Chapter 122: Crimson Snow (Keep going, 2019!)

The wind and snow raged throughout the night, only easing slightly as the morning light began to gray the horizon. Fine flakes continued to drift down from the sky as hundreds of figures, undeterred by the biting cold, pressed forward across the snowy summit. The man in the lead had his face covered, disguised so thoroughly that his features were impossible to discern.

Last night, they had scaled the treacherous cliff walls to prepare for a surprise raid. Although many had fallen to their deaths during the climb, they showed no sign of stopping; a life-and-death struggle was about to unfold.

After scouting the small stronghold of the Manichaean sect on the summit, over a hundred men crept onto the high ridges to overlook the interior. Waiting for the signal from the Burials-Commander—the leader of the Burials—who had infiltrated behind the wooden stockade, they all revealed themselves on the high slope simultaneously. They drew their long arrows, ignited them, and let fly. The sentries squatting on the watchtowers to keep warm were struck down instantly. A rain of fire descended upon the wooden fort, setting several stables and surrounding structures ablaze.

The Burials then vaulted over the stockade gates, slaughtering the patrolling sect members and throwing the gates wide open. Their shouts of battle shook the snow from the ramparts. Inside, the Manichaean followers grabbed their ready weapons and charged out to meet them, showing not a hint of panic.

Zhang Heng rampaged through the ranks of the sect members, slaying one with every stroke of his sword. Each time his blade fell, blood sprayed out, dyeing the melting snow and freezing into new, crimson-stained blocks of ice.

Cutting through the combat zone, Zhang Heng kicked open a window and rolled inside. With a single strike, he severed the throat of a sect member who was loading a crossbow. An arrow whistled past his face, missing him but tearing the rag covering his features.

He searched the room briefly and moved deeper. Finding little, he killed a few more men preparing to fire hidden arrows before leaving to push further into the compound. In another wooden building, he spotted chains used for restraining prisoners. He moved inside and his eyes widened: in the center of the room, Qing Yu was bound to a cross by iron shackles.

Her head hung low, and her body was covered in bloody wounds, the clear marks of brutal torture.

As he hurried forward, he accidentally triggered a hidden mechanism. The floor sank, and as hidden arrows flew from all directions, he nimbly flipped, dived, and pressed himself to the ground. Dozens of arrows crisscrossed just inches above his boots.

Having dodged the trap, he rushed to Qing Yu, checked her pulse, severed the chains with his sword, and lifted her unconscious form to retreat rapidly.

As they fled, a grey-and-white mouse poked its head from the Burials-Commander’s robes. Seemingly catching the scent of its mistress, it crawled into Qing Yu’s clothing.

Suddenly, shouts of battle erupted behind the archers who had been guarding the high slope. A large force of Manichaean followers charged out, flanking them from the left and right. There were over two hundred on each side—clearly an ambush laid long ago. They had emerged to wipe out the hundred-plus Burials.

The Burials-Commander realized they were being attacked from the rear. He discarded his bow—it was useless at such close range—and unhooked his long spear. He ordered men to descend and report the ambush to the Grand Commander while he led his remaining force into the fray. He skewered an attacker with his spear and parried a slash from another, only to see a comrade fall with his throat sprayed with blood. Ignoring the carnage, he fought on, growing bolder with every kill, drenched in blood, holding his ground against ten men at once.

Outside the stronghold below, thousands of Manichaean followers had closed in. Though the sect members inside the fort had been wiped out, the three hundred Burials were now fish in a net. The situation had reversed.

Smoke rose from various parts of the fort. Because of the snow, the fire arrows had extinguished quickly, but several buildings had still been reduced to ash.

Zhang Heng emerged carrying Qing Yu, meeting up with Liang Zixin and Qiu Yuanhong, who were stained red with blood. A look of relief flickered across his weary face—he had finally saved her. But the sounds of slaughter and the clashing of steel shattered that joy. As the wind and snow swirled, their situation was far from optimistic.

Zhang Heng and his men fashioned a makeshift stretcher for Qing Yu. After a moment of thought, he made a swift decision: they would link up with the Burials on the high ridge. He led his team in a charge toward the open gate. He did not notice, however, a strange, dark silhouette perched on a tree not far ahead, silently watching the Burials-Commander as he fought.

The figure wore gloves tipped with three sharp, lethal claws. His face was masked, and his shoulders and head were layered with snow. It was Wolf Claw, a master assassin from the Tenth Alliance. Having befriended Luo Yishi of the Manichaean sect and received a hefty advance, he had been waiting here to assassinate the commander.

The Tenth Alliance was a guild of assassins who took money to solve others' "problems." Their services were exorbitantly expensive, and few ordinary people could even make contact with them. They operated by a twisted code of underworld loyalty, seeking a life of heavy drinking and hearty meat—in essence, a group composed of vicious, cold-blooded criminals.

