Capítulo 915: 872. The End Of Champa Main Army
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Go to riders bent low over their saddles, eyes set upon the retreating foe. Behind them, Shi Xin gave the next command with the calm assurance of a master strategist. His tone was steady, but every syllable carried the gravity of inevitability. “Release the infantry. Fifteen thousand. They will hold the field and collect what remains.”
And so, soon after the cavalry surged forth, the infantry gates opened wide. Fifteen thousand men marched out in disciplined formations, shields braced, spears glinting, their banners flowing behind them. Where the cavalry was speed and thunder, the infantry was weight and inevitability, the slow closing jaws of a trap.
Far ahead, the lieutenant sat astride his weary horse, overseeing the column of more or less eleven thousand men still staggering forward. His eyes scanned the broken ranks, the exhausted soldiers dragging their feet, their bodies gaunt from hunger. Yet there had been hope—his words the night before had rekindled fire in their bellies.
That hope was shattered by a sound unlike any other: a low, growing rumble, like a storm sweeping across the plains. He turned sharply in the saddle, his eyes narrowing against the rising sun. And there, in the distance, he saw it—a horizon darkened by dust, a sea of riders crashing toward them, the banners of their foreign enemies raised high and proud.
His stomach twisted. His heart pounded. He knew immediately: this was the end.
The Champa soldiers heard it too. They turned, faces pale, eyes widening as they beheld the nightmare racing upon them. Terror spread like wildfire. Their once steady, disciplined formation of retreat cracked like fragile glass. Men stumbled, weapons slipped from nerveless hands, some even broke into a run before orders were given, driven by raw instinct to flee the oncoming avalanche of horse and steel.
“Hold! HOLD!” the lieutenant bellowed, forcing his horse forward, trying to rally them. His voice, strained and desperate, was swallowed by the thunder of hooves. He raised his sword high, his guards at his side doing the same, but it was as if they stood against a tidal wave.
Shi Zhi’s cavalry slammed into the Champa column with the ferocity of wolves descending upon lambs.
The first impact was catastrophic. Many of the riders had been ordered not to strike with blades or spear tips but with the blunt ends of their weapons, and so it was not the steel that killed first, but the horses. Massive animals, armored and unyielding, plowed through the weakened Champa ranks, trampling men beneath their hooves.
Bones snapped like twigs, bodies were thrown screaming into the air. Those who survived the first rush were battered aside by shield edges, spear shafts, or the sheer crushing weight of momentum.
The lieutenant and his guards, mounted as they were, survived the first onslaught. But few of their men had horses, and fewer still had the strength to stand against such an attack. He turned, horror twisting his face, as his army was scattered like leaves in a gale.
One of his guards shouted to him over the chaos, “Lieutenant! We must ride on! If any brothers can follow, let fate decide! We cannot die here!”
The lieutenant’s face contorted with anguish. He looked at the slaughter unfolding before his eyes, his men, men he had sworn to save, being crushed and broken. His heart screamed against the thought of abandoning them. “No!” he roared back. “They are our brothers! We cannot leave them to die in here! Not after I promised they will return back home! Rally them! Rally them now!”
He spurred his horse into the chaos, cutting through the press, raising his sword high, calling desperately for his soldiers to form lines, to fight back, to live. Against all odds, some did respond. Clusters of men drew together, spears braced, shields overlapping, as though clinging to the memory of discipline. The lieutenant rode among them, voice hoarse, urging them to stand.
Meanwhile at this time, the infantry of the Shi Clan had arrived. They did not charge recklessly but spread with cold precision, creating a formation that encircled the battlefield. Slowly, steadily, they closed the ring around the Champa soldiers, ensuring none of them could escape. The noose was tightening at every minute.
Inside, Shi Zhi wheeled his cavalry, not content with a single strike. He raised his arm, signaling his riders to circle and crash again, this time with more restraint, striking with the blunt ends of maces, the shafts of spears, the flats of swords. The order was clear, take prisoners, not corpses.
The battle stretched into hours. Though overwhelmed, the Champa lieutenant refused to yield. His voice rang out, raw but unbroken, commanding his men into a defensive formation, shields braced, spears thrust forward, a desperate hedge against the wolves that circled them. Against all odds, they resisted. Men who had been ready to flee found strength in his defiance, planting their feet, fighting back against the tide.
Again and again, the Shi cavalry swept in, battering the line, breaking men down. Again and again, the lieutenant rallied them, patching the formation, shouting for them to endure. His face was streaked with sweat and dust, his eyes bloodshot, but his will was unbending.
From the walls of the fortress, Shi Hui watched the struggle with a mix of awe and cold calculation. “They fight harder than I expected brother,” he admitted.
