Chapter 120: Converging Forces
The Holy Emperor stumbled down the hillside like a man possessed, his short robe torn and tattered, reduced to little more than rags clinging to his frame. His hair had worked loose from its topknot, streaming behind him in disheveled strands that bore no resemblance to imperial dignity.
When the purple tents of the Imperial Guard Battalion finally came into view through the trees, relief flooded through him with such intensity it nearly buckled his knees. He glanced back repeatedly, eyes scanning the slope above for any sign of pursuit. Nothing. No furious woman with a blade. No soldiers loyal to traitors.
Only then did he allow himself to slow his frantic pace, transitioning to a cautious walk that attempted to reclaim some measure of composure.
The distant sound of war drums suddenly echoed through the valley, their deep rhythm carrying on the mountain wind. A smug smile curled at the Holy Emperor's lips, transforming his haggard features into something cruel and satisfied.
"Whoever comes to rescue you will only be moths drawn to flame." The words emerged as a whispered promise to absent enemies. "So, it would be more realistic to consider how to kneel before me and speak sweetly..."
He advanced a few more paces, imagining the scene—Xia Jingshi on his knees, that proud spine finally bent. Feng Suige begging for his sister's life. The thought was intoxicating.
A purple-clad Imperial Guard on patrol spotted the ragged figure emerging from the wilderness. For a split second, confusion registered on the soldier's face—this couldn't possibly be His Majesty, could it? Then recognition struck like lightning.
"Your Majesty!" The guard's shout tore through the camp's routine. He rushed forward with a clatter of armor, followed immediately by a swarm of soldiers drawn by the commotion.
"Xiao Canjun, they've spotted us! They're rallying their forces now, forming a battle formation."
The deputy general's report came with urgent gestures, his arm extending toward the distant encampment of the Imperial Guard Barracks. "The smoke is rising from the hills behind them—His Highness must be up there!"
Xiao Weiran narrowed his eyes against the afternoon sun, studying the rising column of smoke with the intensity of a man reading omens in fire. The gray plume climbed steadily skyward, a beacon of desperation visible for miles. For a long moment, he remained motionless, calculating distances, timing, odds of success.
Finally, he turned his gaze to the soldiers arrayed behind him—men who had followed him into certain condemnation, certain death. Men whose families would suffer for their loyalty. He covered a cough with his hand, the gesture betraying a weakness he otherwise kept hidden, and spoke slowly but with absolute firmness.
"I'll ask one last time—those unwilling to bear the name of traitors from this day forth may still withdraw now..."
The silence that followed stretched just long enough to become meaningful. Then it shattered.
"Xiao Canjun!" A burly man stepped forward from the ranks, his weathered face set with determination. His voice boomed across the formation, carrying the weight of conviction. "Give the order! Even if I have to lay down my life on this hill, I'll ensure His Highness's safety!"
Before his words fully faded, the rest of the soldiers erupted in a fervent chorus. "Xiao Canjun, give the order!" The shout became a chant, voices building upon voices until the valley itself seemed to shake. "Give the order... give the order..."
The sound reverberated off the surrounding hills, echoing back in waves—a promise, a threat, a commitment written in sound.
Xiao Weiran felt something shift in his chest. Pride, perhaps. Or the terrible knowledge that he was leading these men to their probable deaths. He raised his voice to match theirs, to be heard above the thunder of their loyalty.
"Very well! No matter victory or defeat, life or death, endless battles await us hereafter. This one—we must fight it well!"
"That's Weiran."
Xia Jingshi's murmur carried equal parts recognition and concern. His brow furrowed as he assessed the tactical situation unfolding below. "We outnumber them, but the Imperial Guard Barracks has been lying in wait..."
Feng Suige's mind raced, thoughts tumbling over each other in rapid succession. Strategy, timing, terrain—all the elements of survival clicking into place. "The Imperial Guards are focusing all their efforts on forming their battle lines—the numbers surrounding the mountain must have thinned. Could we find a hidden path to circle down the rear and break through to join Lucheng's reinforcements?"
"Possible, but—"
Xia Jingshi cast a cool, measuring glance at Feng Suige. The look held layers of meaning: practicality warring with sentiment, duty conflicting with desire. "Yixiao must stay behind to tend to Xiyang."
The words landed like stones in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward.
Feng Suige scratched his head irritably, the gesture betraying his agitation more clearly than any words. "I want to take Xiyang with us. Once we break through, we can send her directly to the nearest town for treatment."
"Be rational." The reprimand was gentle but unyielding. Xia Jingshi gestured to a nearby Military General, signaling him to muster the troops even as he continued speaking. "She can't endure rough travel now. If anything happens amidst the chaos, regret will come too late."
He paused, and something almost like vulnerability flickered across his features before being firmly suppressed. "If I could, I wouldn't leave Yixiao here either. But apart from her, there are only men here—none can assist with Xiyang's injuries."
