Chapter 81: Seizing the Bridge (VI)
A tremendous roar echoed along both banks of the Bo Yi River, so powerful that even the horses of the Tubo warriors felt its force, pawing anxiously at the ground. Standing atop a rise, Xidongzan gently stroked the mane of his beloved steed, trying to calm it. The shouts of the Tang soldiers made him frown; he had not expected this small detachment to be so tenacious. It seemed arrows alone would not be enough to end this quickly. A vague unease crept over him—was there some hidden factor he did not know of? Despite his intelligence, he could not fathom what the Tang might do. Yet their empire, vast and oppressive as a dark sky, weighed upon him, making it hard to breathe.
Dawn was near, and the wall of fire behind the Tang was quickly dwindling, soon to be extinguished. He knew the stalemate could not continue. If he waited much longer, even if he destroyed this squad, it would only embolden the other Tang soldiers. In that instant, Xidongzan reached a decision.
“Order five hundred men from each of the left and right camps to charge forward and annihilate them all,” he commanded brusquely, his gaze fixed on the arrogant figure less than a hundred paces away. For a moment, he could not be sure whether this was the man he sought, but he issued his orders without hesitation.
Of course, he had no intention of deploying his own elite troops—the lives of the Tubo people were too precious, reserved for the most crucial moment. As for the land of Bolü, which he had already decided to abandon, what use were its people now that its territory was lost? Let them serve the great Son of Heaven one last time.
Soon, the sound of bugles rose in succession. The Tang soldiers’ cries faded away. From both sides of the bridge, countless torches were raised high, surging toward the small squad encircled at the center. In no time, the blaze swallowed that tiny patch of darkness.
Watching the chaotic advance, Xidongzan showed little surprise. With eight or nine times the numbers, surely exhaustion alone would bring down these Tang soldiers.
Liu Ji had been in this era for some time now and had experienced more than one clash of cold steel. Yet as the Tubo foot soldiers, brandishing torches and weapons, charged forward with wild shouts, he could feel his blood surge, adrenaline flooding his veins. Excitement shone in his eyes; it seemed that in this sixteen-year-old body, the word “fear” had never existed.
Of course, this was but a façade. The nightmare that had once awakened him was a vivid reminder of reality. Now, Liu Ji truly felt no fear of death. A faint smile played at his lips, a bloodthirsty thrill rising within him. He could no longer distinguish whether it belonged to his old self or the original owner of this body—perhaps the two had already merged.
At this moment, he wore a fully enclosed helmet of refined iron weighing over five pounds, unlike the simple caps of ordinary soldiers. His armor was composed of 1,752 iron plates, each precisely two inches and a tenth long, seven-tenths wide, meticulously forged by scores of craftsmen and tightly bound with oxhide cords onto supple leather. From cheeks, ears, neck, and throat down to torso, upper arms, belly, thighs, knees, and shins, every inch was protected. On his chest gleamed a bronze mirror, polished to a bright reflection and adding another layer of defense to his vital organs—a matching plate protected his back. This was the standard equipment of a Tang warrior.
Mingguang Armor!
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Fully armored and armed to the teeth, Liu Ji was suddenly reminded of a famous comic book film from later times—Iron Man. Behind him stood a hundred and fifty men clad in the same steel shell; across the Bo Yi River, more than ten thousand similarly armored warriors; around the Tubo-held territories, over two hundred thousand more; and across the vast lands of Tang, over seven hundred thousand men clad in such armor. This was the most direct expression of Tang’s national strength.
This was the foundation for the emperor of Chang’an to expand the borders for forty years without hesitation.
This was the confidence that allowed Gao Xianzhi to take twenty thousand brave men and march eight hundred li to face a vast coalition of foreign armies alone.
And this was why Liu Ji dared to stand here and face thousands of Tubo soldiers head-on!
Those who don the heaviest armor and sharpest weapons must stand at the vanguard.
“Prepare to die!”
Only when the Tubo light infantry drew near enough for their faces to be clearly seen did Liu Ji seize the hilt of his unfamiliar blade. With a gentle lift, the two-meter-long weapon swept up a cloud of earth as he raised it overhead, swinging it down with a gust of wind, the scent of soil in its wake.
There was nothing fancy about the strike, nor was it especially fast, yet the enemy could not evade it. With men packed tightly on all sides, the only space to move was straight ahead. The first thing the middle-aged Bolü foot soldier did was throw down his torch and grasp the blade with his bare hands, attempting to block the blow.
In the eighth century, the total global iron output was less than that of a single modern town’s steelworks, and the quality was even poorer. Most Bolü soldiers wielded sharpened wooden poles—many arrows did not even have iron tips. This middle-aged man, possessing an iron blade, was already a centurion like Duoguli. But even so, the blade was little more than a strip of iron.
With a metallic clang, the thirty-pound unfamiliar blade crashed down like a sledgehammer, forcing the man to his knees, blade and all. With nowhere left to dodge, the keen edge split his felt cap, skull, and sent blood spurting. Before the blade reached the ground, Liu Ji twisted against its momentum, pivoted aside to evade a wooden spear, and braced his legs. Strength surged from his waist and abdomen as he dragged the long blade behind him in a sweeping arc, bringing it full circle in front of him.
A sweep that could break a thousand lines!
The blade, a full meter and a half long, outmatched the Bolü spears. With a sudden horizontal sweep, he formed a concentric circle with himself at its center—anything within that circle could meet only one fate.
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Death.
Many Bolü foot soldiers, unable to check their momentum in time, did not scream until their upper bodies were already severed from their lower halves.
“Loose!”
Duoguli stood at the center of the Tang formation, surveying the battlefield. He had not acted until now for two reasons: first, the enemy, like themselves, was composed of locals conscripted by the Tubo; and second, the Tang had given no order, or if they had, it was in their own tongue, which he could not understand.
From three directions, the Tang formations were identical, each like the head of an arrow pointed at the enemy. At each arrow’s tip, without exception, stood the Tang officer of highest rank—such as the young Tang man before him.
What astonished him further was that every Tang infantryman wore exquisite full-body armor—a remarkable feat. Even the elite Tubo cavalry led by their nobles had less than half their number armored, with a mix of heavy and light. Yet among the Tang, whether the hundred or so here, the thousands across the river, or the tens of thousands beyond, all were thus equipped. The balance in his heart shifted a little more toward the Tang, for who would not wish to follow the strong?
At last, the silent Tang archers let loose their voices. At his command, more than forty arrows whistled toward their comrades less than thirty paces away.
The brutal melee had begun. The small Tang formation, like a lone boat on a raging sea, was engulfed by the surging tide—yet stubbornly emerged again, refusing to sink.