When the crisp clatter of armor plates rang out on the grassy slope, Qing Chen still had his hand on the saber at his waist.
More than thirty soldiers split into four squads, charging with something of the ferocity of hungry wolves pouncing on prey.
"Kill them, damn it!"
Qing Chen's shout had barely fallen when the soldiers at the front crashed into the bandits' makeshift camp.
One bandit was squatting beside a fire, gnawing on a cold flatbread. He had just raised his head when a blade flashed to his neck. Blood sprayed over the half-scorched bread, congealing into dark red clumps.
Another bandit wearing leg wraps had just picked up his broad axe when two soldiers attacked him from front and rear;
a saber plunged in beneath his ribs. Before a scream could escape his throat, a hand clamped over his mouth, leaving only his struggling calves twitching in terrible pain.
The soldiers outnumbered the bandits three to one, and the sudden attack caught the bandits somewhat off guard.
Three or four bandits fell in the first charge, collapsing helplessly to the ground like stalks of wheat cut down.
Blades flashed, and the sound of weapons slicing through the air rang out without cease.
But the remaining seven or eight bandits were no pushovers either. Anyone who could stake out a foothold here had blood on his hands.
Though surrounded by enemies several times their number, they continued swinging their weapons to fend them off.
Among them, the leader wielding a broad axe was especially conspicuous.
He was burly, and every swing of his axe came with the sound of air being ripped apart.
The soldier who met him head-on felt the web of his hand go numb. His saber was jolted out of his grip, flew away, and struck a rock, snapping in two.
From his observations, Qing Chen could tell that the leader's martial skills approached those of a third-rate expert, on par with his own before his breakthrough.
Each of the leader's moves carried considerable force. He was clearly no ordinary bandit.
Under his desperate leadership, the remaining bandits also erupted with astonishing fighting strength.
"Block his axe blade! Don't take it head-on!"
A veteran soldier shouted as four or five men surrounded the leader, their sabers targeting his wrists and knees.
But the leader suddenly roared and swept his axe haft sideways, slamming it squarely into a soldier's chest.
There was a sharp crack. The soldier spat blood and flew backward, striking a tree and falling silent.
In less than half an incense stick's time, more than ten corpses lay strewn across the grass.
The soldiers' blood mingled with the bandits' blood and seeped into cracks in the soil, its smell enough to turn the stomach.
Amid flashing blades, the two sides traded blows.
The dozen or so Twin Eagles Association soldiers below the slope could no longer restrain themselves. Their hands on their saber hilts, they edged two steps forward.
These were Qing Chen's own men. Each had trained in basic martial arts, and if they joined the fight, they could finish off the remaining bandits in moments.
But Qing Chen suddenly raised his hand slightly, his gaze as cold as ice.
The dozen or so soldiers stiffened and immediately stopped.
These soldiers seemed to have thought of something, and all checked their steps.
Qing Chen's voice rang out at just the right moment, carrying enough force to pierce the sounds of battle. "Brothers, these bandits are turtles in a jar! Hold on a little longer, and we can catch them all in one net!
"Ten taels of silver for every additional bandit killed! Whoever takes the bandit leader's head, I guarantee him promotion by two ranks and a reward of a hundred taels of silver!"
At this command, the twenty-odd soldiers still locked in a bitter struggle immediately rallied.
A bloodthirsty gleam kindled in their eyes, and they swung their weapons even more fiercely.
After all, retreat meant death, while advancing still offered a chance to fight for a future. With the elite troops personally led by Qing Chen overseeing the battle all around them, they had no other choice.
The bandits, however, grew increasingly panicked as the fighting went on.
Including their leader, only five remained, all wounded:
one bandit's forearm had been cut to the bone, and blood dripped through the gaps between his fingers;
another bandit's calf had been slashed open. He could only kneel on one knee, propping himself up with his saber as he barely managed to defend himself.
They all understood now. The officer opposite them had never once mentioned accepting their surrender. Clearly, he intended to slaughter every last one of them.
What puzzled them even more was that there were plainly another dozen or so elite soldiers below the slope who had not moved. If those men charged down, they would not last three exchanges.
Yet their opponent stubbornly kept those troops still. Could it be a mistake in command?
Before they could figure it out, another bandit had his throat pierced by a saber.
Now only the leader remained standing. The others were either groaning on the ground or had long since stopped breathing.
The leader's dark iron axe had also grown considerably duller, its edge nicked and curled. He panted heavily, his chest heaving violently. Sweat mixed with blood ran into his eyes, blurring his vision somewhat.
Yet he still gripped the axe haft tightly, staring at the soldiers closing in, his eyes both savage and despairing;
he knew he would most likely meet his end here today.
As for the soldiers, although they had won some victories, they had also paid a grievous price.
Of the original thirty-odd soldiers, only sixteen remained.
The entire battlefield was a wreck, with weapons scattered everywhere, some covered in blood and others already broken.
Seeing that the time had come, Qing Chen drew a deep breath.
The Jade Forging Art suddenly surged into motion within him. A hot current spread from his dantian, and his muscles instantly tightened like blocks of iron.
His feet moved, and his figure glided out like a shadow hugging the ground;
this was the Gecko Wall Traversal Art he had practiced to proficiency. Even on level ground, it let him move without a sound.
The leader was swinging his axe to force back two soldiers when he suddenly felt a draft behind him. Just as he was about to turn, Qing Chen was already at his side.
Qing Chen lightly tapped the ground with his toes and abruptly leaped up, evading the feeble sideways sweep. With the internal force of the Jade Forging Art gathered in both palms, he struck toward the leader's back with a whoosh.
Boom! When his palms landed on the leader's back, a sound like muffled thunder rang out.
The leader felt a tremendous force crash into his body, as though all his internal organs had been displaced. He spat out a mouthful of blood, and his dark iron axe fell to the ground with a clang.
He still tried to struggle around, but Qing Chen had already circled in front of him. His left hand clamped onto the leader's wrist, his right seized his belt, and he shouted, "Up!"
He bodily hoisted the man, who weighed nearly three hundred jin, then slammed him down!
Thud! The leader struck the ground heavily, making the surrounding blades of grass jump.
The bones throughout his body felt as though they had fallen apart. Blood kept welling from his mouth, and he lacked even the strength to move a finger.
His body had already been gravely injured by Qing Chen's internal force, leaving him utterly unable to resist.
Qing Chen dusted off his hands, then turned and called over several Twin Eagles Association soldiers:
"Brothers, once we return to the main camp, I, Qing Chen, will report your merits, winning titles for your wives and privileges for your sons! Take these wounded soldiers down through the tunnel first and await orders at the entrance at the foot of the mountain.
"Remember, no one is permitted to leave the group. Anyone who dares disobey will be dealt with under military law."
"Yes!"
The soldiers answered in unison, then turned to help the wounded men on the ground.
One soldier had a broken leg. With his companions supporting him by the arms, he shuffled toward the tunnel entrance one step at a time.
Blood dripped steadily from his trouser leg onto the ground, tracing a long line of blood in the morning light.
Qing Chen stood on the slope, watching their figures disappear into the darkness of the tunnel.
The wind blew toward him, carrying the smell of blood. He felt neither joy nor sorrow;
-in these chaotic times, you either killed or were killed. There was nothing to lament.