Sand City was destined to know no peace that night. The long horn calls rode the rushing wind, mingling with hoofbeats and marching footsteps, reaching every ear in the city with perfect clarity.
The sound was like a terrifying wail from the depths of the underworld, borne on a cold wind. It kept them awake, their hearts pounding with dread. Those hiding in secret rooms could still watch events outside through concealed windows, but those sheltering in cellars knew nothing at all, making them even more anxious. They could only clutch the cloth bags against their chests, feeling the faint chill of the Livre through the fabric to find a little comfort.
No snoring could be heard in the Herbal Medicine Shop anymore. Half an hour earlier, the uproar had jolted Cobert awake.
Rather than hide away like everyone else, he had run out of the shop empty-handed and headed toward the recruitment camp.
The buildings here differed somewhat from those in the cavalry camp. They were a little larger, and instead of monotonous stone bricks and slabs, they were built from wooden boards and vines, giving them all manner of shapes.
After sprinting the whole way, Cobert stopped, panting, before a sloping-roofed building shaped like a hammer.
This building was made neither of stone nor of wood, but entirely of forged iron plates. Its surface was dark black, reflecting a flickering silvery sheen in the distant firelight. It was easy to imagine that this iron house was sturdier than solid rock.
The only bladeproof, spearproof house in Sand City was precisely Cobert's destination. He pounded frantically on its black door, bolted from within, and shouted inside:
"Open up! Hurry, open the door! White, my friend! It's me!"
His shouting continued for ten seconds before a reply from inside briefly interrupted his relentless cries.
"Who's there?!" The voice was deep and solid as iron, making the listener's heart tremble as though a hammer had struck it.
Delighted, he raised his voice even higher. "It's me! Your little brother Bert!"
There was a brief silence inside before a muttered reply came. "Oh, it's you, you rascal."
Hurried footsteps followed. The bolt clicked, the gap in the door widened, and White's face appeared.
It was a rugged face, with sharply defined features and wheat-colored skin. Though his brow bore a hint of age, he looked far more vigorous than an ordinary man in his fifties.
Compared with Cobert, however, whose handsome face was at odds with his age, White looked like his father.
He looked both ways, confirmed that no one else was outside, then thrust an arm through the doorway and hauled Cobert inside.
The room was pitch-black, save for the feeble flame of an oil lamp on the central wooden table. It flickered fitfully, giving off soft, soothing crackles.
"You old rascal, you've got some nerve, running outside at a time like this! Wait, where's your bundle?" White looked him up and down, a trace of puzzlement in his sharp eyes. Although he had not dealt with this fellow much, he knew perfectly well that the old monster Cobert was anything but indifferent to money. He was cunning through and through, with a monkey in his arms, another at his waist, and another on his back-more monkey than any monkey.
Cobert spread his hands. "Come on, old man. At a time like this, who can worry about taking money along?" Now that he was inside, his tone had returned to normal. He did not believe White would actually haul him back out.
As he spoke, he admired the silvery gleam above the wavering lamplight and strolled leisurely toward the bed. He gave its pale gray edge a disdainful pat, then plopped down on it.
"Hah. So you've come running here to save your hide, and you still have the nerve to act like you own the place?" White's face darkened slightly. He was clearly displeased.
"Hmph. Who told you to make this advanced smithy so indestructible? Even if Sand City falls, this iron house won't suffer the slightest damage. We can stay here safely for a few days, then go out once order has been restored. With my status, I can guarantee you safe passage out of Sand City then." Cobert spoke with evident satisfaction, relaxing his back and slowly reclining on the bed as though it were his own.
White's expression darkened completely. He had still underestimated this old bastard's shamelessness. To think he could say something so brazen.
His brows lowered, and he growled, "Martin, throw this damned member of the Fulin Taiyou People out!"
As his voice fell, footsteps sounded from a dark corner. A broad face emerged in the lamplight. With stone-like features and an eight-foot frame, the man approached with an overwhelming presence.
"Oh, your apprentice's here too!" Cobert promptly sat upright, his face wreathed in an ingratiating smile.
"Uncle Bert, this way, please. You ought to know Master's temper." Martin extended a hand, signaling for him to get up and leave.
"Little Martin, stay right there. Let me have another private word with your master." Cobert rose and approached White.
"Who wants a private word with you? You ill-mannered bastard, get out of here!"
"What if it's news about your nephew?" That single sentence from Cobert changed White's expression.
A mighty wind rose, sending clouds flying; silver pellets fell from the sky, hammering backs. The dark tide of troops surged forward like a swarm of ants. Their faces were indistinct in the firelight, but the cold gleam of their weapons could be seen from afar.
The Seven Kingdoms' warhorses and blades were inferior to the Holy Temple's, and their wagons and ships fell short of those of the Viking Tribes. But when it came to bows, polearms, siege engines, and military formations, those rivals were mere amateurs beside masters, sons standing before their fathers.
Once the enemy's arrows had nearly run out, the Seven Kingdoms Coalition swiftly recovered from the chaos and rushed toward the city gates.
Heaven was merciless, treating all living things as straw dogs. Just as the situation began to change, the wind shifted again, turning from west to east.
