Daqin Zhentiansi

Chapter 1116 Desperate Situation

His name is Yan Qing, and he is Yan He's nephew. He is only seventeen years old this year.

The knife in his hand was already chipped, curled like a saw.

His face still retained the sharp features of a young man, but his eyes no longer held the youthful spirit—they were filled with bloodshot veins and a resolute expression.

He took a step forward, stood beside Yan He, and raised the chipped blade of his sword, with the blade facing outwards.

My arms are trembling, not from fear, but from the fact that I've made too many cuts since yesterday, and my muscles are twitching uncontrollably.

Yan He looked at him and suddenly smiled. The smile was faint and disappeared in an instant.

"Qingzi, are you afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," Yan Qing said through gritted teeth.

"If you're not afraid, stand up straight."

Yan He turned around, facing the valley entrance, held his long sword horizontally in front of him, and took a deep breath.

The wind blowing in from the valley entrance caused his robes to billow backwards.

He's sixty-three this year, and standing under this tattered flag, his spine is still straight.

"Form ranks."

The hunters from Liuyun Village silently picked up their weapons and walked behind him.

No one spoke. No one hesitated.

The weapons were already broken beyond recognition.

The blade was chipped, and the spear shaft was cracked.

Several of the bowstrings were temporarily joined together with animal sinews, and they made a creaking sound when fully drawn, as if they could snap at any moment.

Their leather armor was covered in dried bloodstains, layer upon layer, the old ones not yet completely dry before new ones were pasted on.

Some of them didn't even have armor, standing shirtless in the middle of the formation, their bodies covered in crisscrossing wounds that were still bleeding.

Blood trickled down his skin, dripping onto the ground and mixing with other people's blood.

But they stood very straight.

No one looked back.

Yan Qing stood to Yan He's right, gripping the chipped blade of a knife, his knuckles white from the force.

Beside him stood Yan Lie, the best hunter of Liuyun Village, who held only half a spear shaft in his hand, the spear tip broken off inside the demon wolf's body.

Yan Lie is forty-one years old this year. He has been a hunter all his life, and his hands are as steady as an anvil.

But now his hands were trembling too—his left arm had been bitten by a wolf, and a tattered cloth was wrapped around it from his shoulder to his elbow, the blood soaking through it.

He didn't look at his wound; his eyes were fixed on the valley entrance.

Further to the right is Yan Shitou.

Yan Shitou's real name isn't Shitou (Stone), it's Yan Lei (Yan Lei).

Because he could carry a millstone-sized bluestone by himself from the age of twelve, everyone called him Stone.

His weapon was long gone; now he held an iron bar that had been taken from the tent frame.

There were several dents on the iron rod, left when he smashed the wolf's skull.

He was shirtless, his chest covered in claw marks, one of which ran diagonally from his left shoulder to his right rib, still oozing blood.

He stood there, legs apart, center of gravity low, iron rod held horizontally in front of him, like an iron tower.

Yan He turned around and glanced back.

Behind him were the last 237 people from Liuyun Village.

Two hundred and thirty-seven faces, some old, some young, some still wrapped in the clothes of their fallen comrades from yesterday.

He glanced at it but said nothing.

Everything that needed to be said was said yesterday.

He raised his knife, the tip pointing towards the valley entrance, his gaze passing over the gray wolf pack and landing on the distant hillside.

The wolves at the valley entrance began to stir.

The alpha wolf's howl came down from the hillside. The sound was long and sharp, like a knife scraping against glass.

The wolf in the front row crouched low, its front paws pawing the ground, its hind leg muscles tense.

Their tails were tucked between their two hind legs, and drool dripped from the corners of their mouths onto the ground.

A demonic wolf licked its lips, revealing its fangs, with a piece of meat still clinging to them.

It is human flesh.

Yan He gripped the knife handle tightly.

The linen wrapped around the knife handle was soaked with sweat, sticky and giving it a strange sense of security when held in the hand.

He looked at the demonic wolf charging at the front, having already chosen his first target in his mind. Just then, he heard a voice.

The sound didn't come from the valley entrance.

It came from behind the monster. It was muffled. Heavy. Like something awakening deep within the earth.

The sound grew louder and denser, rolling in from afar, crushing the hillsides, the forests, and the howls of the monster horde.

The gravelly ground in the valley trembled violently, with pebbles bouncing up and falling back down.

On the mountain walls on both sides of the valley entrance, loose rocks began to roll down, crashing onto the piles of rocks in the valley with a crackling sound.

Yan He raised his head.

He saw the mountain ridge opposite.

On the mountain ridge, a flag emerged from the morning mist.

The flag suddenly unfurled in the mountain wind.

The painting depicts a mountain peak covered in frost and snow.

The fog above the ridge was split open by the flag, swirling to both sides.

The morning light shone through the back of the flag, giving it a golden edge.

Then, behind the flag, countless figures emerged from the mist.

First came the flags.

Then comes the spearhead.

Countless spear tips gleamed coldly in the morning mist, densely packed like a forest of steel.

Then came the armor.

The dark red leather armor gleamed with a deep luster in the morning light, and the battle patterns on the breastplate shone faintly.

Then there are the war beasts.

The horns of the Iron-Spine Bull emerged from the mist, its head adorned with a bone helmet inlaid with the fangs of a demon-patterned leopard, gleaming coldly white in the morning light.

Three thousand men formed a charging formation and pressed down from the mountain ridge.

They weren't fast, but every step they took was in sync with the rhythm.

The sound of three thousand people's footsteps blended together, and the earth trembled with their steps.

The trembling was not a chaotic vibration, but a powerful, rhythmic pulsation.

a bit.

a bit.

One more time.

Like a giant heart beating underground.

Yan He opened his mouth.

He wanted to say something, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

His eyes reflected the white frost battle flag and the three thousand figures emerging from the morning mist.

His hand holding the knife was trembling, not from exhaustion, but from something he himself couldn't explain.

He glanced back at the hunters from Liuyun Village behind him.

They all saw it too.

Yan Qing's mouth was open, and he forgot to close it.

Yan Lie gripped the broken spear shaft, forgetting the pain in his left arm.

Yan Shitou leaned the iron rod on the ground, his eyes reddening.

They waited for a day and a night, waiting for death all night.

What awaited them was not death, but a flag.

Zhang Yuanchong was at the very front.

His warhorse reared up, its mane stretching into a straight line in the wind.

The warhorse was brought from Baishuang Village by him; it was jet black and had shin guards with wind-riding patterns wrapped around its four legs.

The horse trod through the air, each step creating a ripple of air on the ground.

His robes fluttered in the mountain wind, and the black cloak behind him cast a long shadow in the morning light, like a drawn sword.

Tuoba Tie was on his left.

The heavy axe lay across the horse's back, the energy-gathering patterns on the blade already glowing. Golden light flowed along the blade, making the entire heavy axe look like a piece of red-hot iron.

A bag of spare axe handles hung beside his saddle. (End of Chapter)