The logic was irrefutable. Feng Suige recognized that even as every instinct screamed against leaving his sister. He hesitated for a long while, caught between duty and blood, before reluctantly turning to Yixiao, who stood nearby in a daze, still bloodstained, still carrying the weight of what had happened.
"Fine. With her here, I can rest easier."
The words were meant as reassurance but emerged hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.
Only when the last warhorse vanished from sight, when even the dust kicked up by their departure had settled back to earth, did Yixiao finally move. She dragged the waterskin and provisions Feng Suige had left behind—practical gifts that felt like abandonment—and trudged slowly back into the woods.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Hearing Yixiao's approaching footsteps, Feng Xiyang weakly lifted her eyelids. The simple act clearly cost her tremendous effort. "Where... is he?"
"The troops from Lucheng have arrived. The two of them led the charge to break through, leaving us to wait here."
Yixiao crouched beside her, deliberately keeping her voice matter-of-fact as she opened the waterskin. She brought it to Xiyang's pale lips with surprising gentleness. "Drink some water."
Xiyang shook her head, the movement barely perceptible. "I'm not thirsty—can you move me somewhere I can see them? I... want to see him one more time."
The request hung in the air, fragile as spider silk. Yixiao froze, her hands stilling on the waterskin. Then she firmly refused, her tone brooking no argument. "Your wound just stopped bleeding. Moving you again will reopen it—and I don't have the strength to carry you around. Let's just wait here for news."
With that, she set the waterskin aside and leaned against the tree trunk, allowing exhaustion to finally claim her vigilance. The bark pressed rough against her spine, grounding her in physical discomfort that was almost welcome compared to the emotional turmoil.
She still hadn't told Feng Suige. The truth remained locked behind her teeth like a prisoner: that the fatal stab wound Feng Xiyang suffered had come from her hand. An accident, yes. Unintentional, certainly. But her hand nonetheless.
Strangely, she felt no guilt over accidentally harming Xiyang. The realization should have disturbed her more than it did. Apart from being Feng Suige's sister—a connection forged by blood rather than merit—any goodwill she'd once held toward Xiyang had vanished the moment the woman had secretly released the Holy Emperor, condemning them all.
Now, all that remained was pity. Hollow, inadequate pity.
Xiyang didn't understand love, not really. She grasped at it like a drowning woman grasping at shadows on water. And Xia Jingshi's fleeting affection—that brief, bright moment of attention—was no steadfast devotion. These two, trapped in their own tragic drama: one fleeing without leaving any chance for redemption, the other chasing and only making things worse, unable to let go of what had never truly been hers.
And Yixiao couldn't even say for certain if she was the third person tangled in this sorrowful mess, or just another casualty caught in its wake.
Her heart was conflicted, pulled in directions she couldn't fully name.
She had always wished for Xia Jingshi to find happiness. Genuinely, sincerely wished it. She'd thought a woman with such passion, such fierce devotion, could warm his cold, lonely heart—could give him what Yixiao herself never could.
Who could have imagined it would come to this? Blood and betrayal and dying wishes whispered in forest shade.
That man's thoughts were always so impossibly hard to decipher.
In the Imperial Guards' command tent at the foot of the mountain, transformation had occurred. The Holy Emperor, freshly washed and clad in borrowed general's armor, looked exponentially more composed than the ragged fugitive who'd stumbled down the hillside. The armor fit reasonably well, lending him back some semblance of authority.
He sat with calculated calm in the commander's chair, taking a measured sip of the fragrant tea offered by the attending guards. The liquid was scalding, perfect. When he spoke, his voice carried the cold certainty of absolute power restored.
"There are only a hundred or so men on the mountain. Form a defensive line to block the rebels approaching from the rear. What I want are Xia Jingshi and Feng Suige—capture them, and the rebels will collapse on their own."
"Your Majesty's orders shall be carried out!"
The heavily armored Imperial Guard General responded with a sharp salute, his voice ringing with military precision. He swiftly exited the tent, already barking commands to subordinates.
Left alone, the Holy Emperor's fingers lightly traced the livid bruises circling his wrists—rope burns from his captivity, dark against pale skin. The touch was almost tender, cataloging each mark. His murmur emerged dark with promise, thick with anticipated vengeance.
"The humiliation I suffered will be repaid a thousandfold!"
Under the protection of two lieutenant generals, Xiao Weiran stood on a slightly elevated hill that provided clear sightlines across the battlefield. His eyes tracked the opposing armies in the distance with the practiced assessment of a career military man. Suddenly, his brow furrowed, a crease appearing between his eyes.
One of the lieutenant generals exclaimed, his voice sharp with alarm, "Look! The Imperial Guards are splitting into two groups!"
The tactical implication was immediately, horrifyingly clear.
