Chapter Fifty-Seven: A Thousand Miles Chasing Shadows, Enlightenment Through a Single Leaf

The general sounded the horn again, three long and two short blasts—a command, not the previous warning, ordering all the soldiers to the East Gate to face the enemy.

As the horn fell silent, Yu Lang nocked an arrow. At two hundred paces, his shot pierced the man's throat. Unlike the others in the Langzi Battalion, Yu Lang's hands had long been stained with blood; his penchant for killing was heavy, and this arrow was loosed without hesitation.

Five hundred soldiers from Longyou could not help but cheer, their spirits lifted by their commander's remarkable archery. These seasoned veterans knew well the difficulty of shooting upwards in the dark, let alone a single shot that pierced the throat. They had been reluctant to accept orders from this half-grown youth, but now, seeing his courage, wisdom, and exceptional skill, their disdain faded.

Yu Lang's intent was clear: to raise his troops’ morale and crush the enemy’s spirit.

Soon, the ramparts filled with soldiers, launching volleys of arrows. Infantry raised their shields, sheltering Yu Lang and Qingqing behind them.

Ordinary soldiers lacked Yu Lang’s strength; the arrows falling from the walls were weak, most landing not far from the base, and even those that struck relied more on gravity than force.

Yet one arrow was different—it tore straight through a veteran’s shield before Yu Lang, who drew his saber and deflected it, saving the man’s life. The old soldier gave Yu Lang a grateful glance, dared not speak, and braced himself for the next wave.

This arrow must have come from Tumbaer, the Tubo commander inside the city—a towering figure, nine feet tall, clad in battered silver armor, exuding authority.

Yu Lang, intent on stalling, loudly challenged the enemy commander to single combat outside the gate. Tumbaer, fierce but shrewd, would not be provoked by mere words—he continued his careful defense, a third line already prepared behind the gate, ready for a bloody battle even if the enemy breached the door.

Yet Yu Lang’s insults were infuriating, never vulgar, but enough to make the soldiers atop the wall seethe and the Longyou troops below burst out laughing.

Tumbaer glanced at the massed soldiers outside, suppressing his rage. He knew he must not fall into the adversary’s trap and lead his forces out.

Suddenly, a dozen Tubo scouts burst from the woods, shouting, “Commander, the East Gate is a feint! The rear is all straw men! The West Gate is in grave danger!”

They spoke Tubo tongue; Yu Lang caught only a few phrases, but understood the crux. He was furious, and immediately slaughtered the scouts, yet once their message was out, it could not be undone.

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On the ramparts, most soldiers might not have caught the scouts’ words, but Tumbaer, at the peak of his cultivation, his senses keen, heard every syllable. His anger surged; from West to East Gate was dozens of miles, and leading troops over now would be far too late. He resolved to strike at the root—lead his forces out to crush this feinting army.

The gates swung open. Tumbaer led two thousand light cavalry out in a murderous charge, wielding a broadsword and riding at the forefront.

Though these five hundred Longyou men were mostly aged and frail, usually serving in logistics, each had fought and bled before retiring—their courage undiminished. Drawn swords in hand, they growled, “Battle!”

Yu Lang was not unprepared. He had considered how to respond if the defenders led a sortie, but had not expected the enemy to send out all their cavalry.

“Shield squad, charge! Anti-cavalry spear squad, follow! Sword squad, crouch forward—prioritize cutting the enemy horses’ hooves.”

The anti-cavalry spear squad was Yu Lang’s invention: ordinary spears fitted with extra wooden shafts, lengthening their reach to pierce horse bellies from mid-range, specifically countering cavalry.

The startled horses threw their riders, trampling each other in the chaos, but the cavalry was so numerous that subsequent waves broke through the lines.

Yu Lang drew his whetstone saber, repeatedly saving his men, leaving scores of Tubo corpses behind.

Seeing Yu Lang slaying so many, Tumbaer dismounted and engaged him directly.

They fought, powers on display, evenly matched—Yu Lang held a slight advantage. Both were at the peak of cultivation, neither a half-saint, yet Tumbaer’s true strength surpassed that of the Tubo national master’s chief disciple, Qili Dongzan. His blade carried the souls of thousands, his murderous aura heavy.

As planned, Qingqing was disguised as an ordinary soldier, hidden among the infantry, fighting ten enemies at once and sending the Tubo soldiers fleeing. Having undergone several trials with Yu Lang, she had slain many bandits; against these foreigners, she showed no mercy, each swing of her sword claiming a life.

Yet the other soldiers were merely mortal flesh; facing four times their number, casualties mounted.

Yu Lang grew anxious. He hurled his whetstone saber, controlling it to kill enemies and protect his men, while he continued to spar with Tumbaer's broadsword, bare-fisted.

Tumbaer, seeing Yu Lang’s blade-control, thought him already Enlightened, and was startled. Soon, he realized Yu Lang’s strength dropped without the saber at hand, and pressed his advantage, forcing Yu Lang into peril.

Yu Lang divided his focus, contending with Tumbaer’s ferocity while guiding his saber to aid his troops. The strain quickly depleted his energy, and he felt his strength waning. For the first time since mastering his arts, he was forced into such dire straits, yet he steeled himself, daring not slacken.

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At last, Tumbaer’s relentless assault converted advantage into dominance; his elbow pinned Yu Lang’s fists, and he brought his broadsword down like thunder. Qingqing, ever watchful, cried out, “Yu Lang, be careful!”

Yu Lang was ready, narrowly dodging the blow. A few strands of hair were sliced off, and his whetstone saber, suspended outside, became a streak of light, slashing at Tumbaer’s back. Tumbaer twisted aside, but the saber left a long wound across his back.

His eyes blazed red; he howled like a beast, his power surging to nearly match the initial stage of Enlightenment.

Yu Lang grew solemn; he knew this was some sinister art, burning through bodily reserves in a short time.

No longer able to attend to his troops, Yu Lang gripped his saber tightly, unleashing all his skills against the frenzied Tumbaer.

Within his martial soul pool, his inner energy roiled; Yu Lang’s techniques were exhausted, yet the temporarily Enlightened Tumbaer overwhelmed him. Though Tumbaer had the upper hand, he could not subdue Yu Lang completely. He struck Yu Lang aside and lunged at Qingqing, having discerned she was the young commander’s weakness—if he killed her, Yu Lang would surely lose composure.

He closed in on Qingqing’s face.

A leaf drifted down, paused in midair, and transformed into countless needles, piercing Tumbaer a thousand times in an instant, reducing his bones and body to powder.

Li Bi, his form half-real, half-ethereal, uttered a single phrase before vanishing: “Yu Lang, take care of Qingqing. Don’t let me look down on you.”

A shadow cast across a thousand miles, a leaf slaying Enlightenment.

Yu Lang drew a deep breath, sighing inwardly—such was truly the work of immortals.