Staggered Formation Takes Shape, Resisting a Powerful Enemy

The broken blade was planted in the sand, its strips of cloth snapping wildly in the wind. Chen Wuya braced a hand against the hilt, his knuckles blue-white as blood mingled with sweat and ran down from his brow. He did not look up. Instead, he pressed an ear to the ground, sensing the tremors of footsteps from afar.

Heavy on the left, light on the right; their steps were orderly, yet deliberately staggered beneath that order.

"They're testing the formation," he said softly, his voice dry. "Not to break through our defenses. They're looking for the fatal weak point."

Bai Zhi stood slightly behind him to one side, her flexible sword planted against the ground, her breathing somewhat heavy. She said nothing, but her gaze swept over the fallen enemy soldiers—throats, waists, the backs of their necks, every wound had landed in an opening. These men had charged in with unstoppable momentum, but the instant they crossed the line, their rhythm had fallen apart.

"You said just now... fight more crookedly?" she finally asked.

Chen Wuya slowly lifted his eyes and looked at the remaining soldiers. Seven of them: three barely standing with their weapons as support, two sitting on the ground bandaging leg wounds, and one shaving a broken spear into a short club. Their faces were smeared with dust and blood, but their eyes were still open.

"A proper formation demands every seam fit perfectly, but people aren't walls built from stone." He slowly straightened, pulled up the broken blade, and drew three slanting lines in the sand. "We can't hold the front, so we won't. Let them come in."

"What did you say?"

"Let them charge." He pointed to the gap on the left. "First group, fall back here. Don't meet them head-on—wait until their feet