Chapter 367 Joint Attack

Chapter 367: Combined Assault

The Beidi Army, as if sensing this opening, joined forces with the Western Rong and the Southern Kingdom to mass troops and launch fierce attacks against several key passes along the Great Zhou's western border.

The defenders were caught off guard and suffered heavy losses. Emergency dispatches flew to the capital like a blizzard of snowflakes.

Several vassal states in the south also seemed to have been enticed or coerced, beginning frequently provoking along the borders, creating friction and occupying considerable forces on the Great Zhou's southern front.

Meanwhile, on the southeastern coast, pirates took advantage of the chaos to raid merchant ships and harass the shoreline.

In an instant, the Great Zhou seemed to have fallen into a dire situation with fires on all sides and foes from every direction!

Though no front had fully collapsed, its forces were stretched thin across the board, supplies were running dangerously low, the imperial court was at its wit's end, and pressure on regional commanders intensified.

The northern border city shouldered the heaviest burden.

Zhao Cheng temporarily stepped into the role of Chief Commander, donning armor and taking up his blade, patrolling day and night, always at the forefront.

But while he was brave, he lacked strategic depth—able to hold the line temporarily, but unable to turn the tide.

Against the Beidi Army's endless siege tactics and relentless, grinding harassment,

compounded by pressure from enemies on other fronts, he was spread thin and utterly exhausted.

Supplies of food and arrows were being consumed far faster than expected. Casualties spiked, and medical supplies were running dangerously low.

Worse still, morale was crumbling. Cui Ji was lying gravely wounded and unconscious, while Han Meng had defected.

No matter how hard they tried to suppress the news, fragments inevitably leaked out, and fear and uncertainty mounted day by day among the troops.

Zhao Cheng could rally the troops with his personal courage for a time, but he couldn't fundamentally fix the strategic deadlock or steady the wavering morale.

After beating back a night raid by the Beidi Army, Zhao Cheng leaned against the cold battlements of the city wall, breathing heavily, his armor smeared with blood and soot.

He gazed at the sprawling campfires of the Beidi camp in the distance, then looked back at the city's sparse lights and the heavy silence pressing down. A deep sense of helplessness gripped him.

How long could he hold this city? Ten days? Two weeks? Even if he held this city, what about the western front? The southern border? The whole of Great Zhou...

………

At the front lines, the north wind lashed snow pellets against cold armor and tense faces.

Zhao Cheng gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist, his gaze heavy as he scanned the battlements.

Above and below the walls, the scene was one of utter devastation.

The bricks were stained dark with blood, corpses piled at the base, some frozen solid in grotesque postures.

The thick, cloying stench of blood hung in the air, weighing on everyone and nearly making them sick.

Dried blood darkened his face, streaked with soot and sweat.

Days of back-to-back fighting and nearly sleepless command had drained him of almost all his strength—his exhaustion was plain to see.

The muffled groans of the wounded drifted to his ears. He let go of the sword hilt, his fingers stiff and aching.

He raised a hand and rubbed his cold, rigid cheeks hard, trying to force himself to stay alert.

At that moment, a sound unlike the wind—dull but rhythmic—rumbled faintly from the Beidi camp.

War drums! And war horns!

Zhao Cheng's face darkened, his fatigue instantly replaced by razor-sharp alertness.

He straightened his back abruptly, his hand returning to the sword hilt, and his hoarse voice tore from his parched throat, ringing out across the wall:

"Everyone, prepare—!"

A burly general rode out before the Beidi formation.

He reined in his horse, leveling his axe toward the Great Zhou walls, and shouted in broken, accented Zhou speech, his voice booming like thunder.

"Sheep of the Great Zhou! Hiding behind your walls and trembling? Are there no real men left among you brave enough to come out and face your grandpa?!"

Laughter burst from the Beidi ranks, along with crude whistles and the clatter of weapons banging against shields.

On the walls, the Zhou soldiers glared with fury but held themselves back, bound by Zhao Cheng's strict orders not to sortie without permission.

Several fiery captains turned red with rage, their fingers digging into the battlements, veins bulging.

Seeing no one take up the challenge, Haru's laughter grew even more arrogant. He slashed the air with his great blade, the swing whistling menacingly.

He turned and shouted something in the Di tongue toward the center of the Beidi formation.

Then, in a mocking, malicious tone, he called out again in the Zhou language:

"What's this? Wet your pants in fear? Very well! Let me show you a familiar face—see who one of your fine Zhou warriors now serves under!"

As his words died out, the Beidi formation parted, and a single rider slowly emerged.

The horse was a powerful black steed from the north. The rider was fully clad in the wolf-fur-trimmed leather-and-mail armor of the Beidi elite Canglang Guard.

