123 The Eternal Burning

Rows of gleaming silver shields were either held upright or hoisted high. The images of the Holy Mother carved upon them looked vivid and lifelike, exuding a profound sense of sanctity and majesty.

Nearly ten thousand arrows rose into the air, blotting out the sun and sky, before descending with a collective, muffled thud, hammering against the heavy shields with a sharp, rhythmic clatter like dried beans hitting a drum—*pop, pop, pop...*

The range of archery is divided into effective range and maximum range. The so-called maximum range refers to the furthest distance an arrow can travel, usually about 150 meters—or 150 paces—in windless conditions. However, while an arrow can travel that far, the kinetic energy it retains upon reaching the target is negligible. When an arrow loses its momentum, it falls; at that point, only the physical weight of the shaft remains. Effective range, by contrast, refers to the distance within which an arrow delivers its maximum penetration and lethality. This distance is far shorter than 150 paces, usually no more than 50 to 70 paces.

The Yellow Turban rebels had fired their arrows at the very limit of the maximum range, well outside the effective range. Consequently, their lethality was not fully realized. Furthermore, the Church guards were each clad in iron armor, protecting their vital organs, and their shield formation was tight. Thus, after the first volley of arrows, the Church suffered minimal losses: only three or four men were unlucky enough to fall, and a dozen or so sustained minor injuries.

Through the gaps in the shields, Huang Zhong glanced at the distinct red line on the range-finding arrow amidst the dense encirclement of rebels, but he remained silent. Beside him, the flag bearer, anxious and impatient, requested, "General, give the order to fire!"

Huang Zhong remained calm. "No rush, no rush!"

As the rebels drew closer, the flag bearer could clearly count the paces and see the dust rising. Seventy paces, sixty...

While the flag bearer muttered the count, the rebels notched their arrows once more. Before they could draw their bows to full tension, the commander of the Divine Wind Battalion heard Huang Zhong’s thunderous roar: "Now... fire!"

"Hummm..." Fifteen hundred archers of the Divine Wind Battalion released their strings simultaneously. Fifteen hundred long arrows tore through the air, tracing elegant arcs like falling meteors as they slammed into the rebel ranks.

The Yellow Turban rebels were not as fortunate as the Church guards. Their equipment was inferior; some wore no armor at all, and their shields were primarily made of wood. Moreover, their archers were currently busy pulling their strings, caught completely off guard.

"Ah!" Cries of agony rose one after another, and blood splattered everywhere. Unlucky souls were riddled with arrows, pinned to the ground before they could even scream, dead beyond hope. In an instant, hundreds of rebels were slaughtered.

"Take cover!" Huang Zhong commanded. The Divine Wind Battalion followed suit, ducking behind the shield-bearers to avoid the sporadic arrows returning from the rebel ranks, before popping out to draw their bows again. A rain of arrows blanketed the sky, hammering into the heart of the rebel formation less than ten paces from the front line, unleashing another storm of blood and gore.

Between the two armies, the clash of hand-to-hand combat was imminent. With a savage roar, the front rank of the rebels slammed their shields against those of the Church guards, while the pikemen behind them thrust wildly through the gaps in the shields.

The Church guards stood shoulder to shoulder, holding firm against the rebels' momentum. Axemen swung their heavy blades, desperately parrying the incoming spears, while the guards' own pikemen surged forward, striking back and felling a row of rebels. With shield-bearers blocking, axemen parrying, and pikemen thrusting, the Church guards operated in three-man squads. After nearly six months of training and subsequent campaigns in Yan Province and Qing Province, they had gained rich experience and developed seamless coordination. Despite being outnumbered, they held the upper hand in this first engagement.

However, warfare in the age of cold steel is ultimately a trade of human lives, and numerical superiority remains a critical weight on the scales of battle. After several consecutive charges and leaving dozens of corpses behind, the rebels finally tore a breach in the front line of the Church’s army. Shield-bearers fell, and axemen raised their heavy axes to fight and block, only to be caught off guard and pierced through the body by rebel spears.

A Church pikeman, who had been fighting alongside one of the fallen axemen, wore a look of profound grief. He lunged forward, his spear flashing as he struck down the enemy to avenge his comrade. But before he could feel any joy, he felt a chill in his shoulder—a blade had bitten into his shoulder guard, blood streaming out, the pain piercing to the marrow. Enduring the agony, he kicked the rebel in front of him away, roared, "Kill!" and thrust his spear into the rebel's chest.

*Puff...* Blood sprayed—some his, some the enemy's. Suddenly, a scarlet spear shaft appeared from nowhere, piercing his throat with deadly precision. Blood spilled from the corners of his mouth. He made a "gurgling" sound, as if trying to speak his final words, but his vocal cords were ruptured, and his voice was choked by blood. Yet, through his trembling lips, it was clear he was calling out a name, or rather, a symbol: "Holy Mother... my God"—a symbol of faith.

Watching from high above, Xu Shu clearly perceived everything on the battlefield. His eyes turned red with anxiety, and he urged Luan Yi, "Brother Yi, sound the retreat!"

