Chapter 35: Reinforcements

A dark tide roared in from the edge of the horizon.

Fan Tong stood atop the earthen mound, where the flag of the Great Ming was planted, calmly tearing at a piece of blood-stained horse meat. Behind him, more than five hundred battered soldiers stood firm, resembling a black reef stubbornly holding its ground against a storm.

"ROAR!"

The survivors unleashed their final ounce of strength in a collective cry. There was no fear in that sound, no despair—only the wild, defiant shout of men staring death in the face, refusing to yield to their fate.

The torrent of Yuan cavalry drew closer. The thunderous rhythmic pounding of hooves against the grassland made the very earth tremble. Fan Tong tightened his grip on his notched bone-cleaver, feeling the dried blood on the hilt—blood that belonged to either an enemy or himself. He braced for the cataclysmic impact of the first charge.

Just then, a far more violent, heavier tremor surged from behind them—from the south—without warning. This vibration was more rhythmic and powerful than the thundering of the Yuan horses, as if a dragon forged of steel were awakening deep beneath the earth, ready to burst forth.

The Yuan vanguard noticed the shift. The grimace on their faces froze; they instinctively reined in their steeds, looking back at the Ming survivors with uneasy suspicion.

Fan Tong whipped his head around. At the edge of the bloody battlefield they had just traversed, a massive military banner unfurled in the wind, searing itself into everyone’s vision like a branding iron. It was a black battle standard, and in its center, embroidered in gold thread, was a single, bold, sweeping character: *Lan*.

Moments later, countless cavalrymen surged from behind the banner like a burst dam. Clad in exquisite iron armor and wielding razor-sharp sabers, they moved in perfect formation, their killing intent soaring to the heavens. Like a white-hot blade, they smashed directly into the disorganized flank of the Yuan army.

"KILL!"

The heaven-shaking war cry shattered the silence of the grasslands. The Yuan soldiers in the front were like sandcastles struck by a tidal wave, pulverized instantly by the steel torrent. Flesh flew, and screams pierced the air. The hunters who had been so arrogant a moment ago had become the prey, mercilessly slaughtered by a pack of fiercer predators.

Fan Tong stared blankly, only one thought echoing in his mind: *Reinforcements! Our reinforcements!*

He suddenly remembered Old Man Hu—the veteran who, in his final moments, had been staring at the sky. *The signal fire!* The old soldier had ignited the highest-level distress signal from the abandoned beacon tower in his final breath.

A mix of indescribable ecstasy and fury erupted in Fan Tong’s chest. He spun around to face his brothers—who were equally stunned before erupting in the joy of survivors—and roared with all his might, "What the hell are you all staring at? Charge! Slaughter these sons of bitches!"

He slapped the back of his ox, and the "Ox Demon King" let out an excited bellow, its massive body transforming into a black bolt of lightning as it led the charge down the slope.

"ROAR!"

The survivors of the Vanguard Battalion let out primal bellows. As they charged, they shoved the last scraps of raw horse meat into their mouths, chewing frantically, squeezing out the final reserves of strength in their bodies. They were like starving ghosts released from hell, joining the bloody feast.

The battle turned into a one-sided massacre. By the time the last ray of sunset sank below the horizon, the grasslands had returned to a deathly silence. The air was thick with the heavy, inescapable stench of blood.

The commander of the reinforcements, flanked by his personal guards, slowly approached Fan Tong on a magnificent steed. He was a sturdy, resolute middle-aged general whose armor was more exquisite than anything Fan Tong had ever seen. His eyes were as sharp as an eagle's, commanding authority without effort.

He was the commander of this force, a rising star among the Ming generals: Lan Yu.

Lan Yu’s gaze swept across the battlefield—a scene of carnage—before landing on Fan Tong and the blood-drenched men behind him, who still stood as straight as arrows. A flash of uncharacteristic shock and admiration crossed his eyes.

"Which unit are you from?" Lan Yu’s voice was steady and powerful.

"Beiping Garrison, Vanguard Battalion, Thousand-Man Commander, Fan Tong!" Fan Tong stepped forward, cupping his hands in a salute, his voice raspy.

"Good!" Lan Yu nodded heavily. "True warriors!"

His eyes scanned the group, and when they landed on a young man holding a menacing mace, his face stained with blood and grime yet his eyes still burning with untamed defiance, his pupils constricted. He knew that face too well. Although the boyishness had faded, replaced by the hardships of war and killing intent, he could not be mistaken.

*That is... His Highness, the Prince of Yan!*

Lan Yu’s eye twitched uncontrollably. *Why is the Prince of Yan here? And looking like this?*

Zhu Di saw Lan Yu as well. His heart tightened, but a stiff, blood-smeared smile appeared on his face. He did not step forward; instead, he mirrored Fan Tong, cupping his hands toward Lan Yu from a distance, his voice hoarse.

"Vanguard Battalion cook, Zhu Hu, pays his respects to General Lan Yu!"

Lan Yu looked into Zhu Di’s unwavering eyes, then at the calm Fan Tong beside him. A tempest raged in his heart. But as a seasoned general, he showed no trace of it on his face, merely nodding at Zhu Di with profound meaning.

"Zhu Hu... a good name."

Night fell upon the grasslands once more. Fan Tong ignored the piles of spoils and skipped the victory banquet. He led his remaining five hundred men to silently clear the battlefield. They brought back their fallen comrades one by one, wiped the blood from their faces with clean water, and tidied their tattered armor. Then, beside the mound where the Ming flag stood, they broke the frozen earth to bury their four hundred fallen brothers alongside the dozen old veterans whose names they would never know.

There were no tombstones, only mounds of earth. Fan Tong opened jars of captured mare's milk wine and poured them before each fresh grave.

"Brothers, old heroes, rest well. When you reach the afterlife, don't forget to report the name of our Vanguard Battalion. Even King Yama will have to clear a path for us when he hears it!"

The five hundred survivors knelt before the graves and knocked their heads against the ground three times.

The next morning, Fan Tong declined Lan Yu’s invitation to return to the main camp together. He led his survivors and the leaderless horses onto the road home. Lan Yu stood on a high slope, watching the column in silence. They walked slowly, their formation loose, each man dragging his exhausted body like a defeated army.

Yet, Lan Yu knew that this group of seemingly bedraggled soldiers had single-handedly torn apart a Yuan elite force several times their size. His gaze finally settled on the inconspicuous "Zhu Hu" in the ranks.

"General," his deputy whispered, "that Yan... that Zhu Hu, are we just going to let him leave with that fat man?"

"What else?" Lan Yu withdrew his gaze, his voice unreadable. "That is the Yan... the Emperor's family business. As subjects, it is better to simply watch."

As the sun set, it stretched the shadows of the returning soldiers across the plains. Zhu Di looked back once at the shrinking earthen mound, then turned to look ahead at the fat, somewhat ridiculous, yet incredibly reliable figure riding on the back of an ox.

He did not know what awaited them back at the Beiping Garrison. He only knew that from this day forward, he was no longer the Prince of Yan who needed only to grow under the wings of his father and brothers.

He was Zhu Hu. He was Zhu Hu of the Ming Vanguard Battalion, who had crawled out from a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.