Chapter Twenty-Two: The Betrayal

“Don’t believe them!” The Han army commander was still desperately rallying his troops. “If we surrender, the Yellow Turbans won’t spare us either! Fight your way out!”

“Surrender and you won’t be killed!” Wang Luo stepped out onto a high perch. “I am the leader of this force. If you surrender before I count to ten, not a single one of you will be harmed. If you persist in resisting, beneath the rolling logs and boulders, none of you will survive!”

“None will survive! None will survive!” The Yellow Turban soldiers around echoed his words.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Beads of sweat rolled down the Han army commander’s forehead.

“Four, three, two…”

No one knew who started it, but with a crisp sound, most of the Han soldiers laid down their weapons. Seeing this, the commander sighed deeply and dismounted.

There was little time to spare. Wang Luo quickly ordered his men to confiscate the Han army’s weapons, armor, and horses. He dispatched over two hundred troops, led by Zhou Yingxiong, to escort the captured Han soldiers back to the main camp.

Then, the entire army, still exhilarated from victory, began marching toward another enemy camp. If they kept up their usual pace, they would arrive before the Han forces could assault the Yellow Turban position. But who could say if anything unexpected might happen?

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After the battle, Zhou Yingxiong and his men were the first to change into their newly acquired gear.

Han armor offered a defense rating of seven, more than twice that of the basic armor; Han iron helmets had a defense of five, and Han iron shields of eight. The Han’s standard equipment outperformed the gear crafted by Wang Luo in every attribute, even with mutation bonuses.

Donning the new equipment, Zhou Yingxiong felt he should have been in the thick of combat. He was somewhat disheartened; he preferred the dangers of battle to the safety of his current task. But… it didn’t matter—they had won.

Wang Luo surely had his reasons. His job was to follow orders.

His efforts—blocking blows on the battlefield and shielding his comrades—had been rewarded. That was all he desired.

To do what he should, and receive what he deserved—that was his only expectation from life. He’d fulfilled the first half; the second, dependent on the conscience of bosses or managers, was seldom realized.

Was there still time? If he hurried back, settled the prisoners, and returned to the front, perhaps he could still make it.

Come to think of it, Yang Wentian hadn’t gone out to fight or scout this time. He’d stayed in camp. Why was that? He wasn’t suited for defense, was he?

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They soon reached the main camp. Many people, perhaps routed soldiers from nearby, were streaming in. Dozens of Yellow Turban troops stood by, maintaining order.

At their head was a man of extraordinary bearing. He wore a yellow turban, phoenix eyes and sparse brows, his complexion rosy, demeanor ethereal, and three wisps of long beard at his throat. He was dressed in a wide robe with large sleeves.

Upon seeing Zhou Yingxiong’s group, he smiled serenely and gestured toward the Han prisoners. “I told you the Great Virtuous Teacher would protect us, and we would prevail in this battle. Now you have witnessed it.”

“Great Virtuous Teacher! Great Virtuous Teacher!” The soldiers around him cheered. From afar, troops and camp followers joined the chorus.

What nonsense is this? Zhou Yingxiong felt he was witnessing the most common scene from his old company days. “What are you talking about? We were the ones who won!”

The man ignored him, raised both hands, and shouted,

“Heaven is dead, the Yellow Heaven will rise! The year of Jiazi, great fortune across the land!”

Those nearby echoed him, “Heaven is dead, the Yellow Heaven will rise! The year of Jiazi, great fortune across the land!”

“Go and notify the commanders at once,” Zhou Yingxiong said grimly to the soldier beside him.

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Moronov was filled with regret.

If only he had delayed the attack a little longer, at least he wouldn’t have ended up surrounded.

Now, in front, the enemy held the camp, steadfast like an anvil; behind, numerous foes surged forward like a hammer. His own troops were the iron, helpless under the blows.

What now? Retreat? There was room to either side, but if they were caught, it would be certain death.

He made the most rational decision instantly. “Charge!” he shouted to the Han commanders beside him. “Break through the enemy ahead—fight our way out behind them!”

He didn’t wait to see if they heard or acted; he rushed forward himself. His twin brothers followed close behind. With such leadership, many soldiers joined the charge.

As they engaged, the enemy was clearly shaken and disordered. Someone was shouting, but Moronov couldn’t make out the words—probably rallying morale.

He leaped over the low barricade and slashed at the nearest foe. Blocked, he raised his shield to ward off the enemy’s short sword, sidestepped, and swung his ring-hilted blade, killing a defender on his flank.

Another enemy came at him, stabbing with a short sword. He blocked with his shield, and the two locked in combat.

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This was a formidable adversary. Judging by his expression, his fighting spirit was not high, but his attributes were no less than Moronov’s—likely a Yellow Turban commander.

Beside him, a Han soldier took a slash to the neck; blood spurted as he screamed and fell. Along the battle line, both sides fought fiercely, neither yielding an inch. The Yellow Turbans showed no sign of breaking.

Ha! Against such foes, even with five hundred Han soldiers, victory was not assured—let alone now, with Yellow Turban reinforcements rushing from behind.

Moronov raised his shield, blocking another thrust. He countered, stabbing the enemy’s arm.

So, this operation, and his team, were finished.

Was this Wu Zhou’s trap? Or that kid’s trick? Garivel, you fool.

Another enemy lunged with a spear. Moronov dodged, swung his blade powerfully, and decapitated the man.

At the same time, the enemy’s short sword pierced his chest.

Fortunately, it was only blood loss, not a mortal wound. His digitized body allowed him to keep fighting, to keep holding on.

But the cries of the pursuing enemies behind were now close.

The foe ahead, even one-on-one, could not be easily overcome.

Forgive me, Owen; forgive me, Erik. Across these five scenarios, you’ve performed admirably. The fault lies with me and Garivel.

But don’t blame him—his group surely faced a similar fate, likely perished… perhaps already dead.

Damn this space! Damn this scenario! Damn this cruel destiny! Damn this helpless adventure!

We struggled as best we could. In the end, we were all just ordinary people.

He raised his shield, blocking a short sword aimed at his throat. As he prepared to counterattack, another blade stabbed into his chest.

Yellow Turban reinforcements joined the fray; behind him, Han soldiers were falling one after another.