Li Qingge had once said that twelve great chieftains of the eighteen grassland tribes had signed a hawk letter, and that at least two hundred and thirty grassland masters had already poured into the Central Plains from every direction. But at that time she still did not know that, on top of this, the Wen family had deliberately thrown open the border passes and let in two thousand Yaglakar elite cavalry. According to the original design of Wen Zhengxi and Wen Zhiwei, the kill-the-chrysanthemum plan had accounted for everything, leaving no flaw, every single detail carried to the extreme.
They simply never imagined that the Prince of Yan would actually flee—and, most critically, that Wang Chong would shatter the Yaglakar elite cavalry outside Pengshan County, rendering both their target and their strongest move useless.
Even so, if more than two hundred grassland masters broke into Tongzhou Prefecture, Wang Chong would surely be doomed; neither heaven nor earth could save him. But Wang Chong refused to play by the usual rules. Surrounded on all four sides, he had no intention of digging in to defend—instead he struck out with everything he had, meaning to annihilate one of the enemy forces first.
That force happened to be the weakest of all. Its temporary leader, Achile, could not withstand a single move from Wang Chong and was stabbed to death on the spot. The battle that followed was like a landslide: Wang Chong slaughtered at will, his blows growing heavier and heavier, and the horse lance lent by Qin Han became a fire dragon in his grip.
It was deep in the dead of night by then. Wang Chong adapted Holding-Candle Swordplay to the horse lance, using none of the techniques that drained great reserves of energy, borrowing only the matchlessly swift secret art of Holding-Candle Swordplay so that points of firelight bloomed along the lance's edge. Not only was its killing power astonishing, it also lent the martial masters of the Central Plains boundless encouragement.
With a casual thrust of his lance, Wang Chong skewered another great enemy to death. When he turned to look back, he saw there were no enemies left on the battlefield. He let out a roar and bellowed, "There are still enemies in the other three directions! We'll circle the city and strike—win ourselves another great victory!"
Though Wang Chong was drenched in hot blood from the killing, he knew he could not return to the city. Once back, he would surely be surrounded by the three other forces of grassland masters, and there would be no escape. So he proposed the tactic of striking while circling the city.
He grabbed hold of Qin Han and said, "Take some of the brothers and shout all along the way that the Prince of Yan is fleeing—make straight for the north gate of Tongzhou Prefecture, but go slowly on the road." Qin Han understood at once and led off those whose stamina was weaker and who were worn out from the prolonged fighting; they did indeed cry out all the way and advance at a crawl.
Wang Chong swept his eyes over the battlefield and shouted, "Cut off all the heads and carry them on your horses—come with me and earn more merit!" He was the first to dismount, casually picked up a severed head, and hung it beneath his horse's neck. Achile's head was snatched up by Lu Zongfeng, who knew Wang Chong's style well enough to be certain this credit would fall to him; overjoyed, he too hung it beneath his horse's neck. The rest followed suit, all taking heads with them, and those without horses tied them at their waists. Their killing aura surged skyward at once.
Wang Chong split the men into two groups, front and rear, ordering the rear group to advance slowly and recover their strength along the way, while he led the other, making enough of a show of force, straight toward the south gate.
Wang Chong's plan was highly risky, little more than a gamble—a wager that the grassland warriors would split their forces, a wager that he could wipe out one of those forces. Though he had no real confidence, at this point there was simply no better option.
Ever since he had transmigrated, Wang Chong had felt as if he were walking on thin ice, terrified that one day his secret would slip and he would be hacked to pieces with a sign hung on him reading something like "Dead Lecher." Now that the truth had burst into the open, he truly was "White Chrysanthemum"—yet he was no lecher. He had been framed by those closest to him, forced out of Chang'an, and the masters of the eighteen grassland tribes had been lured in to kill him.
Wang Chong was fairly boiling with anger. He simply could not understand how anyone could be so wicked.
Profit, profit, nothing but profit—could it truly be that they acknowledged only gain and no bonds of blood?
Wen Zhengchun, the Prince of Yan, had been fostered in the Wen family since childhood and raised under the care of Wen Zhengxi and Wen Zhiwei. Surely there should have been some family affection there, at the very least!