Shi Xin, standing beside him, gave a faint nod. “Thats because their leader refuses to break, Hui. That one man is the spine of whatse left of this Champa army. But even spines can be snapped. Let alone a single men in command of a routed army.”
On the field, Shi Zhi himself had taken note of the lieutenant. The way the man rallied his soldiers, the way he refused to yield even as thousands crumbled around him, it marked him as more than an ordinary officer. Shi Zhi’s eyes narrowed. ‘That one… he must be taken alive. He show big potential as the leader of the auxiliaries.’
And so the battle dragged on, no longer a slaughter, but a grinding contest of willpower and morale. The Champa soldiers, driven by their lieutenant’s defiance, formed a last, desperate bastion. The Shi cavalry circled, striking, withdrawing, striking again, softening them, while the infantry closed the trap ever tighter.
For the lieutenant and his men, there was no escape, only the choice to fight, to die, or to surrender. The Lieutenant’s defensive ring held, but slowly but surely it was shrinking by the minute as men were clubbed into submission or collapsed from exhaustion.
The lieutenant himself fought like a demon, his sword a blur, deflecting blows and shouting encouragement to his men. But for every soldier he inspired, two more were dragged away by the infantry now pressing in from all sides toward them.
He saw a young soldier, no older than his own son, take a brutal blow from a cavalryman’s blunt lance to the helmet. The boy dropped like a stone, his body quickly hauled away by waiting infantry. He saw an old sergeant, who had stood by him in the command tent, finally overwhelmed by three infantrymen who expertly pinned his arms and bound his wrists.
The fight was leaving his men. The will to resist was being methodically crushed out of them by the sheer, overwhelming force and the certainty of their current predicament. They were surrounded, outnumbered, and most of all still starving. The hope of home had been replaced by the grim reality of captivity.
The Lieutenant’s arm grew heavy. His horse, terrified and bleeding from a shallow cut, stamped and whinnied nervously. He looked around at the few dozen men still standing in his circle, their faces etched with terror and exhaustion. They looked to him for a miracle he could not provide.
A voice, loud and clear, cut through the cacophony. It was Shi Zhi, who had reined in his horse just outside the ring of cavalry.
“Lieutenant of Champa!” Shi Zhi called out in Champa’s language that he had learned, his voice carrying the authority of certain victory. “Your defiance is honorable, but it is futile! Look around you! Your army is defeated. Your men are captured. To continue is to lead these last, loyal men to a meaningless death. Lay down your arms. I give you my word, you and your men will be treated with the respect due to brave soldiers. You will be taken prisoner, but you will live.”
The Lieutenant’s sword arm trembled. He knew Shi Zhi spoke the truth. There was no glory here, only a bloody, inglorious end. He looked at the faces of his guards, who looked back at him, their eyes pleading for him to make the choice for life.
He thought of the General, who’s death was unknown as he was a prisoner so he was at the back of their formation, and a bitter irony washed over him. The General’s path would have led them all to death on the walls. His own path, the path of retreat, had led them to capture. Was one fate truly better than the other?
With a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, the Lieutenant’s shoulders sagged. The fire of battle left his eyes, replaced by the hollow ache of surrender. He slowly, deliberately, reversed his grip on his sword and let it fall to the churned, bloody earth. The clatter of steel on soil was a small, final sound.
Seeing their commander’s surrender, the remaining Champa soldiers dropped their weapons. The sound was like a rain of defeat. Spears, swords, and broken shields clattered to the ground. The last vestige of resistance was over.
The Shi Clan infantry moved in quickly but not brutally, securing the prisoners, binding their hands with ropes, and herding them into dejected groups. The Lieutenant was gently but firmly pulled from his horse. As his hands were bound before him, he looked up at Shi Zhi, who remained on his horse, looking down at him.
“You fought well,” Shi Zhi said, his tone not mocking, but matter of fact. “You saved your men from a futile death on the walls. Now, you have saved them from a futile death on this field. That is the mark of a true leader.”
The Lieutenant said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He had done what he thought was right, and it had led here, to bondage. As he was led away to join the long, shuffling column of prisoners, he took one last look at the battlefield, a field of broken dreams, where the hope of home had died beneath the hooves of an enemy’s horse.
______________________________
Name: Lie Fan
Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty
Age: 35 (202 AD)
Level: 16
Next Level: 462,000
Renown: 2325
Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 9)
SP: 1,121,700
ATTRIBUTE POINTS
STR: 966 (+20)
VIT: 623 (+20)
AGI: 623 (+10)
INT: 667
CHR: 98
WIS: 549
WILL: 432
ATR Points: 0
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