Ajige was trapped inside a pitch-black stone chamber, sealed in by thick walls and a collapsed entrance that refused to yield no matter how hard he pushed, and for the first time since taking command he felt something unfamiliar creeping into his chest, a suffocating loss of control that no amount of shouting could fix.
Outside, the soundscape shifted again.
The thunder of aerial bombs faded, replaced by a different rhythm, deeper, sharper, more structured, the unmistakable roar of artillery batteries firing in coordinated volleys, each shot followed by a high-pitched tearing whistle as shells cut through the air before slamming into the ground with violent precision.
Every nearby impact sent tremors through the stone chamber, dust drifting down from the ceiling in thin streams that settled onto Ajige's armor and shoulders, as if the earth itself was slowly burying him alive while he remained conscious inside it.
He could not see.
He could not command.
He could not even confirm whether his army still existed outside.
And that uncertainty was worse than fear.
Meanwhile, far beyond the shattered trenches, Gao Qiqian stood watching everything unfold with his own eyes, and unlike Ajige, he had no protection from the psychological weight of what he was witnessing.
The artillery battalion of Gao Family Village had begun systematic bombardment.
Not chaotic.
Not desperate.
Not reactive.
Systematic.
Rows of small cannons fired in rotation, covering the entire area around Dalinhe City in a dense, overlapping grid of destruction, each volley landing before the previous smoke had even fully cleared, creating a continuous cycle of explosion, dust, and shockwaves that erased any sense of stable terrain.
There were no civilians in the city.
That fact had already been confirmed.
Which meant there were no constraints.
The shells fell like rain that did not care about cost, did not care about conservation, did not care about anything except saturation of target zones.
One round ended, another began.
Then another.
And another.
Gao Qiqian swallowed hard as he watched the endless barrage, his voice trembling despite himself.
"This is too brutal… the enemy positions are already wiped out, there is nothing left visible, why are they still firing… is there really a need to keep going like this… should they not stop and conserve ammunition… should they not send infantry forward already?"
Beside him, Lu Xiangsheng flipped through one of the military magazines he had been obsessively studying, his fingers pausing on a particular page as his eyes sharpened with sudden clarity.
He turned the page outward and pointed.
"Read this."
Gao Qiqian leaned in.
The title was blunt, almost vulgar in its simplicity.
"When poor, use tactics and maneuver. When rich, bomb them to hell."
Lu Xiangsheng closed the magazine slowly, his voice calm, almost philosophical.
"If you have the resources, why would you risk soldiers' lives in close combat when you can erase uncertainty from a distance, every hidden trench, every unseen survivor, every possible counterattack… all of it can be reduced before a single infantryman steps forward."
Gao Qiqian hesitated.
"But what if there is no one left?"
Lu Xiangsheng did not even look at him.
"Then you are paying to guarantee that assumption is correct."
Gao Qiqian's lips twitched.
"How much money did that just cost?"
Lu Xiangsheng shot him a sideways glance filled with irritation.
"You only think about money."
Gao Qiqian replied instinctively, almost defensively.
"Because I know how poor the court is, I know how desperate the Emperor is for silver."
Lu Xiangsheng's expression turned sharp.
"And yet you still embezzle."
Gao Qiqian froze.
That was the problem with systems of accountability.
Once you understood them, they could always be turned back on you.
That was the real meaning of pressure.
The bombardment continued.
Smoke rose, dispersed, and rose again as fresh explosions replaced fading ones, the battlefield cycling through destruction in waves that seemed almost mechanical, as if the war itself had been industrialized into a repeating process.
Then, finally, a hand rose.
Li DaoXuan.
The signal was simple, but absolute.
"That is enough."
Cao Wenzhao immediately lifted his voice, amplified through a metal speaking cone.
"Cease fire!"
The order rippled through the ranks.
"Cease fire!"
"Cease fire!"
One by one, the cannons fell silent.
The battlefield, for the first time in a long while, stopped shaking.
