Chapter 34: The City Clad in Golden Armor

The arrival of Yang Tian was an invisible source of encouragement for the soldiers.

For years, the Desolate City had been without a city lord. Even in the past, during times of war, the city lord rarely appeared atop the city walls to face the enemy alongside the soldiers. Naturally, no one could fault the city lord for not coming—yet Desolate City was different. In this war, Yang Tian had rushed to the scene, giving the soldiers a sense of shared hardship and camaraderie.

It was certainly a point in his favor.

Yang Tian, however, felt deeply troubled. War inevitably meant death, and Desolate City could not afford any more losses—he could not accept such a price.

He drew out a literary treasure imbued with the spirit of culture, commanded it to ascend into the sky, and, without hesitation, detonated it.

“Detonate!”

Behind him, Wang Fu’s expression was complicated. A plain white sheet unfurled, emitting a scholarly radiance. Suddenly, it exploded, turning to dust and scattering in the wind, leaving only characters full of vitality, each one steeped in literary aura, brewing a terrifying power.

When autumn comes on the eighth day of the ninth month,
My chrysanthemums bloom, the other flowers wither.
A fragrance so strong it fills the capital,
The city adorned in golden armor.

All twenty-eight characters of the poem floated in the air, intertwining and fusing together. They resembled a spark that gradually grew intense, eventually forming a blazing fireball that radiated dazzling light.

This time, there was no humanoid figure. Instead, it seemed as though countless chrysanthemums were blooming across heaven and earth, their fragrance permeating the air, intoxicating the senses.

The literary aura condensed into golden chrysanthemums, cloaking the enemy tribes overhead. As the breeze passed, petals detached from their blooms, shooting down toward the barbarian warriors below.

The formless surpassed the tangible.

All the soldiers found themselves immersed in a world of chrysanthemums—entranced by the scent and dazzled by the sight. Yet the barbarians faced lethal intent from every direction, inescapable and omnipresent. Their composure crumbled. They swung their weapons frantically, trying to intercept the deadly petals. Warhorses shrieked, and their ranks fell into chaos.

Yang Tian awaited the harvest of victory. He did not know precisely what kind of destructive power this literary treasure, forged from the poem, would unleash. Compared to Li Bai the Poet Immortal’s “The Knight Errant,” this poem was far less renowned.

“Chrysanthemums After Failing the Imperial Exam!”

It was written by Huang Chao of the Tang dynasty—a leader of the late-Tang peasant uprising and the founding emperor of Great Qi. Yang Tian had not known this before; it was only revealed to him in the biographical introduction that appeared when the book’s page opened.

Each chrysanthemum was dazzling as golden armor, striking in its beauty. Yet beneath their loveliness lay a fierce and lethal intent. The heady fragrance surged skyward, oppressing the enemy with overwhelming force, ensuring that all foes would perish beneath the relentless assault.

The soldiers were stunned, lost in awe.

Once again, they had witnessed a miracle worthy of the immortals. They might not understand what method this was, but in their imagination, this was what a miracle truly looked like.

Everywhere they looked, golden chrysanthemums bloomed in splendor. They admired the flowers as the fierce barbarians fell, one after another, beneath the dazzling petals.

One. Two...

Five minutes later, the world of chrysanthemums faded away, as though nothing had happened—save for the battlefield strewn with barbarian corpses.

Of the four to five hundred enemies, fewer than fifty survived. Their arrogance was gone; they were reduced to fleeing in terror.

Yang Tian would not let them escape. He had long since instructed Yang He to prepare.

The city gates swung open.

“Long live the city lord!”
“Kill them!”

Yang He charged out with six hundred soldiers. The barbarian fugitives, stifled by a hail of arrows, could not flee and were quickly overtaken.

They were soon annihilated.

Afterward, Yang He led three hundred martial soldiers, each mounted on a captured barbarian steed. They adapted quickly and set off toward the Cypress Tribe, training their riding skills as they traveled.

