Beacon Smoke in Desperate Straits

The wind across the Southern Highlands carried the stench of gunpowder and blood-rust as it blew heavily over the crooked blades of the windmill. The forward position of "Earthly Heaven," once a symbol of hope and vitality, had now been reduced to scorched earth.

Temporary trenches crisscrossed the ground, soaked in dark red blood. Shattered weapons, scattered arrows, and twisted corpses silently testified to the brutality of the fighting.

Zhou Beichen stood behind a low wall reinforced with sandbags and clay. His once-neat priestly robe was covered in dust and splattered blood, and his face had been blackened by smoke. Only his eyes remained sharp as a hawk's, fixed on the enemy forces surging forward like a tide before being repelled once again.

The punitive army was far larger than originally anticipated.

The Ralte Holy See had clearly committed every force it could mobilize. Not only had the motley troops from nearby settlements all arrived, even capable guard units originally stationed at key mining sites had been redeployed. A sea of dark figures, like a plague of locusts blotting out the sky, battered the hastily constructed defenses of the highland settlement wave after wave.

Although morale remained high on the settlement's side, with the Faith Guard fighting bravely and the newly trained militia rapidly maturing through blood and fire, Zhou Beichen had also brought his theory of "venture investment" to the battlefield—constantly assessing the losses of enemy and friendly "assets," seeking out the enemy's "value depressions" for concentrated attacks, and even using the deliberate retreat of small units as bait to lure the enemy into overextending before harvesting them with prearranged traps and crossfire.

Over the past few days, they had successfully divided the massive punitive army into several groups. Exploiting their familiarity with the terrain, they wore down enemy manpower and morale layer by layer, like peeling an onion, through constant harassment, flank attacks, and night raids. A thousand-man unit led by a fanatical priest that had pushed too far ahead was lured into a narrow valley, where it suffered devastating attacks from rolling logs, falling boulders, and concentrated crossbow fire, nearly being wiped out to the last man. Another cavalry force attempting to circle around the flank was thrown into chaos by tripwires and pit traps hidden behind the dunes, then crushed by a countercharge from the Faith Guard.

Zhou Beichen's tactical command was like dancing on a knife's edge—precise and merciless. He made the utmost use of every shred of strength, minimizing the settlement's losses and buying time. To him, every soldier's sacrifice was like writing off a bad asset; it had to be exchanged for a higher "battle-loss exchange ratio."

Yet an absolute advantage in numbers was like a rising tide, something even the most exquisite tactics could not completely halt. Under relentless pressure, the settlement's defensive line inevitably contracted step by step. The outer watchtowers were taken one by one, the forward positions seized earlier were abandoned, carefully cultivated fields were ravaged by war, and even the windmill that symbolized the settlement's strength bore several clear arrow scars and broken sections on its blades.

"Priest Beichen! Trench Three on the left wing has fallen! Captain Buck is severely wounded!"

"Report! Our crossbow bolt reserves are below thirty percent!"

"The second militia unit has suffered over fifty percent casualties! They need to withdraw and recover!"

Bad news came one after another. Zhou Beichen's expression remained blank as his mind raced, as though processing transaction data on the verge of collapse. The forces in his hands were dwindling, and the depth of their defenses was shrinking. The enemy seemed to realize this as well, and their attacks grew ever more frenzied and reckless. Those fanatical Covenant Church believers, whipped into a frenzy, shouted slogans about purging heretics as they crashed like waves against the crumbling positions.

"Contract the line! Abandon the second trench! Everyone withdraw into the central stronghold!" Zhou Beichen's voice was hoarse but beyond question. "Get every wounded man who can move inside! Engineers, bury the last batch of powder jars in front of the stronghold! First Faith Guard Unit, with me! Cover the withdrawal!"

He personally seized a bloodstained spear picked up from an enemy corpse and led the last reserve unit—the elite First Faith Guard Unit—toward the breach where the fighting was fiercest. Lorgar was absent. He had to become their banner.

The battle instantly reached a fever pitch. The shriek of clashing blades, the occasional sizzling whine of laser pistols, the wails of the dying, the fanatical cries... all intertwined into a bloody symphony. Zhou Beichen wielded his spear without a trace of flourish, each movement nothing but the simplest and most efficient act of killing. The Faith Guard at his side fought like mad tigers, forming a wall of flesh with their bodies and desperately holding back the flooding enemy.

A javelin flew past Zhou Beichen's cheek, drawing a string of blood droplets. He seemed not to notice, driving his spear through the throat of an enemy soldier attempting to climb over the low wall. Warm blood sprayed across his face, carrying an iron-rust stench.

Retreat, then retreat again.

In the end, every surviving defender was compressed into the settlement's innermost area—the final stronghold built around the academy, the command post, and several of the sturdiest stone houses. Beyond that stronghold lay everything they had worked so hard to build: their home, their "Earthly Heaven."

Before the stronghold stood a dense mass of enemy troops stretching beyond sight. They regrouped. Though equally exhausted and having suffered grievous casualties, they still held an overwhelming advantage in numbers. Several bishops and commanders in ornate armor, mounted on sand beasts, appeared before the lines. Pointing at the tottering stronghold, they laughed wildly as though victory were already theirs. To them, the time had finally come to cut out this heretical tumor once and for all.

The last powder jars were detonated, blasting apart the foremost wave of enemy troops. The rising dust temporarily obscured the battlefield, but it was only a final struggle. When the dust settled, more enemy soldiers crept closer like bloodthirsty wolves.

