, he said, “Clean this up. We move at once!”

A tenant, his hands shaking, asked, “Are we returning to the Xu hamlet?”

Xu Le’s reply was ironclad: “We continue north.”