"The situation is bad," Weiran said grimly, his earlier confidence evaporating like morning mist. "They're planning to hold us off while attacking the mountain—we can't wait any longer. End this quickly!"
The lieutenant general gave a sharp whistle in response, the piercing note cutting through the ambient noise of preparation. Immediately, the war drums roared from the battle formation—deep, primal, the sound of civilization choosing violence. The cavalry at the front of the ranks let out a battle cry that seemed to shake the very earth, then charged toward the distant purple-clad army in a thunder of hooves and desperate courage.
The thunderous drums carried on the mountain wind, startling the group that had just reached the mountainside after a difficult, treacherous trek. Xia Jingshi turned his head sharply toward the sound, his expression shifting to surprise. "Weiran ordered a swift attack?!"
Feng Suige's face drained of color, understanding dawning with terrible clarity. "Could there be some movement from the Imperial Guard Barracks? Could it be the Holy Emperor...?"
The unfinished question held a universe of dread. If the Holy Emperor had reached his forces, if he'd given orders, then everyone still on that mountain was as good as dead.
"Whatever the case, we must hurry." Xia Jingshi spoke with tense urgency, unable to stop himself from glancing back toward the mountaintop—toward where Yixiao remained, unaware of the tightening noose. "Every moment we delay puts them in greater danger."
Feng Suige nodded, his jaw set with grim determination. He tightened his grip on the reins until his knuckles showed white, then kicked his horse into a faster pace. The entire group followed closely behind, a desperate race against catastrophe.
Xiyang's injury. The Holy Emperor's sudden disappearance. The tactical nightmare unfolding below. The tense atmosphere before the bloodshed spread like fog through the ranks, oppressive and inescapable—a weight that pressed down on every chest, made every breath feel insufficient.
Meanwhile, miles away, Ning Fei led a ragged group of soldiers through dense forest. Since splitting up and moving forward, they had encountered the pursuing Imperial Guard Battalion several times along the way, barely escaping each time through a combination of luck, skill, and sheer desperation.
He had left the severely wounded soldiers scattered among the local populace—farmers and villagers who'd shown surprising courage in harboring enemies of the state. The healthy ones continued onward, driven by loyalty and the faint hope of reunion.
Counting the days on his fingers as he walked, Ning Fei calculated probabilities. If all had gone smoothly—admittedly a large assumption—Xia Jingshi should have already joined forces with Weiran. Perhaps they'd even returned to Lucheng by now, safe behind walls and surrounded by allies.
The thought of Lucheng softened something in Ning Fei's battle-hardened heart. There, his wife and unborn child awaited him. The mental image of his wife's face was starting to blur around the edges, worn smooth by time and distance, but the feeling remained sharp as ever.
A stumbling sound came from behind, followed by a heavy thud. Ning Fei turned to see a soldier who had suffered minor injuries in their last skirmish collapse to the ground in a graceless heap. Glancing at the others, he noticed they were all gasping for breath, faces drawn with exhaustion, feet dragging.
They'd pushed too hard for too long.
With a quiet sigh that spoke of leadership's burden, Ning Fei stepped forward to help the fallen soldier up. His hand found the man's arm, steadying him with practiced ease. "Everyone's exhausted. Let's rest awhile before moving on."
The soldier gave him a grateful look—the kind of gratitude that came from being granted the simple mercy of stopping—before sitting down heavily, his breathing labored and harsh.
Ning Fei pressed his cracked lips together, tasting copper and dust. He unhooked the waterskin from his belt and shook it lightly. A faint sloshing sound rewarded the gesture—there wasn't much left. Perhaps a day's worth if they were careful, less if they weren't.
His eyes scanned their surroundings, taking in terrain with tactical awareness. He headed toward a low-lying area where water might naturally collect. Their rations could last a few more days in these mountains, stretched thin but adequate. But water was indispensable, non-negotiable. It would be best to find a clean source nearby.
Otherwise...
The thought remained unfinished as the sound of running water reached his ears. Relief flooded through him. Ning Fei leaped down from a protruding rock with renewed energy and jogged into the hollow beyond, following the promise of fresh water.
Then he froze mid-step.
His pupils contracted sharply, his entire body going rigid as his mind struggled to process the sight before him.
There was indeed a small stream ahead, its water clear and inviting, burbling over smooth stones.
But.
Along the forest edge by the stream sat row upon row of resting Brocade cavalry, their armor gleaming even in the dappled forest light. Dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds. All taking their ease, weapons close at hand, horses tethered nearby.
And all of them, startled by his abrupt appearance, looked up at Ning Fei as he dashed directly into their line of sight.
For one crystalline moment, time seemed to stop. Ning Fei stood frozen at the edge of the hollow. The cavalry sat frozen in various poses of rest.
Then recognition ignited on both sides simultaneously, and the moment shattered into chaos.
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