Seventy

Luan Yi was utterly bewitched by Diao Chan, while Diao Chan was nearly driven mad by Luan Yi’s relentless passion. After a paroxysm of pleasure, Diao Chan gained instant favor. Luan Yi genuinely wished to continue, yet the pressing circumstances weighed on his mind, and seeing Diao Chan utterly exhausted after her first such experience, he reluctantly decided to stop. He pulled up his trousers, helped Diao Chan adjust her clothes, and led her out of the stall. Surveying the restroom to make sure it was empty, they quietly slipped away.

No sooner had they stepped outside than they saw Cai Yan emerge from the women’s restroom. She spotted Luan Yi and Diao Chan, managed a strained smile, said nothing, and gracefully walked away.

Watching her go, Diao Chan asked in confusion, “What’s the matter with Sister Cai?”

What’s the matter? What else could it be? The men’s and women’s restrooms were connected; she must have heard the commotion from their final moments. She was surely jealous now, perhaps even disdaining such licentious behavior. Luan Yi said coldly, “If only she were half as understanding as you, Diao Chan, she wouldn’t be acting so spoiled at a time like this! Leave her be.” With that, he led Diao Chan toward the front courtyard.

Diao Chan limped along behind Luan Yi, her face flushed crimson, but inwardly she was overjoyed. Originally, her plan had been to seduce Luan Yi, hoping that by conceiving his child before Cai Yan, she might secure her place in the Luan family and in Luan Yi’s heart. She never imagined that, by some twist of fate, their secret tryst would be overheard by Cai Yan, creating a rift between Luan Yi and Cai Yan. To strike two targets with one arrow—truly, the blessing of the Holy Mother!

As they returned to the front court, they ran into Li Zhuang, who had been searching everywhere for Luan Yi—everywhere except the restroom. Luan Yi couldn’t help but feel a chill; had Li Zhuang found them in the act, the embarrassment would have been beyond measure.

“What do you want with me?” Luan Yi asked.

Li Zhuang explained in detail. That morning, he had stood watch atop the wall, observing the enemy troops. From chaos, the official troops had gradually reorganized themselves. By now, they had formed battle lines and seemed ready to launch another assault.

Luan Yi calculated the time; over an hour had passed since the last defeat of the official army—indeed, it was time for them to renew the attack. He climbed the high wall for a better view. As he turned his gaze, the distant sound of steady war drums reached his ears, and hundreds of soldiers surged forward once more.

He quickly ordered the Guardian Soldiers to man the walls and defend, while he fetched spare iron discs, lining them along the outer edge of the ramparts.

Another round of bloody slaughter ensued. Luan Yi, wielding the brutal iron discs, smashed the soldiers’ shields and their morale. They retreated, then regrouped and attacked again. This cycle repeated for over a day—battle after battle, defeat after defeat!

By the deep hours of the second night, Luan Yi looked at the exhausted Guardian Soldiers slumped on the wall, knowing this could not go on. Even if the soldiers didn’t fall to the enemy, they would be worked to death. Meanwhile, the arrows had been used up in vast quantities, with barely any left; they could not hold out another day.

After some consideration, Luan Yi decided they could not simply wait to be slaughtered—they must seize the initiative. He selected fifty skilled archers from each gate, and retrieved one hundred glass bottles from the factory storeroom. He filled each halfway with Immortal Brew, sealing the necks with cloth.

He warned everyone in advance: the Immortal Brew was not for drinking, but for battle—at his command, they were to use it as instructed.

The soldiers, seeing the crystal-clear glass bottles and fine liquor in their hands, were thoroughly perplexed. These items were worth a fortune—one glass bottle cost ten gold, a pound of Immortal Brew fifty silver. How could such precious things be used in war?

What they did not know was that, combined, these two costly items became a weapon of great significance in future ages—the Molotov cocktail, a nemesis of tanks in the Soviet Great Patriotic War. Although glass and Immortal Brew seemed expensive, their high price lay in the secrecy of their manufacture; in truth, the production costs were low, well within the Luan family’s means.

Each man hung a Molotov at his waist. Luan Yi donned his armor and led the fifty soldiers, slipping out of the cathedral under the cover of darkness, circling quietly toward the enemy camp.

At this point, after two days of fruitless assault, the official troops were exhausted. They never expected a sortie from the defenders, and so only a few patrols were sent out.

