Chapter 892: 850. Phanindra’s Blunder Leads To Death
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Go to stared at him, and in their eyes he saw it, the truth they dared not speak. He straightened, his shadow stretching long across the map. “I will not die penned like a goat. I will not watch my city burn while I hold a royal order like a chain around my throat.” He looked at each man in turn, and his voice softened, rough with something like grief. “I do not ask this of you. I ask if you will stand with me.”
His words rang like steel on stone. Slowly, the resistance in their eyes guttered and died. For they knew, as he did, that his logic was unassailable. If they did nothing, the city would fall. If they struck, they might yet tip the scales.
General Phanindra straightened, his shadow looming over the flickering map.
“Five hundred horse. Pick your best. Men with the heart of lions. We ride under the cloak of night.”
Midnight. Vyadhapura slept uneasy, the streets black as the mouth of hell, save where lamps flickered before silent shrines. Beyond the gates, the plain lay drowned in moonlight. A wind crept from the jungle, whispering through the palms like a ghost with a secret.
In the shadow of the eastern gate, five hundred horses stamped and snorted, their breath pluming white in the chill. Men moved among them like wraiths, faces blackened with soot, mail muffled in rags, eyes glittering in the torchlight. No drums. No horns. Only the rasp of steel sliding into scabbards, the creak of leather, the mutter of prayers murmured through clenched teeth.
General Phanindra sat his horse at the fore, helm under one arm, the moon laying a cold crown upon his shaven head. His armor gleamed dully, a king’s ransom in beaten bronze, now scarred and smeared with blood. Before him the gates loomed, black iron fanged like the maw of a beast.
He turned in the saddle, sweeping them with his gaze. Five hundred faces, lean and hard as axe blades, men who had sworn to follow him into the jaws of death. His voice carried low, but it burned like oil on water.
“Brothers,” he said, “you know why you ride. Not for gold. Not for glory. For Funan. For your wives and your children sleeping in their beds. For the graves of our fathers. Tonight we carve fear into the hearts of these sea born jackals. Tonight we show them Funan’s teeth.”
A murmur rose, low, fierce, hungry. Steel hissed as blades kissed the air. General Phanindra’s horse reared, screaming to the moon.
“Open the gate!” he thundered.
The bolts crashed back. The iron jaws yawned wide. And like a black river, the riders poured forth, hooves drumming the earth, cloaks streaming like wings of night.
Far across the corpse littered plain, where the enemy’s camp sprawled like a second city, Zhou Yu stood beneath the flutter of crimson banners, the wind stirring the white plume in his cap. Before him the night stretched still and silver, the jungle breathing slow under the moon. But his eyes, those hawk bright eyes, saw what others could not.
“They’ll come,” he murmured.
Sun Ce frowned, his hand resting on the shaft of his spear. “You sound certain.”
“They’ve lost too much,” Zhou Yu said softly. His fan traced a slow arc through the air. “A proud general, a bleeding army, and a king who shackles his army with silence… Tell me, Gongjin, what choice does a cornered tiger have?”
Sun Ce smiled thin as a blade. “Then let him leap.”
Around them, the camp slept or seemed to. Fires burned low, men sprawled in drunken sprawl. But beyond the torch light, the earth bristled like a hedgehog, trenches gaping like black mouths, rows of caltrops glinting like shark teeth, ropes stretched low, snares cunning as spider’s webs.
In the shadows, archers crouched with bows bent, oil jars stacked like eggs of fire. And among them, the the elite soldiers waited, spears upright, eyes gleaming like coals.
The trap was set.
The first they knew of the ambush was the light, the sudden shriek of fire arrows tearing the sky, painting the night in hell’s own colors. Horses screamed as the shafts fell, bursting in fountains of flame.
Men cursed, spurred, hacked at the ropes that snared their mounts, but the earth betrayed them, pits yawning to swallow rider and beast, iron jaws biting through flesh. Hooves slipped in blood. Men pitched headlong onto spikes slick with their brothers’ gore.
“Forward!” roared General Phanindra, voice raw, blade red in the moonlight. “Forward, Funan!”
They surged like a wounded beast, crashing through fire and death, cutting down shadows that leapt from the smoke, only to find more rising, endless as the tide. Archers loosed from the dark, their shafts a storm of steel. Torches flared, and out of the smoke came the elite soldiers, shields locked, spears leveled, a wall of iron bristling with death.
General Phanindra drove at them like a thunderbolt. His sword split helms, spilled brains steaming on the trampled grass. He carved a path to the nearest engine, a towering monster of timber hulking against the stars. Flames licked its flanks as oil jars shattered, but even as fire blossomed, a voice roared above the din.
“Ma Dai! Take his head!”
