The Chariot Loses Control, The Situation Takes a Turn

Black smoke rose from the war chariot's right wheel as it slowly turned half a rotation, then stopped. Chen Wuya's hand still rested on the tilted drum frame, his knuckles white from gripping it too long. He did not move. His eyes were fixed on that twisted transmission rod, while the wind swept the smell of burning over the ruins by his ears.

Bai Zhi stood behind a broken wall. Her flexible sword had already returned to its sheath, yet she remained half-crouched, as though she might spring up at any moment. Her gaze swept over the battlefield before settling on the operator atop the chariot's platform—the man gripped the leather reins with both hands, his shoulders and back heaving violently. Heavy breaths came from beneath his mask, like a wild beast driven into a corner.

"It's not dead yet," Chen Wuya said quietly.

The messenger, panting, hurried over, his face caked with ash and dirt. "Chief, only four men in the assault team can still move."

"Enough." Chen Wuya raised his armor-piercing spike and tapped the edge of the drum frame twice.

Brief. Silent.

It was the signal to halt the attack. The soldiers who had been poised to strike stopped one after another. Some simply collapsed to the ground, their iron hammers slipping from their hands and smashing into the mud.

The war chariot lay still for several breaths.

Then its body gave a violent shudder.

The left wheel suddenly accelerated, dragging the enormous thing sideways to the left. Its tracks crushed over the ground, while the ruined right wheel gouged out a deep trench. An allied soldier who had fallen but was not yet dead cried out, nearly sucked beneath the chassis. At the critical moment, he rolled away, but flying metal shards slashed three bloody cuts