The remaining soldiers swiftly cleared the battlefield, collecting barbarian weapons and everything of value—the warhorses most of all. Regrettably, fifty or sixty horses had died or been fatally wounded. Those that could be healed were kept for riding; the dead or mortally wounded would serve as provisions for the troops.

The barbarians’ steeds were of excellent stock, even for tribes with fewer than five hundred members—large and robust, able to carry more than a thousand pounds.

The soldiers were brimming with excitement and joy, their faces radiant as they gazed at Yang Tian, eyes full of reverence. Their sense of unity deepened further.

Two overwhelming victories—an experience they had never known before.

Now, they were taking the initiative in battle. They believed they would return with abundant supplies.

Hope was blossoming in their hearts.

Desolate City would surely only grow stronger.

Yang Tian, however, was not entirely satisfied with the results. A single literary treasure had failed to utterly annihilate the enemy.

He understood, though—the fault lay with himself. His strength was insufficient to unleash the treasure’s full power.

The last time he had detonated a literary treasure, he was at the second rank of the literary path. Now, he was at the third, his inner cultural energy more abundant, so the effect lasted five minutes instead of three. Yet the outcome was not as good as last time, proving the immense power of Li Bai the Poet Immortal.

To bear the title “Immortal” was no exaggeration.

Yang Tian’s strength was nowhere near enough to channel even one ten-thousandth of Li Bai’s power. Using up that treasure seemed almost a waste.

Still, he did not regret it.

As he restored his cultural energy, he checked his own fortune. With the end of the battle, his luck surged anew—enough to unlock a new page in the book.

He was certain that when Yang He returned, his luck would increase again.

This was not the place. He would save it for later.

Yang Tian looked back and saw Wang Fu cultivating. He surmised that Wang Fu had gained new insight from the poem just now.

Wang Fu’s talent was certainly impressive, merely stifled by the world’s circumstances. The arrival of an otherworlder like himself seemed to have broken some unseen barrier.

This was a good thing.

The stronger Wang Fu became, the safer Yang Tian would be. The eighth rank of the literary path was far from enough. Qin officially had only five extraordinary powerhouses, and who knew how many lurked in the shadows? There were many ninth-rank martial artists, and their enemies were vast and powerful.

He thought no more of it and focused on restoring his literary energy by meditating on works of literature.

He naturally meditated on the poems within the pages of his book.

Half an hour later, Yang Tian was fully restored.

Cultivating the literary path lay in reading and comprehending works of literature. Words were fundamental—two words formed a phrase, several a clause, many a sentence, then poems, songs, essays.

He had asked Wang Fu for guidance, and Wang Fu had explained everything in detail, leaving him half-understanding, half-confused. It did not matter.

He had a cheat—his “Celestial Tome of China”—containing countless cultural treasures from his previous world, which naturally enhanced his power.

Wang Fu often sighed that he must be the reincarnation of a Sage. In a sense, he was not wrong.

Yang Tian could sense the subtle fluctuations in Wang Fu’s aura, surging with literary energy. It was only because Wang Fu had not shielded himself; otherwise, the gap in strength would have made it impossible for Yang Tian to detect.

More than an hour passed before Wang Fu finished his cultivation, unable to conceal his excitement. For a scholar walking the literary path at the end of an era, he had seen hope—he felt as though he had been reborn.

Twice now, through the young lord’s poems, he had achieved profound insights.

It was nothing short of miraculous!

The young lord was surely the reincarnation of a Sage, a beacon of the literary path!

All the more, Wang Fu could not help but regret and sigh—the young lord’s awakening had come too late, and the current situation was dire, ill-suited to the stable growth he deserved.

Another hour passed.

More than a hundred new arrivals, weary and travel-worn, reached the city walls.

“Young lord, perhaps it’s best not to have them garrison the walls just yet,” Wang Fu advised, his expression unreadable.