Luan Yi remained expressionless, but his heart was bleeding. He wanted to weep.

This army of the Church was brought from Jinan State. He knew them all; they were like family. Their parents and wives had entrusted their bodies and souls to him, all for the sake of a lie Luan Yi himself had woven—the promise of Heaven. Luan Yi suddenly felt overwhelmed by shame, feeling he was the greatest fraud in the world. He had deceived everyone, the entire population of Jinan. Without him, the people of Jinan would still be living poor but peaceful lives in their hometowns. Instead, he had dragged them onto the battlefield and sent them to their deaths.

Luan Yi’s heart constricted, and his eyes grew moist. To hide his self-reproach and sorrow, he tilted his head back and looked toward the blue sky. The sky today was cloudless, the sun illuminating the earth... sunlight, eternal sunlight... it burned itself to light the world...

Burning itself? Burning? Eternal burning? Eternity?

Luan Yi’s restless heart suddenly calmed. Yes... everything that emits light must pay a price, must it not?

In the five-thousand-year history of the Chinese nation, how long had it been glorious, scorching, and radiating brilliant colors? Two thousand five hundred years? Two thousand? For a long period, the people had been bullied, occupied, and discriminated against by other tribes—the Uprising of the Five Barbarians, the Mongol Yuan, the Manchu Qing, not to mention the year-after-year raids on the borders and the century of humiliation in modern times.

How many sons and daughters of China had died under the hooves of the invaders? How many had been set aflame by the raging fires of war?

Massacres? Slavery?

At this thought, Luan Yi furrowed his brows and stared at the battlefield. That was right—in this battle, many men would sleep here forever, but they would not die in vain. They would use the heat of their lives to ignite an eternal light for the Chinese nation and to create unprecedented glory. They would not die in vain; he would use their unwavering faith to build a wall—a wall that would never fall, protecting the descendants of China for generations to come.

I, Luan Yi, swear here: I will never let them die in vain. Never...

Xu Shu had asked his question, and after waiting a long time without a response from Luan Yi, he saw the situation turning increasingly unfavorable and asked again, pleading, "Brother Yi, my Pontiff, sound the retreat!"

"Wait, it is not yet time!"

The Church army was like a tough whetstone, constantly grinding down the irresistible blade of the rebel army. Sparks flew, swords clashed, and in the span of a single incense stick, a layer of iron filings—the hollow shells of rebels who had lost their souls—was scraped away. But while the whetstone was sharp, it was not without wear; the corpses of guards wearing the Holy Cross emblem were everywhere, and blood flowed like a river.

"Brother Yi, is it enough now?" Xu Shu asked, his face almost touching Luan Yi's. The commanders of the various battalions also focused their eyes toward the commander's banner, anticipating the planned "rout."

"Wait a little longer!"

"We cannot wait any longer!" Xu Shu pointed to the army not far away. "Every moment we wait, more men lose their lives! This is too cruel!"

"Wait a little longer!" Luan Yi glared at Xu Shu. "If we retreat now, it will look too fake and will be seen through by the rebels! Besides... war is inherently cruel; it is a factory of death. To ensure that the vast majority do not have to die, we must make sacrifices!"

"But..." Xu Shu did not argue. He knew that Luan Yi was right—everything he said was right. It was indeed not yet the time. The guards who had already sacrificed themselves had done so to ensure the rest would not, and to ensure the imperial troops in Changshe City would not perish... They had died for a worthy cause.

Sweating profusely, Xu Shu watched everything on the battlefield: the blood scattering like a gentle rain, the withered grass stained red by hot blood, and the taste of life and death parting. Finally, the two wings of the rebel army moved, bypassing the front line that was fiercely engaged with the Church army and closing in to encircle them.

"Pass the Pontiff's order! Sound the retreat! The Templars are to charge and cover the rear!" Luan Yi raised his hammer and shouted.

"Understood..." Xu Shu felt a great weight lift from his heart, a sense of relief washing over him. He excitedly ordered the flag bearer, "Sound the retreat! Sound it!"

*Clang, clang, clang!* The sound of the gongs rang out loudly. The rear guard of the Church army became the front, and the center and left wings began to move backward slowly.

The war drums of the right wing thundered. The infantry maneuvered to both sides, opening a wide gap. A troop of knights in bright armor emerged from the formation; it was the Templar Battalion, led personally by Zhao Yun.

A priest accompanying the army shouted, and the knights roared in unison, "For the glory of the Holy Mother! Charge!"

The two thousand knights had been forced to watch their brothers die in battle without being able to help, and they had long been bottling up their rage. Now that it was finally their turn, each of them was filled with the desire to avenge their brothers. Their fighting spirit was intense, and they rushed out like tigers unleashed, unstoppable, sending the rebels tumbling and turning the ground into a river of blood. In an instant, they broke into the enemy formation, then turned and swept across the junction between the Church and rebel forces, separating the entangled armies and winning space and time for the main force of the Church to retreat.