Zhang Heng led the way, shielding Qing Yu as they fought. Liang Zixin, wielding an iron staff, was a veteran among the Burials. In the days of the old commander, Zhang Heng would have called him "Uncle." But since the old man’s passing and Zhang Heng’s ascension, he had long ceased to use such titles.

Qiu Yuanhong stayed by Qing Yu’s side. He had checked her injuries: beyond the whip lashes, her tendons in both hands and feet had been severed. She would likely be bedridden for the rest of her life. Having harbored feelings for her, he was now consumed by a murderous rage, his eyes bloodshot with hatred.

The Manichaeans pursued them relentlessly. The force of five hundred Burials had been whittled down to three hundred. The snow was churned up, and the summit was littered with blood and broken corpses.

The cries of battle rose and fell. With every clash, another life was snuffed out. Zhang Heng led his team beneath the tree, the only thing puzzling him being the absence of the Manichaean sect leader and other expected targets. By the time he sensed the danger, it was too late.

The sound of snow shifting fell from the treetops. Liang Zixin looked up, his vision obscured by a flurry of snow powder, and roared, "Watch out! An ambush above!"

Zhang Heng had heard the movement earlier. He swung his sword upward, meeting metal with a sharp clang. This was followed by the grating, screeching sound of steel grinding against steel. His sword was deflected by a powerful force, and three lethal claws emerged from the snow, lunging for his chest. He reflexively raised his arm, determined to fire a bolt at his attacker even if it cost him his life, while sidestepping to avoid a fatal blow.

Liang Zixin let out a thunderous shout, drawing a deep breath into his dantian. Taking advantage of the moment Zhang Heng’s sword was deflected, he unleashed his inner energy. His heavy iron staff whistled through the air, smashing into the cloud of snow.

The assassin, seemingly surprised by the presence of another master, let out a grunt. He retracted his claws, using the momentum from the iron staff to flip through the air and land gracefully, dodging the bolt Zhang Heng had fired. He rolled across the ground, passing right by Zhang Heng and leaving six bloody gashes on the commander's leg. His cold, predatory gaze locked onto the enraged Qiu Yuanhong, a mocking smirk playing on his lips, though his icy eyes never strayed far from the woman on the stretcher.

Qiu Yuanhong swung his twin blades in a straightforward, brutal hack. The assassin, however, braced one hand against the ground, flipped his body to evade both the blades and a thrust from a sword behind him, and dodged again. A heavy iron staff whistled through the air, smashing into the snow and showering the assassin with icy debris.

The assassin moved using his claws like a spider, his body hovering just inches above the ground. He darted beneath the stretcher, flipped to avoid another horizontal slash, and stomped on Qiu Yuanhong’s hand. Without hesitation, he thrust his claws toward the woman on the stretcher.

Ignoring the numbness in his leg, Zhang Heng thrust his sword forward. Fearing he would be too slow, he twitched his shoulder to load another bolt, firing it directly at the assassin’s throat.

The assassin caught sight of the commander’s arm aiming at him and pulled back with a disgruntled sneer. His claws were blocked by the sword. Frustrated, he decided to stop the engagement. He had intended to kill the Burials-Commander in one blow under the cover of the snow, but he hadn't accounted for the master-level wielder of the iron staff.

After dodging the arrow—which struck one of the Burials carrying the stretcher—Wolf Claw vanished like a ghost, reappearing instantly before Qiu Yuanhong. He drove a knee into Qiu Yuanhong’s hand to disarm him and then, in a blur of motion, plunged his claws into the man's chest and abdomen, leaving a dozen bloody holes. Before retreating, he threw one last mocking glance at the Burials-Commander.

Zhang Heng’s eyes widened as he expertly operated his hidden crossbow.

A third bolt flew out, striking the assassin in the arm. The assassin let out a cold, venomous hiss and melted into the ranks of the charging Manichaeans, disappearing from sight.

All of this happened in a flash, taking only a few breaths, a testament to the assassin’s terrifying speed and resolve.

Zhang Heng cradled his fallen brother, Qiu Yuanhong. The man’s mouth bubbled with blood, his face turning an ashen blue. He managed to gasp out that the iron claws were poisoned before he breathed his last.

Suppressing his agony, Zhang Heng steeled his heart and continued to lead his men in the breakout. The numbness in his leg grew more pronounced, and recalling Qiu Yuanhong’s final words, he realized he, too, had been poisoned.

After a long, brutal fight, he led the remaining thirty men off the Half-Wall Peak. Only then did he realize his suspicions were correct: the Manichaean leader had been with the head constable, Niu. This massive defeat dealt a devastating blow to the Burials, serving as the direct cause for the year of Manichaean dominance in Chang'an, during which the Burials were forced to retreat into the shadows and swallow their pride.

As for Constable Niu, he had been ambushed and killed by three masters. He was not as fortunate; he and his fifty men died on the cliffs of Half-Wall Peak, their bodies left hanging from the crags.

No one dared to collect them. It was not until the Manichaean sect was eventually destroyed that Zhang Heng returned to bury the constable on the peak. But those are stories for another time.