The Empire’s standing army numbered one and a half million strong, a vast ocean of steel mostly dispersed along the borders. Of this colossal force, four hundred thousand conscripts were currently marching toward Danmok Fortress to reinforce the line.

Originally, the garrison guarding the Shanxi border had stood at two hundred and forty thousand. However, General Do Goeng, the man who first made contact with the Suksin reconnaissance units, had committed a fatal error born of arrogance. Dismissing the enemy as mere barbarians, he had led forty thousand men into a reckless offensive, only to be utterly annihilated.

It was incompetence so profound it bordered on treason.

But dead men tell no tales, and Do Goeng had paid for his hubris with his life. Consequently, the defense had been reduced to two hundred thousand. In this dire situation, with thousands of wounded already filling the infirmaries of Danmok Fortress, General Yuk Heon confirmed a chilling reality: the enemy forces arrayed against them amounted to a massive army of three hundred thousand.

“I will defend this border with my blood, no matter the cost,” declared Super Yang General Yuk Heon.

His resolve was not forged from loyalty to the throne alone; his wife and children stood behind him. The moment the Suksin Tribe crossed this horizon, his family would be reduced to the same gruesome state as the corpses he had witnessed on the field. As a general—as a father—he could never allow that to happen.

A Great General, he mused, was ultimately like a guard dog. His master might be the Emperor, but his true masters were his family back home. As long as they lived and called him ‘Father,’ he could never allow such atrocities to pass. His sole duty was to bite, tear, and kill as long as breath remained in his lungs.

Leaving fifty thousand troops to hold Danmok Fortress, he embarked on a decisive field battle to buy time for the four hundred thousand reinforcements led by two other Great Generals to arrive.

Rumble-boom!

A flash of black light echoed from the distance, exuding an awe-inspiring grandeur reminiscent of a lightning strike.

“It appears that Her Highness Ju’s troops have engaged in combat,” an adjutant noted, his voice trembling slightly.

Fortunately, the God of War was aiding in the maintenance of this perilous front line. With power comparable to a natural disaster, Wangya Ju had taken it upon herself to confront the formidable Suksin army—that impenetrable iron horn—head-on, diverting their momentum away from the main garrison.

Their strategy had remained simple until now: advance slowly, inexorable as a tortoise.

There existed a war machine known as the Turtle Shell Chariot. Essentially a heavy carriage reinforced with iron plates, it was originally designed to provide cover for infantry. However, the Empire’s engineers had enhanced it by mounting Flying Chariot Crossbows atop the chassis. These repeating crossbows, capable of firing dozens of bolts simultaneously, were originally siege weapons designed for fortress walls.

Now, Yuk Heon was utilizing them as mobile artillery.

To combat the Suksin Tribe, they had loaded these monstrosities onto the Turtle Shell Chariots. Standing a towering eight cheok tall, their immense weight made rapid movement impossible. However, Yuk Heon maneuvered his formation tightly, interlocking shields and chariots like the shell of a great beast, advancing with grinding slowness.

Although the Suksin scouts approached and rained arrows upon them, Yuk Heon remained composed. He returned fire with the Flying Chariot Crossbows, the mechanical twang of bowstrings signaling the erasure of the enemy scouts.

He recalled a remark the Young Pavilion Master had made while witnessing the construction of these weapons.

“You’re going to mount repeating crossbows on a Roman Phalanx formation? Are you insane?”

No strategist at the time had comprehended the meaning behind the words “Roman Phalanx.” However, since people from the Zhuge Clan were generally considered eccentric, no one had paid it much mind. Even Zhuge Rin, who had treated the boy, wasn’t exactly normal. Still, the Divine Physician seemed to have lost much of his killing intent compared to the past.

Yuk Heon’s current wife had once been startled enough to drop a medicine bowl merely upon seeing Zhuge Rin’s eyes, despite being from a military family and accustomed to the aura of death. Now, however, the old doctor smelled more like a human than a monster. Perhaps he found joy in seeing his disciple grow in his old age, a substitute for the children he never had.

It was regrettable that Zhuge Rin had not joined the military, but considering the current situation, it was perhaps fortunate. The White Qilin Medical Pavilion he led had saved countless generals and soldiers.

