Boosting Morale, Preparing for the Final Battle

The wooden stake rolled to his feet. Chen Wuya glanced down, bent to pick it up. The soldier lay sprawled on the ground, gasping, his face smeared with dirt as he scrambled to get back up. Without a word, Chen Wuya aligned the stake with a crack in the ground and gently pressed it in.

"If the formation falls but the men remain, it can be raised again."

His voice was not loud, yet it reached several soldiers nearby who were clearing the wreckage. Someone stopped moving and looked up at him.

Chen Wuya did not look at the man again. He turned and stepped onto the raised platform. It had been hastily erected the night before for command, one corner already trampled down, its crossbeams crooked—but it could still bear a man's weight. Standing atop it, his gaze cleared the crowd and fell upon the snowfield on the northern slope, churned to ruin beneath countless feet.

A sizable crowd had already gathered below. There were wounded soldiers fresh from bandaging, sentries crouched beside the fires with blades in their arms, and veterans and recruits who had come from every camp. All of them bore traces of the night before—blood seeping through bandages, dents in their armor, and lingering terror still clouding their eyes.

He knew what they feared.

Thirty-seven coffins had already been prepared, lined up behind the camp. No one wept, yet something heavier than tears hung in the air.

"Seven days ago, when we buried the first tripwire," he began, "none of us knew whether it could stop the iron cavalry."

The ground below fell silent.

"Five days ago, you laughed that 'Misstep' looked like a drunkard's walk." He paused. "Last night, that drunken step made an enemy general die beneath his own men's blades."

Someone gave