The horns of war sounded just after midday.
The Zhao army advanced like a flood, siege towers rolling forward, infantry roaring beneath banners soaked in dust. The city of Sai, perched atop modest walls, looked barely more than a bump in the ground before them.
And yet—it stood.
The Hi Shin Tai held the south wall, with Shin shouting orders as the Zhao surged forward. His men had reinforced the battlements with everything they could find—barrels, broken carts, sharpened stakes. Behind them, lines of terrified but determined civilians carried water, rocks, and bundles of arrows.
When the Zhao troops reached the base of the walls, the clash began.
Ladders slammed against the stone. Arrows flew like locusts. Shin roared, his glaive cleaving up the first invaders.
"We're the Hi Shin Tai!! This wall doesn't fall!!"
On the east side, Ren and the Gu Ren Tai stood firm.
Where others would have staggered at the enemy's numbers, Ren's eyes were still. Watching. Measuring.
"Hold your arrows. Let them get closer," he told his archers.
As the Zhao infantry closed in, Ren gave the signal. A sudden barrage of arrows tore into the climbers. The Gu Ren Tai met the attackers with precise counter-assaults, each move calculated to throw them off balance.
Civilians supported from behind, dragging the wounded, pouring oil on the walls, and even taking up arms where gaps appeared.
Kai stood beside Ren, panting after cutting down a third attacker. "They just keep coming…"
Ren's voice was calm. "Then we keep cutting."
At the north, Kai Oku's forces—seasoned soldiers under Shouheikun's banner—held a tight formation, countering every Zhao movement with brutal efficiency.
At the west, Shoubunkun and General Heki coordinated reinforcements between walls, their primary duty being to ensure no side collapsed entirely.
Shoubunkun, sweat running down his face, shouted orders while civilians scrambled behind him.
"If the west falls, the entire city folds inward! Do not give them a single inch!"
From the rear lines, Riboku sat astride his horse, serene and unmoved.
He watched the defenders without a word, studying their rhythm, their timing. A subordinate approached.
"They're holding better than expected."
Riboku replied softly. "Yes. But this is only the first wave."
By nightfall, the first Zhao push had been repelled—but at a cost.
Corpses lay piled outside the walls. Smoke drifted from small fires. Arrows were already running low. Blood painted the stones in streaks.
Tired voices murmured from the ranks. "We won't survive another day of this…"
But across the city, leaders walked the lines.
Shin, bloodied but unbowed, shouted encouragement.
Ren, silent, merely stood—his presence a quiet command that steadied those around him.
And the people of Sai, those 30,000 civilians, who had once cowered in fear…
…now stood shoulder to shoulder with the soldiers.
That night, as Sai tried to sleep beneath bloodied stars…
…the enemy did not rest.
At first, it was faint.
A slow rhythm of drums in the distance. Then trumpets. Then shouting—waves of Zhao soldiers raising war cries into the dark.
The city stirred. Soldiers jerked awake. Civilians sat up in fear.
Some rushed to the walls, expecting a night raid.
But it never came.
Only noise. Hours of it.
A cruel rhythm that rose and fell like waves, never letting anyone settle, never letting the body rest.
On the plains outside the city, Riboku stood silently, eyes fixed on the flickering torches along Sai's wall.
One of his aides approached. "We've used less than half our troops to keep it going. No attacks ordered."
Riboku nodded.
"Fatigue is a weapon."
Inside Sai, men slept standing, or not at all.
Even Shin, leaning against the wall of the south tower, gripped his glaive harder every time the drums pounded.
Ren, from the eastern wall, quietly patrolled the ramparts. He didn't say a word—but his men saw the twitch in his eye, the tightness in his jaw.
They were all tired.
And it was only the first night.