“The Suksin horse archers are certainly formidable opponents,” a strategist observed, breaking Yuk Heon’s reverie. “However, their strength lies in their mobility and ranged attacks. Their doctrine is to shoot rapidly while retreating—hit and run.”

“Correct,” Yuk Heon replied, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Therefore, against this Armored Flying Chariot Crossbow counterattack, even the Suksin will become insignificant without a countermeasure.”

The soldiers’ eyes turned red with bloodlust at the thought of killing even one more Suksin. They had seen enough of their comrades’ blood to fill a lake.

“Is the casualty exchange ratio in combat three to one?”

For every three Suksin killed, one of Yuk Heon’s soldiers died. It was a brutal calculus, but a winning one, as the horses pulling the chariots and the soldiers themselves were all heavily armed with shields and spears.

Kwa-kwa-kwa-kwa-kwang—!

Suddenly, a thunderous roar reverberated through the earth, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

“Direction?” Yuk Heon barked.

“Towards Wangya Ju’s army!”

The sound of equal forces clashing echoed through the air, implying that the Suksin Tribe possessed a master capable of facing Wangya Ju. If the Blood Immortal Cult was truly backing them, and if they employed wicked sorcery, it was a terrifying possibility.

Wangya Ju’s body must be exhausted from the prolonged warfare. Her task now was to seize the enemy’s “iron horn” and twist it until it snapped.

The adjutant’s expression wavered, fear flickering in his eyes as he contemplated whether she could accomplish such a feat.

“Stay composed,” Yuk Heon ordered, his voice cutting through the panic. “Anxiety spreads to the soldiers.”

At his calm command, the adjutant steeled himself. Slowly but surely, Yuk Heon was making the enemy hesitant to attack. If the diverted Suksin force lost patience and attempted to sweep away his army, that was precisely what he desired. He only hoped that Wangya Ju’s body would endure long enough to see it through.

***

It’s a shitty world, isn’t it?

“Haa… Haa…”

Cheon Woo, Jin Cheon-hee’s sworn brother and a disciple of the Wudang Fist Emperor, exhaled a ragged sigh.

Originally, if he had become a direct disciple, the hierarchy of seniority within the sect would have become tangled and troublesome. The Wudang Fist Emperor, as a Great Elder of the sect, had simply imparted the essence of martial arts and assisted with training without bestowing the formal title of ‘direct disciple.’ However, that didn’t mean Cheon Woo wasn’t special; only the superficial title was missing.

Cheon Woo had inherited the Wudang Fist Emperor’s true teachings, and that alone garnered the attention—and envy—of other Wudang martial artists. After all, the Fist Emperor’s divine arts were selective even within the sect, peerless techniques based on the principle of ‘No Teaching to the Unworthy.’ In fact, Jeong Gwang, the Junior Brother of the Wudang Sect Leader, had betrayed the sect solely because he was denied these very arts.

Ultimately, given the nature of Wudang martial arts, being allowed to learn them was proof of being a pillar of the sect.

But what use is all that honor here? Cheon Woo thought bitterly.

Neigh—!

Beside the panting warrior, a horse let out a cry of agony before collapsing.

Around them, corpses literally formed mountains and blood flowed in rivers. The vast majority were cavalrymen belonging to the Suksin Tribe. Men with curved Full Moon Blades suitable for striking from horseback lay broken, their quivers empty. They wore crudely finished fur clothes, leather armor, and silk vests meant to catch arrows, but nothing had saved them from Cheon Woo’s fists.

Every corpse had its wrists roughly severed. Heads rolled on the ground like fallen fruit, while headless torsos remained strapped to their saddles. Bellies were slit open, spilling steaming entrails into the mud. Some corpses lay face down, legs split open in grotesque angles. A severed ear floated slowly like a small skiff down a rivulet of blood.

“Like a demon,” a voice remarked lightly. “Wasn’t Wudang martial arts supposed to be Taoist? Looking at this, it’s no different from the Unorthodox Faction.”

“…Shut up.”

“Woah, calm down. Third Hyung~ I’m still on your side, you know?” Sama Hyeon grinned, looking genuinely puzzled.

Cheon Woo’s uniform was soaked through with dark red blood, creating a stark contrast to his companion.

