063 The Mysterious Young General in White (Please Vote for Me)

With a thunderous shout, Taishi Ci bellowed, “Ling Tong! Pan Zhang! Come here and meet your deaths!”

The sudden roar startled Pan Zhang out of his wits. Never in his wildest imagination did he expect Taishi Ci to burst forth at this moment.

“Taishi Ziyi, are you betraying Jiangdong?” Pan Zhang cried back, sheltered by his soldiers.

Betraying Jiangdong? Such a grave accusation was thrown at Taishi Ci’s head.

Yet, with Sun Quan bent on killing Su Ming and Taishi Ci risking all to save him, his actions were, indeed, nothing short of outright betrayal.

Taishi Ci showed no hesitation. He declared, “With the lord of Jiangdong gone, what does betrayal matter?”

“That whelp Sun Quan, who slew his own brother to seize power—cruel and faithless—how could he ever be worthy of my loyalty?”

When Taishi Ci spoke of his lord, he meant Sun Ce, styled Bofu. It was well known that Taishi Ci and Sun Ce had fought before becoming acquainted, and Taishi Ci’s allegiance was always to Sun Ce the man, not merely to Jiangdong.

Su Ming, listening, was puzzled by these words. Since Taishi Ci felt this way, why hadn’t he come to Su Ming’s aid at Sun Ce’s funeral, when called upon?

But this was no time for such questions. If they survived this day’s calamity, there would be time to ask. If not, and they perished here, nothing else would matter.

Taishi Ci’s reputation as a fierce warrior was well deserved—he could match Sun Ce blow for blow, no easy feat.

Yet beside him stood a young general in white, and even Taishi Ci’s prowess paled in comparison.

The youth was no more than seventeen or eighteen, dressed in white robes and armor, mounted on a white horse, a silver helmet gleaming atop his head. Across his back were slung two short, mysterious weapons; in his hand, he gripped a curious armament—a claw.

The claw, one of the famed Eighteen Weapons, came in long, short, and flexible varieties. The long claw was the length of a spear, but tipped by a hand-shaped iron construct, each finger a cruel spike. When it struck flesh, carnage followed.

Few warriors wielded such a weapon; its rarity rivaled Su Ming’s own golden-feathered mace.

On the battlefield, only two sorts dared carry such unconventional arms—the truly formidable and the utterly foolish. Judging by the white-robed youth’s martial display, he was undoubtedly of the former.

Su Ming’s brow furrowed—who was this young general?

At first glance, the white robes, the silver armor, the white horse—all called to mind the famed Zhao Zilong of Changshan.

Yet Su Ming quickly dismissed the thought. This was Jiangdong; Taishi Ci hailed from Donglai, Zhao Yun from Changshan—one from Hebei, the other from Jiangdong—they’d scarcely have crossed paths.

Moreover, Zhao Yun was famed for his spear, not a claw.

So this young general could not possibly be Zhao Yun.

Among the native heroes of the Three Kingdoms, the order went: Lü Bu first, Zhao Yun second, Dian Wei third, Guan Yu fourth, Ma Chao fifth, Zhang Fei sixth, followed by Huang Zhong, Xu Chu, Sun Jian, Taishi Ci, and the two Xiahou brothers.

Taishi Ci’s martial prowess ranked him tenth among his peers.

Yet this white-robed youth seemed to outshine even Taishi Ci by a fair margin—perhaps not far behind Guan Yu or Zhang Fei themselves.

Su Ming wracked his brains but could not recall such a figure in all the tales of the Three Kingdoms—a master of the claw, unmatched in combat. If such a one existed, surely he would remember.

Clearly, this was a hidden master, unknown to history.

Taishi Ci and the white-robed youth charged forward, one on the left, one on the right, striking down Jiangdong’s soldiers wherever they passed. The enemy fell before them like wheat before the scythe, and soon they had carved a bloody path to join forces with Su Ming.

“Ziyi, why come here to die?” Su Ming called out as they rushed in.

Taishi Ci and the white-robed youth were formidable indeed, but Jiangdong’s numbers were overwhelming. No sooner had they broken through, than the soldiers swarmed to encircle them again.

In history, Zhao Yun famously charged in and out seven times at Changban Slope—but only because Cao Cao had ordered his men to capture, not kill, the legendary warrior.

Their situation was different. Sun Quan wanted Su Ming dead, and the Jiangdong troops used every trick in the book: trip ropes, meteor hammers, iron caltrops—they spared no dirty tactic in their determination to kill him.

Luckily, a torrential rain had rendered bows useless. If not for that, Su Ming and his companions would have perished already.

Against a hail of arrows, no amount of martial skill could save them.

“I, Taishi Ziyi, live and die by righteousness,” Taishi Ci declared. “When our lord fell at Dantu, I was powerless. Now, seeing you in dire straits, how could I stand by and do nothing?”

“If we can cut our way out, all the better. If not, then I will die with you by the banks of the Han River.” His voice rang out clear and bold.

There was nothing more to say.

Only one word remained.

Kill!

Even if there was no hope of escape, they would fight to the bitter end.

Su Ming at the vanguard, Taishi Ci on the left, the white-robed youth on the right—the three became a storm of steel and death, a living meat grinder, reaping the lives of Jiangdong’s soldiers without pause.

Unstoppable.

No term could better describe their ferocity. The soldiers who barred their way were swept aside in droves.

After half an hour’s slaughter, Su Ming and his group had slain four or five thousand foes. Jiangdong’s forces were now but half their original strength.

“General Ling, we can’t keep fighting like this!”

“If this goes on, they’ll break through for sure. How will we ever explain to the lord?” Pan Zhang approached Ling Tong, his face grim.

After all, they’d started with ten thousand men.

Su Ming and his companions, including their guards, numbered scarcely a hundred.

Ten thousand against a hundred—yet already four or five thousand had been slain.

If Su Ming managed to escape, there would be no explaining themselves to Sun Quan. They might as well hang themselves from the nearest crooked tree.

As the battle turned increasingly against them, Ling Tong’s expression grew darker. He asked in a low voice, “Then what do you propose?”

As deputy, Pan Zhang had clearly given this much thought. If he’d come to Ling Tong and criticized his approach, he must have a better plan.

“We can’t attack them head-on any longer.”

“Men tire in time—we must delay them. Form shield walls, use trip ropes and meteor hammers—hold them in place!”

“Within an hour or two, they’ll be exhausted, and then we’ll slaughter them at will!” Pan Zhang explained.

Ling Tong’s strategy had been relentless assault, hoping to end things quickly with overwhelming numbers.

But that had proven fruitless.

When faced with a deadly spear, you must meet it with a solid shield, not another spear.

(End of chapter.)