The air fractured as Yu Liao bellowed his retreat orders, the central army's horn piercing the tension. The encircling troops, battle-hardened and obedient, instantly wheeled around. But fate, disguised as a flash flood, was already upon them. Gathered from the high mountains, the torrent didn't just rush—it erupted, a terrifying force of mud, sand, and house-sized rocks.
In a horrifying instant, the central army was swallowed. Soldiers, their northern roots leaving them ill-suited to the water, were swept away before their minds could register the danger. The once-shallow Mang River was now a maelstrom, impossible to cross. A personal guard, seeing the rolling boulders, spurred his horse and blocked the path. The impact was sickeningly immediate; horse and rider vanished into the churning filth, saving Yu Liao by a hair's breadth.
"No!" Yu Liao fought the reins, desperate to save the man, but the surge was too great. He was nearly dragged under again, saved only by Liang Huan's desperate, iron grip on his reins. Surrounded and protected by his loyal personal guards, Yu Liao and his horse finally stumbled to temporary safety.
He looked around, a chilling realization settling in. Downstream, the two armies that had formed the pincer had met the same disaster. Despite their immediate retreat, the flood’s speed had been inhuman. A few reached the banks, but the vast majority were lost, a tide of humanity swept away. Yu Liao’s brave, landlocked army was facing complete annihilation—drowned by a river that had barely wet their boots hours ago.
"General Liao, we must reach the shore first and rally what's left!" Liang Huan's voice was sharp with urgency. Yu Liao snapped out of his daze, knowing the counsel was sound. Escorted by the remaining personal guard, they grimly waded toward the bank.
But the mountain's rage only intensified. The river swelled, the distance to the bank seemed to stretch into infinity. One by one, the guards were ripped away. Finally, the flood claimed Yu Liao himself. Thrown from his horse, he bobbed in the water with his mount, the current carrying them both miles until they were swept over the very round slope where Li Yi had stood moments before.
As the crest passed and the flood's frenzy eased, Yu Liao finally regained control of his horse. The creature struggled to its feet, and Yu Liao felt a horrifying softness under its hooves. He looked out: miles of soldiers scattered, stuck fast in deep, cloying mud. Liang Huan, too, was knee-deep and sinking fast.
A cold dread seized him. They were in Libo, the vast, treacherous swamp. On a clear day, it was deceptively smooth, but beneath the surface lay unpredictable currents and a swampy ground that swallowed anything—horse, man, or carriage. Today's murky waters had blurred the line between solid ground and deadly mire. Li Yi hadn't just defeated them; he had lured them to a watery grave.
Despite the panic threatening to engulf him, Yu Liao’s clarity held. He spotted reeds poking from the water nearby—the telltale sign of Li Yi's men, who were using them to breathe. "Fire arrows at the reeds!" he roared.
Liang Huan reacted instantly, bow drawn. The trapped soldiers, sinking but still disciplined, obeyed. Arrows sliced into the muddy water until dark pools of blood bloomed on the surface.
Beneath the muck, Li Yi and his men, clinging to ropes tied around their waists, strained. The swamp's suction was a monstrous thing; one wrong move and they would be lost. Li Yi closed his eyes, his muscles straining, until he felt the solid relief of the trestle bridge the Zhenxi Army had built. Covered in mud, like a clay statue, he pulled himself onto the submerged structure. He glanced around. Most of his men had been rescued, though many were wounded by the desperate barrage. But Old Bao was nowhere in sight.
Yu Liao, seeing the enemy movements, shouted encouragement to his soldiers, urging them toward the bridge. Survival lay in reaching that structure. But every step sank them deeper, faster. Within minutes, the mud and rainwater reached their waists. Meanwhile, the remnants of his left and right armies—about two thousand men—were fighting their way back from the banks to rescue their commander.
Li Yi, wiping the mud from his face, gritted his teeth, seized his bow, and prepared to meet the enemy.
Yu Liao's generals were survivors of past defeats; the loss of comrades and the general's danger galvanized them. The thousand-plus soldiers nearest the trestle quickly organized, charging toward the bridgehead.
Trapped and sinking, Yu Liao was still utterly composed. Seeing the counter-charge, he knew this was his only chance. He still had men, but they were immobile.
"Liang Huan!"
"Sir!"
Yu Liao looked at his loyal subordinate, the bond forged in countless battles. "Build a human bridge!"
Liang Huan didn't hesitate. "Understood!" He leaped from his stuck horse, plunged into the mud, and lunged for a soldier's hand, bellowing the impossible order. His example was everything. Fearless soldiers, facing certain doom, struggled to unite, to support each other, to create a path for their commander.
On the trestle, Li Yi ignored the sinking men, focusing on the approaching enemy charge. He personally led the archers, holding firm behind their shields. Waiting until the enemy was a hundred steps away, he gave the command. Volley after volley of arrows—damp strings notwithstanding—rained down, killing over a hundred men instantly.
A fierce, desperate fight began as a group of enemy soldiers, led by a general, reached the pier. Li Yi met him with a sword. The general struck, but Li Yi dodged, his blade finding the man’s ribs. As blood spurted, the general fell to the water, morale instantly draining from his men. Seeing this, the remaining forces on the far bank, knowing the mud was impassable, ran upstream in a desperate attempt to find a shallow crossing.
Despite the mud's terrifying suction, Liang Huan's efforts bore fruit. The human bridge began to form. Though the builders sank deeper, now chest-high in mire, they held firm.
Yu Liao, too, plunged in. He drove his short knife into his horse’s flank. The magnificent beast leaped, fighting for its life, but sank even faster upon landing. Using the momentum, Yu Liao vaulted, landing firmly on the bridge of human bodies. He swung back, pulling Liang Huan onto the perilous path. More and more men were pulled onto the bridge, each one deepening the grave of the man beneath him, until the builders were up to their necks.
Driven by desperation, the human bridge extended, inching closer to the trestle. When they reached within bowshot, Li Yi fired a final, lethal volley. Yet, Yu Liao and his mud-caked, living scarecrows pushed through the arrows, using the brief pause in fire to finally clamber onto the trestle.
The melee began in the narrow space, a desperate, mud-soaked dance of death. Men tumbled off into the mire, instantly trapped. Friend and foe were indistinguishable, caked in yellow-gray slime. But Yu Liao, protected by Liang Huan and his remaining men, fought with a singular focus, driving forward through the chaos toward Li Yi.
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