Chapter 13: The Valley of Blood
The valley was narrow, its ridges jagged like the jaws of some ancient beast. Morning mist clung to the rocks, veiling both armies in a shroud of gray. For a heartbeat, silence hung—heavy, suffocating—before the storm broke.
The Wei drums thundered, a relentless rhythm of death. The Black Fang Battalion advanced in perfect formation, shields locked, spears jutting forward like a wall of steel. Their crimson banners snapped in the wind, black fangs painted like an omen across blood-red cloth.
Opposite them, Khan stood at the forefront of the Qing and Ashfang warriors. His spear gleamed faintly in the mist, his grip steady despite the mountain of odds before them. Around him, the Ashfangs howled, beating their axes against their shields, their voices echoing like wolves calling the hunt. Behind them, the Qing warriors chanted in unison, a steady roar of defiance that shook the valley.
"Remember!" Khan's voice carried above the clamor. "The mountain is ours. The land is ours. They may come with armor, but we have the stone, the root, the blood of this earth. Today, we teach them that chains break against the will of the free!"
A roar answered him, shaking the mist itself.
The first clash came swiftly.
The Black Fang phalanx surged forward, shields braced, a single monstrous machine of war. Their spears stabbed like the fangs of a beast, striking down the first Ashfangs who dared to charge. Bodies fell, blood darkening the mist, yet the Ashfang warriors did not falter.
From the ridges above, Zhang Wei signaled. Boulders, pried loose during the night, came crashing down. They smashed into the Wei formation, breaking their perfect lines. Warriors screamed as stone met bone, shields shattered under the crushing weight.
"Now!" Khan roared.
Han Long led the first countercharge, his massive blade carving into the broken gaps of the formation. Ragna was at his side, her laughter wild as she split helmets and cleaved through shields. The Ashfangs poured in behind them, a tide of fury.
For a moment, the Wei line faltered.
But the Black Fangs were not ordinary soldiers. With ruthless discipline, they re-formed, their captains barking commands. Their spears thrust in deadly rhythm, skewering Ashfang warriors who pressed too close. Their shield wall advanced again, grinding forward inch by inch.
"Damn them," Zhang Wei muttered from the ridge, loosing arrows into the advancing mass. "Even in chaos, they move like one body."
Mei Lan, tending the wounded behind the lines, could feel the battle shifting. "If their wall holds, we'll be crushed."
Khan knew it too.
He waded into the thick of the fight, his spear whirling in arcs of fire. Every thrust struck true—through a visor, beneath a shield, across an exposed throat. Blood sprayed, staining his armor crimson, but his movements never slowed.
"Break them!" he roared, slamming the butt of his spear against the ground. "Shatter their wall!"
Han Long's blade crashed down like a thunderbolt, splitting a shield in two. Ragna hurled herself at the enemy captain, her axe cleaving his helm and sending the Wei line reeling. The Ashfangs surged forward with renewed ferocity.
For a heartbeat, the Black Fang formation fractured.
And then their true cruelty was revealed.
At a single command from their general, the Wei soldiers unleashed fire. Oil-soaked jars were hurled, shattering against the earth. Flames erupted, consuming warriors where they stood. Screams tore the valley as Ashfang men and women burned, their courage drowned in fire.
Khan's eyes widened, fury igniting within him. "They bring fire to the mountain?!"
The sight drove the Qing into a frenzy. Rage tore through their ranks, yet the fire forced them back, breaking the momentum of their charge.
From the rear, Wei Xu himself had not come, but his shadow loomed. The Black Fang commander, Shen Tai, advanced with calm cruelty, cutting down any who resisted. His voice rose over the battlefield.
"Bow, savages! Your rebellion dies today!"
Khan heard him. Through the chaos, their eyes locked for the first time. Shen Tai's face bore no fear, only disdain. To him, Khan was no more than an insect, a nuisance to be crushed.
Khan spat into the dirt. "Then come and kill me yourself."
With that, he leapt into the flames, his cloak catching sparks, his spear a streak of silver. He struck like a storm, tearing into the heart of the Wei formation. Warriors fell around him, their shields splintered, their lines buckling beneath his ferocity.
Han Long fought to his right, Ragna to his left. The three carved a path through the fire, dragging the Ashfangs behind them in a desperate push.
"Hold!" Khan shouted, even as blood streamed down his arm from a spear that grazed him. "The mountain is not theirs—it is ours! Stand!"
The battle raged until the valley itself seemed to scream. Smoke, fire, and steel consumed the air. The Ashfangs and Qing warriors fought like demons, refusing to yield even as bodies piled high.
By dusk, neither side had claimed victory. The Wei still held the valley floor, but their losses were heavier than they had expected. The Ashfangs, though bloodied, refused to break.
As night fell, the Wei withdrew slightly, regrouping to strike again at dawn.
Khan stood amid the wounded and dead, his spear planted in the earth, his chest heaving. His armor was scorched, his body cut and bruised, but his spirit blazed brighter than ever.
"We bled them," Han Long rasped, staggering beside him. "They will not forget this day."
Ragna spat into the dirt, her axe dripping crimson. "Good. Let them choke on it."
Khan looked to the stars piercing through the smoke above. His voice was quiet, yet every warrior near him heard.
"This is only the beginning. The Wei think us broken tribes, scattered villagers. But tonight, we showed them the truth. We are the storm, and the storm does not bow."
The wounded raised their voices, a low chant spreading through the camp.
"Qing… Qing… Qing…"
And in the heart of the valley, lit by dying flames, Khan knew: the war for freedom had truly begun.