Most of his face was hidden beneath a fur cap with a nose guard and a windproof scarf, leaving only his eyes visible.

Under everyone's gaze, the rider reined in before the Beidi lines.

The figure, wrapped in Canglang Guard attire, face hidden by cap and scarf, revealed only eyes that were calm to the point of emptiness.

In the right hand was a curved Di-style saber, its arc carrying a foreign coldness; a recurve bow was slung across his back.

The Beidi general Haru rode forward, laughing loudly and slapping the man hard on the shoulder, his voice booming with pride and malice as he shouted toward the Zhou walls:

"Look closely! This is the new warrior of our Great Di, the eagle blessed by the Grey Wolf Spirit—Suburga!

Today, he will use the blood of you Zhou people as his most sincere offering to our Great Khan!"

"Suburga"... In the Di language, that means "fierce tiger."

That name, roared by Haru in such a way, paired with a silhouette that couldn't be hidden even by a change of clothes,

and the ingrained habits of a Central Plains commander in how he gripped the blade and handled the horse...

On the walls, there was a moment of dead silence.

Then, like a volcano that had been suppressed for too long finally erupting—

"Han Meng—!!!" A captain's eyes nearly bulged out of his head with rage, his voice cracking as it tore from his throat, carrying disbelief, fury, and boundless hatred.

"It's Han Meng! That beast who betrayed his ancestors! He's really wearing the Di people's colors now!!"

"Han Meng! You beast of a traitor! How dare you show your face under heaven?!"

"Look at the hide you're wearing! Look at the blade in your hand! You've got no shame before Old General Han?! Before the brothers who died?!"

Roars, curses, and abuse crashed like a raging tide, sweeping the whole wall in an instant.

Many soldiers trembled with rage, faces flushed crimson, fingers pointing at the figure below trembled violently.

Some who had once fought alongside Han Meng had bloodshot eyes, nearly bleeding with rage.

The fatigue and numbness from moments before shattered against this sudden, living betrayal, replaced by a rage and shame that threatened to burn them alive.

Zhao Cheng's face was iron-gray, veins bulging on his hand as he gripped the wall bricks.

He stared at the "Subeharu" below, who seemed deaf to the Zhou army's curses, feeling an icy fury surge from his feet to the top of his head.

This Northern Di move wasn't just killing—it was gutting their souls!

At the defenders' darkest hour, they shoved a former comrade to the front lines, trampling everyone's dignity and feelings in the cruelest way possible!

Listening to the thunderous curses from the wall, Haru only grew smugger. He waved Han Meng forward with a sneer:

"Go, my tiger! Let these Zhou dogs see your resolve and skill! Offer up their blood—that'll be your finest tribute!"

As the words died out, Han Meng finally moved.

He slowly raised the curved blade in his right hand, pointing its tip at the wall, still silent.

But that silent stance, that cold steel, was more provoking and chilling than any shout.

He gave his horse a light squeeze with his heels, and the warhorse stepped forward, moving closer to the wall.

Then he stopped, lowering the curved blade to point diagonally at the ground—a textbook challenge stance.

The curses from the wall surged even louder at this gesture, nearly tearing through the clouds.

Zhang Yun hastily wrapped another layer of blood-soaked gauze around his arm, jaw clenched, veins bulging on his forehead.

He stared at the figure below—once so familiar—his chest burning like a furnace.

He'd drilled with Han Meng, drunk with him, trusted him like a brother he'd trust with his back!

It was exactly that old trust that made this betrayal cut so deep, so sharp!

"Let me go!" Zhang Yun snatched up the long blade from the ground, voice hoarse but firm, eyes locked on Zhao Cheng. "I'll go deal with that... animal myself!"

Zhao Cheng looked at the blood seeping through Zhang Yun's arm, then at the almost self-destructive resolve in his eyes. He knew he couldn't stop him, and he shouldn't.

Right now, morale was boiling—they needed a duel, even if the outcome was uncertain.

He nodded heavily, forcing out a single word through gritted teeth: "...Be careful."

The gate creaked open again, and Zhang Yun charged out alone, hooves pounding through the dirty slush, heading straight for the traitor called "Subeharu."

The horses closed quickly. Zhang Yun could even see the eyes beneath that leather cap.

No words were exchanged. Steel flashed!

Zhang Yun wielded the standard two-handed long saber of the Great Zhou army—heavy and powerful, every strike aimed at vitals, no mercy.

Han Meng countered with the Di-style curved blade, his technique weird and cunning, using leverage to deflect.

Metal clashed across the empty snowfield, sparks flying.

Both were among the best of their generation, evenly matched in skill.