He was like many young people of the modern age, who also could not understand it: why, when a person was supposed to be their closest kin, that person would forever be trying to manipulate them, harm them, and play them for a fool. Among those who are truly close kin, genuine love is exceedingly rare—seldom met, hard to come by.
Before Wang Chong had even reached the south gate, he spotted more than ten grassland warriors coming to meet him head-on, and could not help but rejoice, shouting, "Come and offer up your heads!"
These warriors of the eighteen grassland tribes had received the hawk letter and slipped into the Central Plains, expecting that with allies working in concert from within and without, killing the Prince of Yan would be effortless. Never had they imagined that Wang Chong could, in so short a time, gather a band of martial fighters and even drive them to fight to the death for him. Watching Wang Chong charge at them with more than a hundred men, the leading warrior hesitated a moment, and then his confidence swelled; he bellowed, "The people of the Central Plains are weak—they cannot withstand a single blow! No matter how many they are, one good charge and they'll scatter! This is a great merit dropped into our laps; we must not let it slip!"
Both sides were filled with immense confidence that they would carry the day. But the moment the two forces collided, these dozen-odd grassland warriors saw their own companions' severed heads carried by Wang Chong's men, and panic seized their hearts—only, by then it was too late.
Wang Chong's horse lance moved like a dragon, and in an instant he had killed six or seven of them. He still did not forget to shout at the top of his voice, "Whoever picks up a head gets the credit for the kill!"
The few remaining grassland warriors did not live much longer, either. In fact, the battle cost their own side not a single casualty; instead, it was the scramble over the heads that nearly set them at one another's throats.
Wang Chong held his horse lance crosswise, blocking the way between two skilled fighters from some gang or other, and said, "You in green, take the head; you in black, I'll make it up to you in the next fight."
The two were in fact the leaders of two small gangs that had friction between them even at the best of times. But now, hearing Wang Chong's ruling, neither voiced the slightest dissatisfaction; and since Wang Chong slaughtered grassland warriors as easily as if he were butchering chickens, beneath the weight of his overbearing might the two dared not take offense. The clash was smoothed over, and Wang Chong still led his men straight toward the south gate of Tongzhou Prefecture.
They had not gone far this time when a signal flare shot up into the sky. Clearly someone had spotted them and, reckoning they could not match him head-on, meant to summon reinforcements.
Wang Chong asked, "Who has a bow and arrows?"
Someone at once offered up a bow and arrows. He looked them over closely—they were of the great steppe style: a stiff, heavy bow of crude make. He reached out and drew it, nocked a long arrow, and let fly.
From the distance came an immediate cry of agony—clearly someone had been struck by Wang Chong's arrow.
Wang Chong was actually quite astonished himself. That last shot had been loosed completely blind; who would have thought it would hit?
He dared not keep up the swagger, lest a second attempt go wrong and leave him doing an awkward split, ruining the divine-archer image he had just established. He bellowed, "On all the steppe there's nothing but cowardly curs! Are there no real men left among the eighteen tribes?"
The insult cut rather too deep, and at once several figures charged out. The one in the lead—Wang Chong actually recognized her. It was that Princess Bilge. He flashed a brilliant grin and said, "So it's the mannish woman!"
Princess Bilge was so furious that her insides burned as if aflame. She spurred her horse and charged with her lance leveled. Wang Chong was overjoyed at heart; he drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed seven shafts in a row.
Alas for this princess of the Yaglakar clan, so adored across the great steppe—she barely managed to parry three arrows, and then could no longer withstand the matchless Pure Yang true qi carried on Wang Chong's shafts. The remaining four arrows pierced her through the chest and the ribs, while the last two bored into her skull. She toppled from her horse's back and met a most gruesome end.
Wang Chong shouted, "You in black—come and take the head!"
The leader of the small gang dressed in black watched Princess Bilge fall from her horse, his heart quailing with fear—how would he dare step forward? His gang had long been posted at the frontier, and he actually recognized this princess of the Yaglakar clan; what was more, he knew that Yaglakar Yehu doted on this only daughter of his beyond measure. His heart filled with regret, and he thought to himself, "If Yehu ever learns that I took the head of his beloved only daughter, I fear the Black Owl Gang will be wiped out within ten days."
Chapter 77