And then the next phase began.
Zhao Guangyuan stepped forward, eyes burning with something far more personal than strategy.
"Allow me to lead the Hanzhong militia as the vanguard!"
Cao Wenzhao did not hesitate.
"Approved. Go."
Zhao Guangyuan's face lit up with savage determination as he drew his sword halfway, paused, then shoved it back into its sheath and instead pulled out a heavy chopping blade, the kind meant not for elegance but for ending lives decisively.
"My father… today I repay the debt."
Behind him, the militia murmured quietly.
"If Flat Rabbit sees this, he is going to be disappointed."
"He will start complaining about the decline of sword culture again."
"Something about how no one respects elegance anymore."
Far away, in another city preparing for its own operation, Flat Rabbit suddenly sneezed violently and looked up with a grin.
"Someone is thinking about me."
Back on the battlefield, Zhao Guangyuan charged.
His unit followed.
This was not the original Gao Family Village militia.
This was a force that had been reshaped, but not completely transformed.
They had discipline now.
They had structure.
But they had not lost their brutality.
Where the core militia sought to capture and convert labor, to feed the expanding industrial system with controlled manpower, Zhao Guangyuan and others like him still carried the instincts of the old world, where enemies were not assets but obstacles to be eliminated.
He entered the trenches like a storm.
A Qing soldier stumbled out of a dirt hole, dazed and disoriented from the bombardment, barely managing to lift his head before Zhao Guangyuan's blade came down in a clean arc that split his neck open, blood spraying into the dust.
"Father! Watch me! I will kill at least ten today!"
He moved forward without pause.
Around him, his men did the same.
One soldier leaped into a trench and brought his blade down on a man crouching with his back turned, the strike landing with such force that it split flesh and bone in a grotesque, decisive motion.
Another found a small dugout and leaned in, only to have a spear thrust out from inside, nearly piercing his face.
He recoiled, shouting.
"There are Qing soldiers hiding inside!"
Zhao Guangyuan roared back instantly.
"What do you think the grenades are for?"
The soldier froze for half a second, realization hitting him like a slap, before fumbling for a grenade, lighting it, and tossing it straight into the hole.
The explosion that followed was contained, brutal, efficient.
But even after all the bombardment, resistance still existed.
Trench warfare was never clean.
It was never easy.
Zhao Guangyuan cut down several enemies in quick succession, but in the chaos, a heavy hammer struck his back, the force bypassing his armor and driving straight into his body, knocking the air out of him as he staggered backward and coughed up blood.
He tried to push forward again.
He refused to stop.
Then a hand grabbed his shoulder.
Cao Bianjiao had arrived.
Without ceremony, he pulled Zhao Guangyuan back.
"Fall back and treat your wounds. I will take it from here."
Zhao Guangyuan struggled.
"I can still fight. I have not avenged my father yet."
Cao Bianjiao's voice turned cold.
"We have not even reached Shenyang yet. If you burn yourself out here, what exactly are you avenging?"
The words hit harder than the hammer.
Zhao Guangyuan finally stopped resisting.
He retreated.
Cao Bianjiao stepped forward, leading the Guan-Ning cavalry into the trenches, continuing the systematic clearing of remaining Qing forces hiding in dugouts and collapsed fortifications.
From behind, Lu Xiangsheng watched everything and issued his own order.
"Tianxiong Army, advance. Assist in clearing the battlefield. Drag out every surviving Qing soldier hiding in trenches and tunnels and eliminate them."
Nearby commanders nodded.
Wang Pu moved.
Yang Guozhu moved.
More forces poured in.
The battlefield shifted from bombardment to extraction.
From destruction to completion.
At the rear, Lao Nanfeng glanced at Bai Shui Wang Er and Xing Honglang with a casual grin.
"So, what about us?"
Wang Er shrugged.
"We are not here to compete for merit."
Xing Honglang nodded, her expression calm but sharp.
"Shenyang is still ahead. Why rush?"