But Zhang Yun fought with a wounded arm, his moves inevitably sluggish, and with emotions churning, his strikes were fierce but lacked composure.

Han Meng, by contrast, was silent as ice, his blade precise and cold, as if he'd cast aside all emotion for pure killing.

After a dozen exchanges, Zhang Yun's heavy overhead chop was deftly deflected, leaving his ribs open for a split second.

Han Meng's curved blade shot in like a viper, the flat of it slamming hard into Zhang Yun's wounded arm!

"Ahh!" Zhang Yun cried out, his arm shuddering violently, the long saber nearly flying from his grip.

The searing pain and lost strength made him stagger. Han Meng seized the moment, sweeping the blade up, its tip slicing across the joint of Zhang Yun's breastplate, drawing a spray of blood.

At the same time, he yanked the reins, rearing his horse, whose front hooves slammed into the shoulder of Zhang Yun's mount.

Zhang Yun's horse screamed in agony, toppling sideways, throwing him hard to the ground. He tumbled several yards through the muddy snow, his saber flying from his hand.

"Excellent!!" "Kill him! Subeharu! Kill him!" The Northern Di ranks erupted in thunderous cheers and bloodthirsty yells.

Zhang Yun struggled to push himself up, blood pouring from the wound in his chest, his arm throbbing with agonizing pain.

He raised his head, watching Han Meng approach slowly on horseback, the curved blade lowered, dripping with his blood.

He didn't beg, didn't show fear—just stared straight into Han Meng's eyes.

A smirk twisted his lips, mixed with blood and endless contempt, his gaze like he was looking at a pile of filthy garbage.

Han Meng reined in his horse, stopping before Zhang Yun.

His hand gripping the blade had white knuckles, trembling almost imperceptibly.

Behind the mask, those ever-calm eyes seemed to struggle violently with something, but in the end sank back into deeper cold and deadness.

He heard the urgings of the Di people behind him, felt the countless gazes from the wall that nearly pierced him through.

And he saw clearly the undisguised scorn and hatred in Zhang Yun's eyes—hatred that struck like needles, drawing blood.

"Traitor—" Zhang Yun's lips moved silently, a cold smile on his face.

In that instant, the last shred of turmoil and hesitation within him was replaced by a near-self-destructive resolve.

He suddenly raised the curved blade. A flash of steel, and a spray of hot blood arced through the air, splattering onto the frozen snow, quickly congealing.

Blood gushed from the hole in Zhang Yun's chest. His eyes remained wide open, carrying that undying contempt, staring at the gray sky.

Cheers erupted from the Northern Di ranks, while the Great Zhou wall fell into a dead, frozen silence.

Everyone stared blankly at the headless corpse, at the traitor who slowly sheathed his blade, still silent on horseback.

A bone-chilling dread swept down the spine of every Great Zhou soldier.

This Han Meng... truly held not a shred of old loyalty.

Their hearts sank to the depths.

Zhang Yun's death was not merely a heavy loss, but a brutal grinding of the faith of Great Zhou soldiers and the bonds of brotherhood into the blood-soaked mud, crushed to dust before everyone's eyes.

Zhao Cheng's chest heaved violently, his gaze locked onto the figure below the walls who stood there, sheathing his blade, silent as a Northern Di wolf.

His eyes burned with fury, but a deeper, heavier helplessness and icy chill enveloped him.

Morale was visibly on the brink of collapse.

"You son of a bitch! I'll go take him on myself!" A hoarse roar erupted.

A grizzled old general, nearly fifty, with frost at his temples, lunged forward, as if about to charge down the city walls.

This old general, surnamed Qin, was a famed archer in the army and had been Han Meng's archery instructor in his youth, having taught him all he knew and regarded him as a nephew.

Now his eyes were wild with rage, tears streaming down his aged face, clearly pushed past reason by his traitorous disciple's actions.

"Master Qin! No!" Zhao Cheng reacted swiftly, grabbing the old general's arm with a firm grip, his voice heavy with pain and resolve. "He... he is no longer the Han Meng of old!"

Zhao Cheng's words trailed off, but the meaning was clear: Han Meng had always been exceptionally brave, and now in his prime, with his spirit utterly lost, he would fight with even less restraint.

General Qin was old and frail, skilled in archery rather than close combat—he would be no match for Han Meng, and going down there would be nothing short of suicide.

The old general struggled, gasping for breath, glaring at Zhao Cheng with bloodshot eyes, then looking down at the scene below.

Finally, he let out a pained howl like a wounded beast, slamming his fist hard against the wall bricks, blood immediately seeping from his knuckles.

A grief bordering on despair and a deathly silence hung over the city walls.