Chapter Seventy-Nine: Victory or Death

In truth, not many people were actually killed by the weapons of the heavy cavalry; most perished beneath the trampling hooves of their warhorses. These mounts were largely Riverbend horses, each weighing seven to eight hundred jin, and with the addition of a hundred jin or so of armor and equipment, plus the rider’s weight, the total approached a thousand jin. To be stepped on by such a massive horse was no trivial matter; let alone when an entire troop of heavy cavalry charged through—the victims would not suffer merely a single blow. Without exaggeration, a limb crushed would be broken, a body trampled would be left with grievous internal injuries, and if one’s head was struck… the aftermath was too dreadful to imagine.

Zhang Jue had suffered at the hands of heavy cavalry before and knew well that his strategy of overwhelming numbers was useless against such opponents. In gaming terms, if you can’t even break through their defenses, how are you supposed to fight? Most crucially, after so many encounters, he had come to understand Xu Kang’s tactics: the heavy cavalry would break through the center, targeting banners and commanders, while the light cavalry and infantry swept the flanks. In other words, if he did not flee now, not just his vanguard but his central and rear forces would soon be dragged in and destroyed.

“There’s no choice but to retreat!”

Though he felt humiliated, he had no other options. He immediately turned his horse and began to withdraw. His decision was clearly correct; he had barely begun his retreat when Zhao Hong and Zhang Cheng flanked him, encircling his forty-thousand-strong vanguard and launching a massacre.

Hearing the shouts and screams of slaughter behind him, Zhang Jue’s face twisted in pain, but in the end, he did not turn back to help. Instead, he hardened his heart and gave the order, “Retreat… retreat to Guangzong!”

With that command, he effectively abandoned those forty thousand Yellow Turban followers. In that moment, the morale that had briefly risen after their victory over Dong Zhuo and Zhang Wen plummeted to its lowest point once more.

But Zhang Jue could not concern himself with such matters. His dream of toppling the court was not yet realized, and he had no intention of dying here. In his mind, those sacrificed Yellow Turbans were simply the necessary price for his ideals.

Yet his followers did not share his view. For them, survival was paramount; all else was secondary. Thus, during the retreat to Guangzong, many scattered and fled, and Zhang Jue, anxious about being pursued, could not spare the effort to chase them down.

To him, the loss of a few was nothing—so long as he returned to Guangzong, he could replenish his forces.

But what truly disturbed him was the growing sense of unease that intensified as he approached the city. “What is it?” he wondered. Yet before he could sort out his thoughts, a thunderous explosion shattered his concentration.

Boom… boom… rumble…

The moment he heard it, his expression changed drastically. This was the very sound that had once transformed his hundreds of thousands of devout Yellow Turban followers back into helpless peasants—slaughtered at will. If the heavy cavalry had filled him with fear and helplessness, this thunderous roar was his living nightmare.

Unconsciously, he clenched his fists.

“It’s him again… him again… Why?”

He was afraid; he was angry; but above all, he was powerless. It was just like before he had studied under Yu Ji, watching countless commoners die from plague, unable to do anything to save them.

“Was I truly wrong?”

The thought flashed through his mind but was instantly dismissed.

“I am not wrong—the tyrants are to blame. If there is no escape, then I must fight to the death!”

His eyes grew sharp as he raised his sword high.

“Heaven is dead, the Yellow Heaven shall rise! In this new cycle, all under heaven shall prosper! Kill!”

As his voice rang out, his followers echoed his cry.

“Kill!”

“Kill!”

“Kill!”

Shouting as they went, they charged toward the artillery formation commanded by Xu Kang.

Five hundred meters…

Four hundred meters…

Three hundred meters…

Their thin cloth garments were no protection against the shrapnel from the Tiger Squat Cannons. As the distance closed, their casualties mounted rapidly.

The sounds of his followers falling and screaming pressed heavily on Zhang Jue, but he knew he had no choice. Behind him were Xu Kang’s cavalry and Huai River soldiers; if his vanguard fell, he would be next.

Thus, only by defeating Xu Kang’s artillery and retreating into Guangzong city did he have any hope of survival.

This battle—he had to win!

Xu Kang’s thoughts mirrored Zhang Jue’s. Behind him lay Guangzong. If Zhang Jue escaped back into the city, the campaign would be lost. He had to gamble—gamble that he could stop Zhang Jue, and that Zhao Hong and Zhang Cheng would arrive before reinforcements from Guangzong could intervene.

It was a perilous wager. Failure meant the annihilation of his artillerymen and the loss of the Tiger Squat Cannons to the enemy—an outcome Xu Kang would never accept. He steeled himself.

“Load fifty percent more gunpowder and stone. I’d rather the cannons burst than let them fall into Yellow Turban hands!”

“Yes, sir!”

At his command, the artillerymen increased the charge, and the Tiger Squat Cannons’ power surged. As the Yellow Turbans drew within 150 meters—well within range—the cannons reached their peak lethality. With the increased load, each volley was deafening and devastating.

After just three salvos, nearly ten thousand Yellow Turban soldiers lay dead on the field, stunning the survivors and stalling their advance.

Xu Kang seized the moment, commanding his gunners to reload for another barrage. His heart soared; he knew that three to five more volleys would shatter Zhang Jue’s forces, and even if Zhang Jue shouted himself hoarse, his followers would break and flee.

“This battle, I must win!”

Yet, reality often defies expectation. After only two volleys, his artillerymen brought him the news he dreaded most—ammunition was exhausted. There was still gunpowder left, but no more stones to fire.

Xu Kang was startled, but his resolve only hardened.

“If there are no stones, fire blank shots with gunpowder! Leave two hundred men to keep firing, make as much noise as possible. The rest, follow me into battle!”

With that, he summoned his armored warhorse, retrieved two crimson Inferno Demon Hammers from his spatial pack, and swung them powerfully.

“Victory or death, lok039tarogar!”

At his shout, his artillerymen raised their weapons and roared in unison, “Lok039tarogar!”