As the vanguard, equipped with long ladders, river-crossing apparatus, and cut logs, approached the moat, Qin Zihui gave an order from the rear: "Loose!"
Whoosh!
The wind swirled, and heaven and earth seemed to freeze. Only the rain of arrows moved, so dense that not a single gap could be seen, descending through the skies toward Sand City's distant walls, where beacon fires flickered.
Among the Seven Kingdoms, the Qin Kingdom possessed the strongest archery. Its troops were accustomed to unleashing immense volleys before the armies clashed, suppressing and wearing down the enemy. This was their specialty. As commander of the coalition, how could Qin Zihui have failed to account for that night's wind?
The longbows in the soldiers' hands were called Windrider Bows. They ranked among the finest of the Qin Kingdom's hundred varieties of bow and were commonly known as Ten-Thousand-Ox Bows.
The Ten-Thousand-Ox Bow measured three feet three inches long and resembled a pair of ox horns. Its grip was broad and rounded, while its limbs were relatively flat. Contrary to its name, it was not made from ten thousand oxen. Instead, its body was formed by pressing together six different kinds of bow wood. The words "ten thousand oxen" referred figuratively to its string.
The toughest, most elastic back sinews were taken from five breeds of cattle-two-horned, black-horned, red-haired, flat-hoofed, and flat-nosed-and twisted together. Drying, stretching, soaking in honey water, and more than a dozen other procedures followed. Only after a painstaking process lasting six times six, thirty-six days, could this exceptionally tough and elastic composite bowstring be produced.
The composite bow body, paired with this outstanding string capable of withstanding a hundred pounds of force, delivered even greater power. Its arrows could fly against the wind or glide with it, doubling their range. Hence the name Windrider Bow.
And that was not all. With such care lavished on the Windrider Bow, how could the deadly arrows it fired be any less meticulously crafted?
The arrow shafts were narrow at the front, rounded in the middle, and flat at the rear to ensure smooth, stable flight. The diamond-shaped arrowheads had four symmetrical openings, minimizing deviations in their landing points regardless of whether they flew with or against the wind. Their fletching came from the smooth, supple tail feathers of long-feathered sparrows. These birds, abundant throughout the Qin Kingdom, were valuable from head to toe and were known there as Arrow Spirit Birds.
All these details came together to forge the Windrider Bow's fearsome reputation.
The whistle of arrows rang beside the ears of the knights on the walls. Impacts like striking vipers sent their tightly gripped iron shields humming, scattering sparks.
Black arrow shafts bristled everywhere-in the walls, beside their feet, and across the watchtowers-as thick as autumn reeds.
The knights gathered at the gate were caught in the arrow rain as well. They immediately crouched, round shields rising one after another through the gaps between them, swiftly joining into a solid barrier that kept every arrow out. In an instant, a patter like falling beans erupted amid flying sparks, illuminating the night as though a rare rain of fire were falling.
Beneath his shield, Kanni gripped his sword hilt, longing to leap up and charge through the gate to slaughter the enemy. But the fierce arrow rain never let up. He was certain it was even more oppressive than the Qin Kingdom army's nearly fatal volley he had endured before. Like an unseen whirlpool in a pitch-black sea, its motion seemed still, leaving him unable to breathe.
Nearly every knight was seething with anger, yet none could rise beneath the suppressing rain of arrows to do anything. The same held true atop the walls, save for one dazzling patch of green light.
The mark on Yetos's forehead lit up. At his mental command, a green barrier floated into being around his entire body. Every incoming arrow snapped on contact, its head and shaft breaking into several pieces at his feet without producing so much as a spark.
An identical green barrier enveloped Zeng Mu, allowing him to ignore the incoming arrows and remain standing as before.
As he watched the army draw closer and closer, a faint ripple disturbed Yetos's composed expression. Then his largely emotionless voice sounded beside Zeng Mu's ear. "Nameless, remember, don't reveal your hand lightly. That fellow won't be easy to deal with. You must wait for the right moment to strike."
"Understood."
Yetos had already given him a rough account of Qin Zihui. The man was an extraordinary talent. At ten, he had beaten a wild boar to death with his own hands. At sixteen, he had become the Qin Kingdom's youngest Elementalist, earning a personal audience with the late king of Qin and recruitment into the army. In just five or six years, experience had honed him into a gifted commander who repeatedly distinguished himself in battle. Now, another four or five years later, he was a Purple-Pattern General commanding ten thousand men. Such a figure was hard to find anywhere in the Qin Kingdom, or even across the Seven Kingdoms.
Moreover, he was an Elementalist in the Willful Realm while still in his twenties!
Nearly every enemy who had faced him had muttered inwardly, Oh, what a difficult opponent. His body and mind act as one, leaving scarcely an opening.
It was precisely because of such misgivings that all those opponents had fallen to Qin Zihui's sword.
But Yetos had no such misgivings now, nor did Zeng Mu. In their hearts, there was only one thought: Whether Sand City lives or dies rests upon my sword.
Under cover of the suppressing arrow rain, the dark tide surged to the edge of the moat. The Seven Kingdoms Coalition's siege had finally begun in earnest.
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