The first sign of the Jin was not the sight of them, but the sound. A low, distant thunder that grew from a rumble to a roar, until the very ground beneath the Qiling Heights seemed to vibrate. Then, the arrows came. Not a volley, but a storm, darkening the sky before falling with a sound like tearing silk.
On the ridge, the world dissolved into a chaos of screams, shouted orders, and the brutal cacophony of metal meeting flesh. Lin Wei's world shrank to the dimensions of the forward aid station—a shallow gully carved into the reverse slope of the ridge, protected from direct arrow fire but open to the cacophony of the battle above.
The first casualties arrived not as men, but as bloodied problems. They were carried down by Sly Liu's evacuation teams, their faces pale with shock, their bodies leaking life onto the stretchers. Lin Wei's system interface, usually a silent companion, became a frantic, scrolling ledger of triage.
"[Subject: Penetrating thoracic trauma. Pneumothorax risk: High. Priority: Immediate.]"
"[Subject: Traumatic amputation, lower limb. Hemorrhagic shock imminent. Priority: Immediate.]"
"[Subject: Compound fracture, femur. Priority: Delayed.]"
There was no time for fear, no room for emotion. He became a machine of efficiency, his hands moving with a dispassionate speed that belied the horror. "Tourniquet! Here! Now!" he barked, and a trainee medic scrambled to obey.
He pointed to another soldier with a gut wound, his face already grey. "Poppy extract. Comfort measures only." The order was cold, final. It was the math of survival, and the numbers were brutal.
A few yards away, Ox Li stood like a granite monolith at the entrance to the gully, his massive arms crossed, his eyes scanning the crest of the ridge. His role was one of immense, frustrated power.
He was an engine of destruction forced to idle while chaos unfolded around him. Every scream from the aid station was a personal failure. When a Jin skirmisher, having breached the line, stumbled over the ridge with a triumphant cry, Ox Li moved. It was not a charge; it was a lightning strike.
The Jin soldier was dead before he registered the giant's presence, his neck snapped with a single, brutal twist. Ox Li dragged the body aside, clearing the field of fire, then resumed his post, a silent, blood-spattered guardian.
On the front line, Young Kuo's world was a nightmare of mud, blood, and noise. He was not a soldier; he was a scavenger of lives, crawling from wounded man to wounded man. The theoretical elegance of the training yard was a distant memory.
Here, a tourniquet had to be applied while arrows thudded into the dirt around you. Here, the "patient" was often a screaming, terrified boy trying to hold his own intestines in.
He found a regular army sergeant from the Fifth, a man named Yin, pinned to the ground by a Jin spear through his thigh. The man's eyes were wide with pain and terror. "Get it out! Get it out, you damn convict!"
Young Kuo's hands trembled violently. He fumbled with his kit, the leather straps feeling alien. The Lin Wei's calm teachings were a ghost in his mind, drowned out by the battle roar. Assess the wound. Check for arterial bleeding. He saw the pulsing, bright red blood. Artery. Tourniquet. High and tight.
"Hold still, Sergeant!" he yelled, his voice cracking. He wrapped the strip of leather high on the man's groin and pulled, twisting the windlass with a strength he didn't know he had. The sergeant screamed, but the horrific pulsing slowed to a seep. It was messy, clumsy, but it worked. As he secured the windlass, he met Sergeant Yin's eyes. The terror was still there, but now mixed with a dazed, desperate gratitude. It was the first life he had ever saved under fire. The tremor in his hands lessened, just a little.
Sly Liu moved through the battlefield like a ghost, his slight frame an advantage. His world was one of grim calculus.
He led a team of stretcher-bearers, but his eyes were constantly assessing, prioritizing. He saw a man with a bad facial wound screaming—loud, but ambulatory. Delayed. He saw another man silent, curled around a stomach wound. Expectant. He saw a young penal soldier with an arrow in his shoulder, still trying to raise his shield. Immediate.
"Him!" Liu snapped, pointing to the shoulder wound. Two bearers darted forward, dragging the man back. Liu's eyes continued to scan, also looking for opportunities. He snatched a half-full waterskin from a dead Jin soldier, slung it over his shoulder. He spotted an unbroken arrow, its head well-made, and tucked it into his belt. Supplies were supplies. His cunning, once used for survival, was now a weapon in this war of attrition.
As the sun began to set, the Jin assault slackened, replaced by an eerie, ringing silence broken only by the moans of the wounded and the crackle of burning equipment. The ridge was still theirs. They had held.
Lin Wei stood amidst the carnage of the aid station. The ground was slick with blood and discarded bandages. The air stank of rust, bile, and death. He looked at his hands, stained red to the elbow. He was exhausted to the point of numbness.
He walked among the rows of wounded, doing a final check. He saw Young Kuo, asleep sitting up against a rock, his head lolling, his hands still clutching a roll of bandages. He saw Ox Li, still standing watch, his silhouette a dark cut-out against the fire-streaked sky. He saw Sly Liu, already organizing a detail to gather unused arrows from the field.
The system's final summary of the day glowed in his vision, a cold, statistical epitaph for the horror.
"[Analysis: Casualties Treated: 187. Fatalities: 23. Return to Duty: 93. Personnel Effectiveness: Reduced by 22%. Projected Endurance: 48 hours at current casualty rate.]"
They had held. But the anvil was cracked. And the hammer was sure to fall again at dawn. The cost of this ridge was being measured in bodies, and the price was way higher than what they would think.