Volume One: The Emperor’s Decree Chapter Twenty-Eight: I Shall Defend My Homeland

The city garrison surged into every street, clashing head-on with the Blue Plume Army without a hint of mercy.

The troops stationed in Changle City were almost all born and raised locals, their duty to protect their home, no matter if the threat was the Crown Prince or anyone else.

This was their homeland, sheltering friends and family, carrying their bodies and souls; all their hopes and memories were rooted in this soil.

Those summoned to serve in the city’s defense were all able-bodied young men, not schooled by great masters, but brimming with strength.

Unable to match the elite Blue Plume soldiers one-on-one, they formed into small groups, rushing forward together, using their bodies to block sharp blades.

Nie Xiang, who had chased the Golden Dragon Soul half a mile out, heard the rising clamor of battle from all directions and only then realized he had fallen for a diversion. By the time he returned to Yongle Lane, the place was empty.

“Gu Nanli! Jin Xifeng! Where are they? Where have they gone?” Nie Xiang, his voice furious, pointed at the two great swordsmen and unleashed a torrent of abuse.

Even the wounded Wang Xiuping was beyond their power to detain, let alone with the assistance of the twelve musicians, who helped cut a path out the front gate.

Many archers had been lying in wait at Yongle Lane, shooting down a number of brocade-clad guards before switching to short knives and sacrificing their lives to block the way.

Corpses were strewn everywhere. In the distant alleyway stood a few horses, atop which the officials of Changle City sat, their faces haggard as they looked around.

The Crown Prince had gone mad, truly daring to start a great conflict in Central Zhou. When Song Shuzai saw Nie Xiang, hair disheveled with rage, striding toward him, he was filled with dread.

“Eunuch Nie… what do you want? Speak over there, I can hear you.”

Nie Xiang yanked him off his horse, grabbing him by the collar and demanding, “Why have all the city garrison come out?”

“I—I—I don’t know! General, the General is here too.” Song Shuzai pointed to Li Qing, who was glaring furiously at Nie Xiang.

“You’ve ruined the Crown Prince’s plan—none of you will live!”

Nie Xiang tossed Song Shuzai to the ground like a sack, shot a glare at Li Qing, then chased after the Shen family with the rest of his men.

Chu Chunqiu, his face battered and bruised, seized the moment to slip from the crowd, crawling and stumbling to follow the group out.

Once Nie Xiang had gone, officials hurried forward to lift their magistrate, escorting him toward the government residence.

Li Qing did not return; instead, he mounted his horse and followed the path taken by the brocade-clad guards, keeping his distance. He was certain this was Xu Yin’s doing—the entire city garrison had been mobilized while he himself was not at the Command Tower.

Xu Yin, his deputy for many years, was well-known to him: straightforward and unsuited for political maneuvering, which was why he had ended up as deputy general in Changle City.

Seeing the city in chaos, Xu Yin would never have been able to restrain himself from leading his men into battle.

As expected, Xu Yin fought his way through the city, leaving no survivors in his wake. Thirty thousand city defenders lit torches and fired signal arrows, connecting their formations into one.

Nie Xiang’s fury rose like the whistle of arrows all around. “Damn them all! Kill anyone who stands in the way! I’ll take full responsibility for whatever happens!”

The Blue Plume soldiers brought from the Crown Prince’s residence numbered only three to five thousand; now, under the city defenders’ onslaught, nearly all were lost—just over a hundred remained by Nie Xiang’s side.

Passing through a short stretch lined with taverns, they suddenly encountered Xu Yin’s city troops. Without a word, both sides clashed.

The brocade-clad guards struck to kill with every movement. The city defenders fell like cut grass, while Xu Yin swept his spear, felling scores of Blue Plume soldiers in turn.

“So you’re the one causing trouble? Die!” From three or four meters away, Nie Xiang raised his palm and struck. True energy thundered against Xu Yin’s chest armor, the silver-forged breastplate caving under the force and leaving a handprint.

Xu Yin’s vision went black, as if a sledgehammer had smashed his chest. Uncontrolled, his body flew back, crashing through a stone wall.

Bricks rained down around him; every breath brought up blood. Xu Yin stilled his breath, calming his energy before climbing out of the rubble.

His armor was dented and battered, and his warhorse had also been pulled to the ground, squealing in pain.

“Eunuch Nie,” Xu Yin spat two mouthfuls of bloody phlegm, his spear tip sparking against the ground, “did the Crown Prince order you to do this?”

Nie Xiang sneered, “You’ve ruined everything, dragging so many city defenders to their deaths. Even on the road to the afterlife, you won’t find it easy!”

All around, the battle raged. The city defenders were at a severe disadvantage; reinforcements drawn by signal arrows were blocked at the street’s entrance, where two great swordsmen stood guard—no army could break through.

The average soldier knew little martial arts; only their passion sustained them, refusing to be cowed by the overwhelming difference in power.

Xu Yin glared fiercely, lunging at Nie Xiang with his spear in one hand. Though trained, he was only at the third level of Earth Spirit; the spear tip was stopped by a single finger, unable to budge.

“For Changle!” he rasped, clamping the spear with his armpit and driving forward.

Even with all his strength, he could not move Nie Xiang at all. Planting his feet, Nie Xiang flicked his wrist, shattering the black-iron spear, sending shards flying at Xu Yin.

The fragments, sharper than blades, shredded his battered armor, blood spraying forth.

An ordinary man would have died instantly from such a blow, but Xu Yin braced his core and stood once more.

With his spear gone, he drew the sword at his waist and, stumbling, charged again.

His sword broke into three pieces, his right arm hung limp, and Xu Yin was struck flying yet again, rolling seven or eight times before coming to a halt.

Nie Xiang shook out his hands and moved on down the street. As he stepped over Xu Yin’s body, he felt his ankle seized and tugged gently backward.

“So noisy!” Nie Xiang kicked Xu Yin’s head, driving it deep into the stone pavement.

Yet the bloodied hand clutching his ankle did not let go, smearing his trousers and cloth shoes with sticky gore.

With another kick, Nie Xiang drove the hand into the stone. Disgusted, he shook his ankle, but could not rid himself of the blood.

He had always prized cleanliness, almost obsessively so, and abhorred dirty clothes.

“Protect… my… Changle…”

A cold wind swept by, and Nie Xiang turned to see Xu Yin standing upright, his right arm dangling, his left twisted at an unnatural angle.

His head could not lift—his neck had been broken by that last kick—yet still, he stood.

“Protect… my… Changle…”

He mumbled the words, repeating them over and over.

Nie Xiang approached, placing a hand under his nose—there was not the slightest breath.

His chest did not rise or fall; he was dead beyond question.

“Protect… my… Changle…”

Those four words sounded as though they had been chewed over and spat out, each syllable clear, deliberate, and unyielding.