The hunters, clad in black, spotted a five-man patrol from afar. They drew their bows simultaneously and shot with deadly precision. Five arrows flew; three struck throats, one pierced a brow. Four soldiers fell without a sound. Only one arrow missed its mark, failing to hit the left chest of the last patrolman. As he was about to cry out, Luan Yi hurled an iron disc in a flash of lightning, cleanly severing his head.

With the patrol eliminated, Luan Yi paused. Seeing no signs of alarm, he led his men deeper into the camp, weaving among the tents, sniping and ambushing, killing over a dozen more patrolmen.

Finding an upwind position, he signaled for the men to take out their glass bottles, light the cloth stoppers with fire, and hurl them onto the distant tents. With a whoosh, the Molotovs shattered, and flames burst forth. The rest followed suit, tossing bottles everywhere. The alcohol fueled the fire, and since the tents were coated with oil for waterproofing, the flames grew ever fiercer. By the time the soldiers inside noticed, it was too late. They rushed out, ablaze, rolling desperately on the ground, but the flames, fed by the alcohol, would not be extinguished. The six-hundred-degree inferno scorched flesh from bone, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh.

Agonized screams rose and fell, the fire spread unchecked by the wind, and the army camp outside the north gate became a hellish sea of fire.

Such a conflagration took not only the enemy by surprise, but even the Guardian Soldiers, who had never imagined that glass bottles and Immortal Brew could have such power. They credited it all to Luan Yi, believing this must be a divine revelation from the Holy Mother herself.

“Retreat! Retreat!” Luan Yi shouted amid the spreading flames, lest his own men be caught in the inferno. He led them to flee at once.

After running a hundred paces, a furious cry rang out beside him. “Luan Ziqi, you dare set fire to our main camp!”

Luan Yi turned to see none other than Yang Mou, accompanied by thirty or so soldiers and a dozen priests. The blaze illuminated his face, intensifying his fury—he looked ready to tear someone apart.

Luan Yi sneered. This fool was courting death; he had been searching for Yang Mou to kill him, and here the man appeared on his own. “You clown! How dare you bluster! Die!”

Wielding his great hammer, Luan Yi led his men in a direct charge at Yang Mou.

Only now did Yang Mou panic, remembering Luan Yi’s inhuman strength—he was no match. He cursed himself for letting anger get the better of him at such a time, and now he had brought ruin upon himself. “Help! The traitor is here, protect your leader!” But in the chaos of fire and flight, no one had time for Yang Mou.

Desperate, he cried, “Stop him!” and turned to flee.

Among the troops, the officer commanding the battle was resolute. Raising his sword, he shouted, “Seize the traitor Luan Yi!” and spurred his horse forward, the infantry and priests following.

In the clash, Luan Yi’s mind was crystal clear. The fire and screams faded from his thoughts; only the charging officer filled his vision. Ten paces, seven, five—enough. He cried, “Prepare to die!” dodged the officer’s blade, then swung his hammer with all his might. The blow struck the horse’s head, crushing it into the chest, splattering blood and bone everywhere.

The horse died instantly, collapsing mid-gallop. The officer was thrown headlong into the midst of the Guardian Soldiers, where he was hacked to pieces by a dozen blades.

Luan Yi pressed on, hammer and club in hand, charging and killing, shouting, “Where are you running, Yang Mou!” He spun, swinging his hammer, forcing the soldiers back, and hurled an iron disc at Yang Mou’s head.

By some stroke of luck, Yang Mou’s horse stumbled at that very moment, and he fell to the ground, blood streaming from his face but narrowly avoiding the iron disc—a lucky escape. He ignored his injuries, mounted his horse, and fled for his life. “Luan Yi, just you wait!”

“Wait for what?” Luan Yi retorted, killing two more soldiers as more began to converge on him. He immediately ordered his men to retreat.

The fifty-one of them covered each other and withdrew in good order, breaking into a run only when they saw no pursuit. In the time it takes to burn half an incense stick, they returned to the cathedral compound.

No sooner had they entered than Li Zhuang reported that more enemy troops were attacking the east gate. The defenders were nearly overwhelmed; the gate was about to fall.

Just then, a tremendous crash shook the air. Luan Yi felt a chill—had the enemy already broken through the gate?

“Quick! Leave ten men at the north gate to escort the women and children to the southern factory. The rest, follow me—” Luan Yi and his men, though exhausted, rushed toward the east gate. By now, the high wall had been overrun, littered with the corpses of soldiers and defenders alike. Of sixty defenders, only about twenty remained, having retreated from the wall.

The massive gates lay crooked on the ground, and from the darkness beyond, enemy soldiers poured in, surrounding the last Guardian Soldiers.