This time, Xia did not lead with ladders. They advanced in a shallow arc, shields locked, spears angled, coming in at a steady pace that dared Qi to answer in kind. Behind the front, a second line carried something low and boxy on their shoulders.
"Carts?" Wei squinted. "No wheels."
"Rams," Li Qiang said. "Covered. They want the gate itself."
Ziyan's gaze slid to the north gate below. The outer doors, reforged from Zhang's last disaster, sat thick and scorched. Behind them, the inner barrier—braced with timbers and iron—waited. Behind that, an open-way lined with murder holes and angled stone.
And beyond that, the city.
"We knew this was coming," Ziyan said. "We planned for it. We do not panic."
"Speak for yourself," Wei muttered, but his grip on the spear was steady.
Arrows met the advancing shields, thudding into layered planks and leather. Some found gaps; men went down, new men stepped into their place. Xia's formation did not break. It slowed, just enough for Ziyan to judge distance.
"Pitch on their rear," she called. "Sand in front of them. Make them choose slipping or burning."
It worked, partially. Buckets tipped, torches flew. Fire licked at the edges of the shield wall, forcing the back rows to stamp and curse. Sand turned the churned snow to a sludge that bogged their boots. But still, the rams came on, like low, blind animals pushed toward a door they had never seen.
The first impact against the gate shuddered through the stone up to the parapet.
The second left fresh cracks spidering across the beams.
"Third will cost us something," Li Qiang said.
"Yes," Ziyan said. "That's when we open."
Wei stared at her. "Open—"
She pointed, swift, precise, at the rough sketch she'd had Shuye carve into the merlon days ago: the open-throat plan. Let a certain number of enemies through. Pull back. Close the inner doors behind them. Turn the narrow entry into a trap where numbers became liability.
"We agreed," she said. "We make the city a throat too narrow to swallow."
Wei swallowed. "I liked that metaphor better when there wasn't a battering ram in it."
"Inner door crews ready," Ziyan called. "Han holds the river side. Zhao the east alleys. Shuye—"
"Already there," came his voice below, faint but firm.
The third impact cracked the north gate.
The fourth broke it.
Wooden planks split inward, iron fittings sheared, hinges screamed. The outer doors fell in pieces, one half hanging by a stubborn strap, the other crashing to the stone and bouncing once with a hollow, sick sound.
Xia soldiers shouted. The shield wall surged, funneling toward the breach.
"Now," Ziyan said.
The inner barrier flew open.
For a heartbeat the wolves thought the sheep had panicked. They poured in.
Arrows from above caught the first ranks. Rocks dropped from hidden holes in the ceiling of the passage, knocking helmets down onto noses, shoulders into knees. Pitch jars, cracked open earlier and hidden in the floor joints, ignited with a roar.
Men fell. Men pushed past those who fell. The weight of those behind made the chaos an advantage; the first thirty yards of the entryway were suddenly full—shields, spears, rams abandoned where they stuck.
"Enough," Ziyan murmured.
Li Qiang relayed the order. The inner gates slammed.
Heavy beams dropped into place with a sound like finality. The wolves who had rushed in found themselves in a stone throat whose teeth had just closed. Behind them, outside, their comrades slammed against now-closed doors, too late.
From above, through deliberately carved slits, Qi poured down everything it had learned about killing in tight spaces.
Boiling water. Sand. Arrows shot near-vertical, punching through joints in armor. Shuye had saved a last, smaller jar for this moment; its bloom of fire sucked the air out of the trapped soldiers' lungs, turning shouts into coughing silence.
Wei, standing at one of the murder holes, looked down without smiling. "You wanted the gate," he said softly. "Enjoy it."
It was brutal work. It was also short.
When the noise within the passage dwindled to nothing but the hiss of cooling stone and the small, almost apologetic whisper of steam, Ziyan gave a single nod.
"Open," she said.
They lifted the beams. The inner gate creaked. The passage beyond was a charred, wet ruin, bodies piled in grotesque configurations, shields warped, spears snapped. Smoke curled out, meeting the cold air and turning thin.
The outer breach, beyond, was briefly empty. Xia's front line had fallen back a few steps, shocked by the sudden stillness where their comrades had vanished.
"Hold fire," Ziyan ordered. "Let them see."
They did.
For a long, strange heartbeat, the battlefield quieted. Even the sleet seemed to draw back. Xia soldiers stared into the passage, faces hidden behind visors and beneath helms, but posture saying enough.