"Enemy troops incoming!"
A soldier shouted the warning, and Lester Liew felt his mind go blank. He stared in shock at the dark silhouettes galloping ever closer, unable to move.
The sound of horses neighing split the air. The rear grain convoy—already ambushed that morning—now faced another attack by dusk. The porters who had just escaped with their lives broke down entirely, scattering in panic.
With that, the whole formation descended into chaos. Cries of alarm and screams of pain melded together. Even the wounded officer leading the other convoy turned his sword not on the enemy but on his own men.
Those who fled were hunted down by mounted soldiers and struck down without mercy.
About thirty or forty enemy riders surged forward, each one towering and clad in garb unlike anything worn in the Sheng Empire. They rode tall, powerful horses, charging headlong through the convoy, wheeling back to slash again in a vicious cycle.
A flash of silver caught Lester's eye, blinding him for an instant. He instinctively raised his arms to block—"Pfft!"—a sickening crunch of blade through flesh. The porter beside him collapsed with a howl, blood splattering across Lester's face, warm and metallic.
Before he could process the horror, Officer Rex's bellow echoed across the chaos:
"Draw your weapons! Defend the grain wagons—no one moves without orders!"
"They're just thirty-odd savages! There are hundreds of you! Six to one odds—what are you afraid of?!"
The fear stoked by that initial assault ebbed slightly.
One stout-hearted porter roared back, "To hell with it—we fight!"
The men's blood surged with fury. They raised their sabers and shouted, "We fight!"
Lester couldn't join the shouting—because the cavalry had shifted targets. The enemy was charging straight toward his convoy now.
They were mounted and fast. Without hesitation, Lester propped his saber upright and crouched beneath the grain wagon.
A thunder of hooves passed just above him, followed by curses and cries of pain.
The enemy riders had charged too close—only to be met by a forest of sabers suddenly jutting from under the wagons. Horses and riders tumbled.
Before the injured invaders could rise, Rex's spear drove in, merciless and fatal.
Lester wiped the blood off his face and looked up—only to meet a pair of mocking eyes.
Damn it. That sneer on Officer Rex's face looked just like the one Clara wore when she had him by the ear.
Even a clay figurine had its temper. Gritting his teeth, Lester scrambled out from under the wagon and grabbed the arm of his fallen companion.
He'd thought the man was a goner. But by some miracle, it was just a gash on the arm—albeit a deep one that had sprayed blood across Lester's face.
No time to think. Lester glanced around, ripped a piece off his own shirt, and hastily wrapped the wound.
Quentin Wang sucked in a pained breath. But the pain grounded him—he spat blood and snatched a saber from the wagon, shooting Lester a fiery look: "Brother, let's take them down!"
Who hadn't thrown fists in their youth? Who was afraid now?
Lester peeked at the enemy's gleaming blades and muttered darkly, "Easy there, Quentin. Just guard the grain wagon."
Quentin frowned. Who knew if another wave was coming? They couldn't just keep fending them off like this.
Lester saw the worry in his eyes. He shared it.
If the enemy used arrows next, they'd be done for. None of them had armor.
But what could he do?
He wasn't Clara. He couldn't take on these towering brutes.
Wait—what would Clara do?
Lester let out a bitter laugh. If it were her, she wouldn't even hesitate—she'd charge right in. These savages would be little more than appetizers.
No—wait! She wasn't just brawn. She had tactics.
How had she scared off the bandits on New Year's Eve last year?
"Catch the leader first!" Lester suddenly shouted.
He frantically searched for Officer Rex and yelled again, "Sir! Catch the leader first!"
The men braced themselves as the enemy cavalry began their third charge.
Rex heard the cry. His brow twitched, but he didn't turn.
Lester didn't know if the officer had heard him, so he kept yelling, again and again, "Take the head! Kill their leader!"
Quentin and the others stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Brother, stop yelling—you'll get us all punished!"
A commander like Rex didn't need some porter's advice.
But Lester didn't care. He just wanted to live.
If they didn't take out the leader, these porters would end up as cannon fodder on this endless grassland.
Dusk had fallen. Shadows blurred the battlefield.
No one could clearly see their enemies—but if the savages intended to burn the grain, they didn't need light.
Lester cursed his own brain for working too well. He knew what was coming.
Sure enough, just as he feared, clusters of orange sparks began to flare across the dark field.
Lester's scalp tingled. Heavens above! Can't you just let us live?!
If the grain burned, they were as good as dead.
And so his cry rang out again and again into the night: "Sir, take the head! Kill their leader!"
At last, a voice roared back, furious and humiliated—
"Shut the hell up! You think I need you to tell me?!"
If he could see which one was the leader, he'd have done it already!
Besides, he had no bow. Killing a commander was easier said than done.
All they could do now was fight the fire.
As the flames neared, Rex ordered everyone to strip off their outer robes, soak them with water, and cover the grain carts.
Lester obeyed in silence, bitterly thinking, Not good enough, Rex. You can't even take out the enemy's head. You're nothing compared to my wife.
Then the real battle began.
Rex led his eleven soldiers in a charge, but that was all they had. The other convoy's leader? Nowhere to be found—staying put, offering no support.
Lester cursed under his breath. In the midst of it, one of the Northern savages swept in like a reaper, swinging his blade toward the porters as if mowing wheat.
The enemy's fire gave them perfect visibility. The porters, by contrast, were half-blind in the dark.
The blood-slick blade arced toward them. In Quentin and the others' stunned gaze, Lester dodged once, twice, then three, four, five times—twisting and ducking, untouched.
He might not be great at everything, but dodging? That, he'd mastered to perfection.
If even a Northern brute could touch a single strand of his hair—
he'd count it a loss.
(End of Chapter)
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