Chapter 28: Iron Legion
The first long blast of a war horn echoed over the nighttime valley, coming from the forest. The air smelled of damp earth and freshness from a light rain. Soldiers, chilled by the cold mountain night, stood tense and shivering, fearfully scanning the darkness beyond the flickering glow of campfires, torches, and oil lamps.
Young warrior Ai Luo Yan (皑洛炎) was once again hastily pulling on his oil-soaked chainmail, which he had only just removed in hopes of resting after a long march and hours spent digging ditches. His legs trembled—part exhaustion, part adrenaline. He burst out of the tent into the chilly night air.
"Move, move, dammit! To your positions!" bellowed a centurion in an ornate iron helmet crowned with a plume. Steam curled from his mouth, and his voice cracked into a hoarse rasp.
A second horn blast sounded in the distance.
Soldiers scrambled to grab their helmets and fasten the chinstraps of their armor. Cold droplets trickled down their necks, making them flinch.
"Fifth hundred, with me! Seventh, to the right flank—watch it, idiot!" Orders and curses from officers rang out all around the camp.
The third blast.
The ground quaked under a thunder of hooves, and the whinnying of horses told any experienced centurion all he needed to know—thousands of mounted warriors from the nomadic Yuan Kingdom alliance were charging.
A high-pitched whistling filled the air as arrows rained from the sky, drowning out the shouting in the camp. The sounds of impact varied—dull thuds against shields and logs, metallic rings as they struck umbos and helmets, and sickening wet squelches as they pierced flesh.
One soldier dropped to his knees in the mud, clutching at his throat—an arrow stuck out between his fingers as bright red blood gushed over the chainmail of his comrades, who stood bracing behind their shields.
"Shit! San Bu!" cursed the centurion.
Luo Yan clenched his jaw, his muscles flexing with grief. He and San Bu had joined the legion together two years ago.
More soldiers cried out—some hit in arms and legs—but most arrows were caught by the shield wall.
"Release! Let 'em go!" came the cries of officers from the far side of the camp. The clash of steel followed as a probing enemy force tried a frontal push, only to retreat after triggering hidden traps.
Another wave of arrows came. Shields, already looking like spiked hedgehogs, grew heavier. The constant pounding of shafts into wood and the deepening penetration of arrowheads shook soldiers' nerves. How many more volleys would there be?
"Return fire!" shouted the legion's archers centurion, aiming into the direction the arrows came from.
Despite the chaos, their response was well-drilled—hundreds of bowstrings snapped in unison. Arrows vanished into the dark, offering no reassurance that any found their mark. A fresh enemy volley followed—less disciplined, but horrifying in its density. It felt as if the night itself had turned into a deadly downpour.
Then came hooves again—a rumble like a subterranean quake drawing closer. Through mist, drizzle, and torch smoke, shapes emerged. Riders—short, clad in black, with thick braids and faces painted in war symbols. Each held a bow, sabers and short spears hanging from their saddles.
These nomads weren't fools. They didn't charge straight into the sharpened barricades. Instead, they tossed hooked ropes, latching onto the fortifications while their rear archers laid down covering fire.
Near the centurion, one such hook caught a log. A rider at full gallop was already pulling back, the rope tied to a team of three horses. As soon as the hook bit in, the horses turned and tore the beam loose with a thunderous snap.
"Fuck! Throw the caltrops!"
More barricade logs crashed to the ground elsewhere. Several fleeing nomads were struck down by legion archers, screaming as they fell and writhed in the mud.
The soldiers tossed caltrops over the breached defenses—spiked, star-shaped iron devices that always landed with one deadly point up. A horse stepping on one might as well be dead already.
"Firebombs! Ready!" came a shout from the camp's center. Minutes later, flaming tar-pitch jars—wrapped in burning rags—arched through the sky and crashed down on enemy positions. One explosion, then another—flames surged in the darkness, revealing running figures wreathed in fire.
Smoke and acrid stench filled the air. Eyes burned. Tears ran down faces.
Through breaches in the defenses, dozens of riders stormed in. Some leapt from their saddles mid-gallop, tumbling and rolling before springing up, howling and diving into the melee. Their screams—guttural and frenzied—rattled nerves as much as the arrows did. Others tried to climb over the palisade, only to be met by legion spears and arrows.
"Hold the line! Tighten ranks!" barked the centurion, kicking men into place. Mud, blood, smoke, and fire churned into a hellish symphony.
