Huyantuo's head hung beside the saddle of a Blood-Clad Army cavalryman, still dripping blood.
The routed bow cavalry scattered in all directions like ants whose nest had been stabbed open.
Smoke and dust filled the air. Wails, cries, pounding hooves, and the clatter of weapons hitting the ground blended into one chaotic din that gradually faded into the distance.
The Blood-Clad Army did not rush to pursue them.
The front-rank cavalry reined in their horses, longswords hanging at their sides, blood running down the blades and dripping from the tips.
The rear-rank cavalry stowed their bows and slung their arrows, while the formation slowly drew together. The army of thirty thousand shifted from its charging wedge back into a marching formation, like spread fingers curling once more into a fist.
The entire regrouping took less than half the time it took to drink a cup of tea. There were no clamorous commands, no frantic collisions—only the dull sound of shifting hooves and the faint metallic scrape of armor.
Meng Tian reined in his horse atop a gentle slope, his gaze sweeping over the entire battlefield.
To the east, Huyantuo's routed troops scattered across the grasslands like a startled flock of birds.
Those men had lost their organization, their banners, and their commanders. No matter how far they ran, they would amount to nothing.
But they could not simply be left alone.
If tens of thousands of routed soldiers scattered, they would bring military intelligence to the enemy.
In time, they would gather again and become roving bandits, hindering the governance and livelihoods of the people afterward.
They had to be wiped out here.
Either accept their surrender, or pull up the weeds by the roots.
To the west, Mo Tu's Black-Armored Guard was still circling around.
Twenty-five thousand warhorses, twenty-five