“When Hyung used Wudang martial arts, there was rarely any blood.”

“…Because Hyung and I are different.”

He was different from the Wudang Fist Emperor, too. Despite deeply understanding Wudang and immersing himself in its philosophy, Cheon Woo’s fist path drew a Domineering Path. The same applied to his sword. The flexible, circular trajectories characteristic of his brother did not appear in his movements. Even with the same forms, where his brother would merely dislocate the enemy’s joints, Cheon Woo shattered the bone entirely.

Was it a difference in physique? Perhaps. His height had now surpassed eight cheok, a towering giant among men. Unfortunately, there were no Wudang uniforms that fit him properly.

Other martial artists mocked Cheon Woo’s forms, claiming they were indistinguishable from the brutal styles of the Unorthodox Faction. However, he was accustomed to being mistaken for a villain due to his menacing appearance.

Cheon Woo forced himself to take deep breaths, calming his racing heart.

The battlefield was set. The Special Task Force, comprised of martial artists who typically operated as scouts, was tasked with deep reconnaissance. Since most martial artists were skilled horsemen, they combined Lightness Arts with equestrianism to move with terrifying speed. Cheon Woo, having learned riding from his brother, was able to keep pace. Their mission was simple: march, encounter the enemy, launch a surprise attack, and annihilate them.

“The hawk?” Cheon Woo asked.

“Caught it.”

A frantic flapping echoed through the air as a hawk, a messenger bird of the Suksin Tribe, struggled in Sama Hyeon’s grip.

For some reason, the hawks used by the Suksin were faster and stronger than those raised on elixirs in the Gangho. Equipped with message tubes tied to their legs, they served as the nerve system of the Suksin army, transmitting intelligence to their main camp. The Special Task Force’s primary role was to intercept these birds and blind the enemy.

Individually, martial artists possessed far greater strength than regular soldiers, allowing them to operate as elite squads. However, against an army of thousands, injuries and fatalities were inevitable.

Among them, Cheon Woo stood out as a force of nature. Running with the grace and ferocity of a tiger, he smashed everything in his path. Yet, the mental fatigue of constant slaughter was unavoidable.

Well, not my concern, Sama Hyeon thought, watching him.

Sama Hyeon didn’t feel much mental fatigue. He spoke to Cheon Woo only to avoid the hassle of being blamed if the giant died or got seriously injured on his watch. Fundamentally, the two were indifferent to one another.

“Iron Dragon Scales is good~ Glad I learned it beforehand,” Sama Hyeon chirped. Thanks to that defensive technique, the number of fatal hits they had blocked was uncountable.

“……”

Cheon Woo clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly, testing the tension in his muscles, then stood up as if he had made a decision.

“Still, it’s fortunate I didn’t make many places for Hyung to sew up.”

Saying that, he tried to flick the thick gore off his hands, his expression brightening slightly. At least the White Silk gloves his brother had made for him didn’t get soaked in blood. He didn’t know the structural weave or the material science behind it, but the simple fact that his hands didn’t smell of copper and death made him feel human again.

Ah, including the underwear, that makes two clean spots.

Regardless, being able to advance this deep into enemy lines without major injuries was thanks to his training, his resolve, and finally, the martial arts and gear his brother had gifted him.

I must return alive.

Many martial artists had already fallen, injured or killed. He knew this was a problem even a god couldn’t solve. Having come this far, he had to take responsibility for his own life.

Rumble-boom—

A massive roar echoed from afar. Thinking it was thunder, Cheon Woo looked back, but the flash came from the ground, not the sky. The only one capable of such destructive power was the one called the God of War.

Wangya Ju.

Because she was on this front line, many soldiers and even the willful martial artists felt a sliver of reassurance. How long could she hold out? He didn’t know. Cheon Woo was just a martial artist, not a strategist. But he knew at least one truth: the human body had limits, and it wore down with every strike.

Am I wearing down too?

As a human, killing people inevitably chipped away at the soul. The only one not wearing down in this hellscape was probably Sama Hyeon standing in front of him.

I miss Hyung.

His brother wasn’t there to support him, but the gloves he had crafted and the Iron Dragon Scales he had taught were. And for now, Cheon Woo considered that fortunate enough.