Zhou Beichen leaned against the icy stone wall, gasping violently. Sweat and blood ran together down his chin. The laser pistol's energy had long been exhausted, and his spear had snapped in half. He looked around. Fewer than a hundred warriors beside him could still stand. Every one of them was wounded. Though their eyes still showed no intention of retreating, a trace of despair had inevitably seeped in.

The calculations seemed to have reached their end. The "assets" were about to be wiped out. He had underestimated the enemy's numbers and overestimated the resilience of their defenses. Could it be... that this gamble was truly about to end in total ruin?

Just as despair seeped into his heart like icy water—

An unusual disturbance arose from behind the enemy lines.

At first, it was only a faint clamor, like distant thunder. Soon, it became distinct, chaotic shouting, mixed with the clash of weapons and some kind of... terrified screams?

Zhou Beichen abruptly raised his head and strained to look toward the rear of the enemy formation. The terrain and smoke made it hard to see clearly, but he could distinctly feel the enemy's formation, which had been pressing forward like an immovable mountain, beginning to break apart.

Then he saw it.

On the horizon behind the enemy army, beneath the orange-red sky stained by war and blood, a straight column of dense black beacon smoke rose in rolling waves, carrying a pungent smell. Like a black dragon proclaiming judgment, it bared its fangs and claws as it tore through the heavens.

It was in Ralte's direction!

It was Lorgar's signal!

They had succeeded! The plan had succeeded! Ralte had been taken!

An indescribable surge of heat instantly swept away the coldness and despair in Zhou Beichen's heart. It was as though fresh strength had been poured into his exhausted body. He straightened abruptly, raised the broken half of his spear high, pointed it at that beacon of hope, and roared in a voice hoarse yet thunderous:

"Brothers! Look over there! Lorgar succeeded! Ralte is ours!"

"Our reinforcements have cut off their retreat! These bastards are trapped in a jar!"

"For Earthly Heaven! Follow me—counterattack!"

That roar was like a spark thrown into an oil depot, instantly igniting the fading flames in the hearts of every surviving defender!

"Counterattack!"

"For the Son of God! For Earthly Heaven!"

Despair turned into fury, and exhaustion was replaced by exhilaration! The warriors who had been defending behind the stronghold surged out of cover like lions breaking free of their chains. Following Zhou Beichen, they launched a desperate countercharge at the enemy army thrown into chaos!

At the same time, the rear of the punitive army descended into total disorder!

Countless soldiers originally from Ralte—conscripted auxiliary troops whose morale had already been low, and even some of Ralte's regular guards—saw the beacon smoke rising in the direction of their homeland. When they heard terrifying rumors spreading from the rear that "Ralte has fallen" and "the heretics have taken our nest," their morale instantly collapsed!

"Our homes are gone!"

"Run!"

"Fall back! Reinforce Ralte!"

Panic spread like a plague. The church knights assigned to supervise the troops cut down several deserters, but they could not stop the rout of the entire rear army. Soldiers threw aside their armor and weapons, fleeing desperately back the way they had come, toward Ralte, scattering the previously intact formation into complete disarray.

The enemy troops at the front were enduring the sudden, frenzied counterattack of Zhou Beichen and the defenders, while the forces behind them had already begun fleeing for themselves. Command completely failed, and the entire punitive army fell into unprecedented chaos!

Just as the chaos reached its peak—

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Deep, earthshaking horn blasts rang out from the punitive army's flank! Along with the horns, an enormous banner embroidered with the image of a clenched fist pressed against a chest appeared on the hillside to the side! Beneath that banner stood a dark mass of fresh troops, as if divine soldiers had descended from the heavens!

It was Lorgar! After leaving behind the necessary personnel to control Ralte, he had personally led the main force of the rebel army organized by the propaganda department, along with routed soldiers absorbed along the way from what had originally been the punitive army's rear forces. They had rushed here at top speed and completed an iron-walled encirclement of the punitive army!

Lorgar charged at the front. He did not even use a weapon, relying solely on his inhuman strength and speed as he crashed into the disordered enemy ranks like a war chariot! Wherever he passed, men and beasts were thrown sprawling, while the sound of shattering bones rang without end! The rebel army behind him surged like a flood bursting through a dam, slamming violently into the punitive army's already overwhelmed flank!

Before them was the savage counterattack of cornered beasts; at their side, the unstoppable assault of fresh troops; behind them, the impact of their own routed soldiers and the psychological blow of their homeland's fall... The punitive army, this enormous force that had been brimming with confidence and aggression only moments ago, utterly collapsed.

Resistance became scattered and feeble. The soldiers wanted only to escape, while the officers could not organize any effective counterattack. Flight, surrender, pursuit, slaughter... the battlefield became a one-sided massacre and chase.

Zhou Beichen halted his charge. Leaning on the broken half of his spear, he gasped violently as he watched the dramatic, complete reversal unfold before him. He watched Lorgar's figure carve through the enemy ranks like a god of war, watched the rebel banners snap in the wind among the enemy, watched the once-arrogant foes scatter like homeless dogs...

Slowly, he raised a hand and wiped the blood from his face. Looking toward the black beacon smoke still curling upward in Ralte's direction, the corner of his mouth finally lifted into a relieved smile that was nevertheless filled with endless coldness.

"Close the gate..." he murmured. "Beat the dog."

The afterglow of the setting sun spilled across the corpse-strewn battlefield like molten gold, dyeing both victory and death with a tragic yet glorious hue. The Defense of the Southern Highlands came to an end in a manner almost miraculous.