The nomads fought like demons—ferocious, near-insane. One, skewered through the gut, still battled on, coughing blood into the face of the legionary he had pinned. Another raised a saber to finish the Roman—but a spear struck him from behind, knocking him aside. Luo Yan wrenched the weapon free from the barbarian's body with a crunch. The man dropped where he stood.
Then came the sound of bronze trumpets in the night—an ominous, drawn-out melody that chilled the blood.
It wasn't just the nomads. The legions of Northern Hou had arrived. Disciplined, well-trained, and heavily armed soldiers, their loyalty sold to the traitorous Duke Ran and his gift of newly forged blue steel.
They advanced on foot, boots sinking into the mud, but their rhythm never faltered. This wasn't a raid. This was war—relentless and professional, underscored by their battle hymn:
The Iron Army marches across the field,
Swords gleam with cold light.
The roar of battle shakes all eight directions—
We shall not return without victory!
(铁军踏战场,
刀出映寒光.
杀声震八方,
不胜誓不还!)
When the Southern Hou legionaries heard the steady, measured tread and familiar chant rising in the dark—not the wild chaos of nomads, but ordered ranks and the dreaded song—their hearts clenched with fear.
It could only be one force: the legendary Iron Legion, whose history stretched back to the days when Hou was still a fledgling kingdom.
The melody gave way to a sharp trumpet call—a broken trill. The enemy was attacking. In the flickering firelight and flashes of pitch bombs, the endless lines of Northern troops came into view.
When Commander Zu heard the Northern trumpets, he realized too late: the nomads had been the battering ram. They'd broken the gates, mapped the traps. Now the real strike came—right where the camp was least defended.
"Second and Fourth! TO THE NORTH GATE!" he screamed, less to relay orders and more out of desperation, his voice cracking over the clash of steel.
But he didn't yet know—it was already too late.
Darts flew from the darkness, embedding in shields and dragging them down. Then came heavy siege crossbow bolts, punching through chainmail and even the already-weakened shields. After the skirmishers' barrage, iron-clad phalanxes with square shields pushed forward to the beat of drums, crashing into the exhausted defenders.
"YOU BASTARDS, HOLD THE LINE!" the centurion roared, now fighting in the thick of it—his shield cracked, his helmet dented from a saber blow, blood and mud smeared across his face. Two junior officers lay dead. A third crawled toward the rear, clutching a shattered leg, leaving a red trail in the dirt.
The camp's defensive line was collapsing into a slaughter.
From the east, the nomads struck again—ripping the blocking force into two broken islands.
A savage-looking warrior with flying braids and ribbons climbed onto a supply cart and set fire to the Southern Hou banner, screaming like a possessed madman. Others joined his cry.
"RETREAT! FALL BACK TO THE WESTERN EXIT!" the centurion turned—but there was no one left to hear. His men were falling one by one. Some fought to the last. Some screamed, "MERCY!"—and took a spear in the face.
The first tents caught fire, casting sudden, hellish light across the camp.
Through smoke, more and more Northern Hou forces emerged from the north and east. The legionaries were well-armored, well-drilled. The nomads—cruel, feral, and fearless—formed a terrifying alliance. One no one had believed possible.
Some tried crawling away into the dark. Some called for their mothers.
Luo Yan, wounded and bleeding, dragged himself toward a nearby tent. He had just watched his entire legion die. All he wanted now was to live. A blow to the head had shifted his awareness—everything felt distant, like stage props in some vast, mindless theater. Even his own body was part of the scenery. Yet he still crawled, driven by instinct. He almost reached the tent—then collapsed, face-down in the wet earth.
The fighting didn't end quickly. Even after Southern Hou had lost the camp, three hundreds refused to surrender. They barricaded themselves behind the supply wagons. What did they hope for?
A mounted commander arrived and gave the order: burn them out. Flaming oil jars flew.
Five thousand dead in one night. Three thousand taken prisoner. Around fifteen hundred escaped through the western exit, vanishing into the mountain darkness.
Northern Hou's intelligence network had performed flawlessly. They tracked troop movements with perfect timing, catching Southern Hou legions before they could fully entrench. The nomads struck first—delaying the fortification process, tearing at defenses. Hours later, the Northern Hou legion arrived to finish what they'd started.
This was the third legion of Southern Hou's vanguard, annihilated before even reaching the borderlands of the duchies of Huan (桓) and Bo (薄).