On the high ground flanking both wings, at the artillery positions, taut strings had been drawn to their absolute limit.
The gunners crouched behind their cannons, fingers clenched tight around the firing rods, their knuckles white as sweat from their palms soaked into the wooden grips.
Their gazes crossed the earthen barricades, crossed the trenches, crossed that stretch of low ground, fixed unwaveringly on the slaughter unfolding in the distance.
The Xiongnu vanguard had already charged into the Qin Army camp.
Fleeing soldiers scattered through the camp in every direction. Some were cut down by curved blades, some were sent flying by warhorses, and some knelt on the ground only to be split open from behind by Xiongnu cavalry.
The tents had been set ablaze. Thick smoke billowed, and flames shot into the sky.
Screams, pounding hooves, the sound of curved blades cleaving bone and flesh, the Xiongnu's unbridled roars—all blended together like a cauldron of boiling blood, surging up from the low ground and pouring into every gunner's ears.
A young gunner watched helplessly as a Yan surrender soldier was caught by Xiongnu cavalry. A curved blade chopped into the man's back; he crashed to the ground and never rose again.
His hand jerked violently, and the firing rod nearly slipped from his grasp.
"Hold steady!"
The Squad Leader gave a start and seized his arm.
His voice trembled. It was as though he were speaking to himself as much as to those beside him. "The general has his own plans. A small impatience will ruin a great strategy. Endure it! Hold the line!"
The Centurion stood like a statue, eyes locked on the vast black mass in the distance—on the Xiongnu cavalry jammed into the passage, packed tightly together, unable to advance or retreat.
His hand was shaking