And from the inferno came a man like a charging bull, spear low, eyes blazing. The clash rang like thunder, iron on iron, sparks spitting as blade met haft. Ma Dai’s spear darted like a serpent, General Phanindra’s sword hacked like an axe. They circled, snarling, the world a whirl of flame and screaming steel.
Around them, Funan soldiers died. Men burned where oil streamed like molten rain. Horses writhed in smoking heaps. The night shook with shrieks and the deep, bestial bellow of men locked in the last embrace of death.
General Phanindra fought like a demon. Blood sheeted his arms, his face a mask of soot and gore. He hewed Ma Dai’s spear in two, drove his blade for the throat, and Ma Dai twisted, steel hissing past his cheek.
The shaft of the broken spear punched into General Phanindra’s ribs, and pain blossomed white hot, stealing his breath.
He staggered. For a heartbeat, the world tilted, fire and blood and the cold smile of the moon. He saw his men dying, saw the siege engines looming untouched beyond the wall of steel, saw the red tide rolling inexorable toward his city.
And then the spear’s iron tip burst from his back, black with his heart’s blood.
He fell.
Above him, Ma Dai wrenched his weapon free, eyes hard as jade. “For the Emperor,” he said, and turned away.
When the last torch guttered, when the last scream faded, five hundred riders lay broken in the blood soaked grass. The night wind whispered through the pines, and the stars looked down like cold, indifferent gods.
The death of General Phanindra sent a shockwave through the remnants of the Funan army. It was not merely the collapse of the night raid, it was the crumbling of the spine that had held the army upright through weeks of despair.
General Phanindra had been more than a commander, he was their shield, their hope, the voice that told them Funan still breathed. His death struck deeper than any blade, cutting through resolve, leaving only the raw, gaping wound of dread.
The field reeked of blood and smoke. Among the heaps of dead, the surviving lieutenants fought like madmen, hacking, slashing, until at last they found him, General Phanindra, sprawled upon the earth, his bronze armor blackened with soot, his face turned to the cold stars.
The spear had gone through him clean, a savage crimson bloom spreading across his chest. Even in death, his features bore that iron cast, as if defying the darkness to claim him.
“Take him,” rasped one lieutenant, his voice cracking. “We take him home.”
They lifted him, blood slicking their arms, his body heavy with the silence of endings. Arrows hissed through the smoke, iron wasps hungry for flesh. Men screamed, toppled into the mud. One lieutenant, young and fierce, turned to shout, and the shaft took him through the skull. He folded without a sound, his lifeblood mingling with the mire.
The others did not falter. They bore Phanindra across the killing ground, stumbling through pits choked with corpses, boots slipping in gore. Overhead, the sky wept fire as torches flared and arrows streaked like burning serpents. Men fell. Horses screamed. Yet still they dragged their general home, step by step, a grim procession through hell.
From the ridge, Zhou Yu watched it all, his fan poised like a judge’s hand. The elegance in his posture belied the storm in his mind. Around him, Sun Ce leaned on his spear, eyes hard with something that was not triumph, but something colder.
“They fight like men who have lost everything,” Sun Ce said.
“They have,” Zhou Yu replied softly. His gaze lingered on the retreating shadows, those stubborn embers refusing to die. Then, with a flick of his fan, he spoke the words that sealed the night.
“Let them go. No pursuit.”
The order rippled outward. Bows lowered. Spears dipped. The night sighed as steel stilled. The victors turned to their dead, to the heaps of broken flesh and splintered wood. Fires guttered low, painting the carnage in hues of ruin. There would be no songs for this victory, only the work of shovels and the stench of rot.
The survivors reached Vyadhapura at dawn.
The gates gaped wide, black against the paling sky. The plain behind them lay strewn with smoke and carrion crows, but ahead rose the city, silent as a tomb. Word had flown ahead on the wings of fear; the guards at the gate stood stiff as spear shafts, eyes wide as the riders limped home.
And there, before the walls, clad in silk and shadow, stood King Kaundinya III.
He had come with his ministers, a clutch of pale-faced men clutching scrolls like talismans. Around them bristled the royal guard, their armor bright as hope in the wan light. The king’s face was carved in iron, but his eyes, his eyes were the eyes of a man staring at the edge of an abyss.
The column drew up before him. Mud spattered, blood soaked, hollow eyed, they swung down from their saddles. Armor clinked like broken bells. Then, as one, they dropped to their knees. “Your Majesty,” they intoned, voices hoarse with smoke and grief. Their foreheads touched the earth. In that gesture, there was reverence, but also something heavier, an unspoken plea for absolution.
______________________________
Name: Lie Fan
Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty
Age: 35 (202 AD)
Level: 16
Next Level: 462,000
Renown: 2325
Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 9)
SP: 1,121,700
ATTRIBUTE POINTS
STR: 966 (+20)
VIT: 623 (+20)
AGI: 623 (+10)
INT: 667
CHR: 98
WIS: 549
WILL: 432
ATR Points: 0
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