Fighting Alone, Holding the Line

The broken blade was planted in the sand, Chen Wuya's hand still resting on it, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. Hoofbeats drew ever closer, making the ground tremble faintly. He could feel that pressure rising layer by layer from the foot of the slope.

Bai Zhi stood half a step behind him, her flexible sword held across her chest as her gaze swept over the enemy formation. She said nothing, but her shoulders were drawn tight, as though she were ready to pounce at any moment.

"They're here." Chen Wuya spoke, his voice hoarse as if it had been scraped raw by grit.

The moment his words fell, three squads of black-armored cavalry rushed to either side of the high ground. The left and right wings abruptly reined in, no longer pressing a direct assault but fanning out in an arc to seal off every route of retreat. The central squad kept a measured pace, shieldbearers in front and spearmen in the middle, their steps uniform as they advanced toward the crest one stride at a time.

This was not a charge. It was a crushing advance.

A rain of arrows poured down after them, the shriek of their flight unceasing. Several defenders raised shields to block them, but a stray arrow still slipped through a gap and buried itself in a soldier's shoulder hollow. The man grunted and dropped to his knees, yet he still clung desperately to his spear.

"Hold!" Chen Wuya roared, his throat burning with pain.

He bent down and pulled the broken blade from the ground, then turned to face the dozen-odd remaining defenders. Blood and sand stained their faces. Some had strips of cloth wound around their arms, while the corners of others' mouths had split open, but their eyes