Finding the highest-ranking leader of the Manichaean Sect these days isn’t easy. Even with Faye Bright’s connections, Jill Young spent an entire day being shuffled from one place to another—moving from town to town, switching locations endlessly. But this wasn’t about distrust or deliberate stalling; there were real, pressing reasons behind all the chaos.
The Manichaean Sect’s attitude was decent enough, but now, attitude didn’t matter—it was all about survival. The guides kept getting messages, their faces shifting with each one. An unspoken tension and pressure filled the eyes of every sect member; even without understanding the language, Jill Young could sense that something big was going down.
Faye Bright acted as translator: “The Transmission King and several other chief kings are trapped inside the Promised Land. Outside, only second-tier leaders are scattered about. And just now, news kept pouring in—a base wiped out here, a leader killed there, you name it. So, we have to keep changing destinations.”
Jill Young nodded, not pushing them too hard. The more critical the moment, the steadier you’ve got to be—one slip and it’s game over. Besides, there was still a big squad sneaking along behind, keeping it secret from Joan—her twin brother—and they’d need time to catch up. For now, Jill’s job was to get the Manichaean Sect’s gears turning and avoid any ‘dragon temple flooded by big water’ kind of melodrama.
By four in the afternoon the next day, in a dirt-poor mountain village, Jill Young finally found the current top leader of the Manichaean Sect. He was a tall man in a white robe and hood, looking straight out of Assassin’s Creed—his face mostly hidden in shadow, just a stubbly chin visible. But those eyes in the darkness were razor-sharp; when he glanced up, it felt like two throwing knives shot right at you.
This guy was the real deal—a master who could kill within ten steps even without any special powers. No showy moves here. Jill’s gaze slid from his shoulders to his hands, then to his knees, and she was instantly sure: this man was an assassin extraordinaire.
And he’d mastered internal energy cultivation from the Central Plains—his cultivation was equivalent to at least fifty years of training. Apparently, internal energy was even more widespread than Jill thought. Even Persians were getting in on the action now.
“Whoa, Brandon, it’s you?” Faye Bright clearly recognized the man. She quickly introduced both sides: “This is Brandon. He’s a master of Central Plains culture, the White-Robed Guardian of the main sect, and he used to be my guide and mentor. He’s also currently acting leader of the Manichaean Sect. I learned almost half my skills from him.”
Faye had already explained the Manichaean Sect’s headquarters structure—pretty much like the Ming Cult in those Jin Yong novels. At the top was the Chief, then the Transmission King just below, then the Four Great Kings, and then all the Guardians. There were a bunch of Guardian ranks, but White-Robed Guardian was the highest, so it wasn’t surprising Brandon was acting leader right now.
“Brandon, this is our new Chief of the Central Plains branch—uh, Jill Young.” Acting as branch Chief saved a ton of hassle, and Jill wasn’t about to bother explaining things to the Manichaean crowd. She just rolled with it. Of course, this was all part of the plan she and Faye Bright had cooked up in advance.
At dusk, Brandon, Jill Young, and Faye Bright crept through the Wind-Eroded Peaks. The slopes were scarred by fierce winds, carving countless wind caves—dark, bottomless, and echoing with ghostly wails. Brandon used these winding tunnels to lead them to the edge of the battlefield.
Of course, it was a perilous path.
"You’re quite skilled—this path was once a Guardian’s trial. Even elite Guardians have fallen into crevices and pits here. But you handled it with ease, Chief." Brandon hid in the shadows of a stone cave, pointing ahead: "There—that’s the battlefield, and the location of the Promised Land."
Jill Young focused her gaze, quickly sizing up the situation.
Here’s a quick intro to the terrain: it’s all desert and gobi, sun-baked into endless yellow. In the distance, a jagged mountain rises—not tall, but treacherous. At its base, a Fortress City—well, not exactly at the base, more like carved into the mountain itself, as if the city was inlaid deep within the rock.
The Fortress City was sandy yellow, not Persian in style, bearing the marks of countless years. Layer upon layer of walls, gate after gate, with patrols keeping watch. That’s the besieged Promised Land, where most elite Manichaean members are trapped. Dark red blood stains the walls, and carrion crows circle and squabble, croaking ominously.
Faye Bright’s eyes flashed—she glanced at someone nearby. From this angle, it looked just like the painting Jill Young had once drawn.
Jill Young pointed at the Fortress City: “So that’s the Promised Land?”
Brandon whispered, “That’s the Fortress City guarding the Promised Land’s gate. The real Promised Land is beyond, inside the mountain. I don’t know the details—I’m not high enough to know its secrets. But legend says that during each Saintess Ceremony, the Promised Land opens a Heaven’s Gate, and only then can you truly enter.”
“When does Heaven’s Gate open?”
“No idea. This time, the Promised Land is acting strange. It was supposed to open in twenty days, but now, who knows—maybe soon. That’s why the Transmission King brought the elite to garrison the Fortress City early, but the Mongol Army attacked.” Brandon pointed to the other side: “That’s the enemy.”
The Promised Land’s mountains are ringed by the Wind-Eroded Peaks, like open arms cradling a plain. On that plain, military camps loom, radiating cold, feverish killing intent.
A small river winds through the plain, its banks dotted with rare green grass—a splash of life in the desert. But now, countless warhorses drink at the river, trampling the grass to mud. Even their hoofbeats rumble like thunder.
These warhorses are robust, some clad in armor—not the soft kind seen in the Central Plains, but plate armor with ridges and spikes, clattering as they run.
Some of these special horses are vicious—if another warhorse comes too close, they suddenly lunge, sending the unlucky horse tumbling and bloodied. About three hundred of these spiked warhorses stand out, clearly the elite of the cavalry, exuding a savage aura.
Inside the camps, the killing intent is even stronger.
Mongolian tents sit at the camp’s center, surrounded by rows of military tents. Mongol soldiers, armed with bows and sabers, move in squads, radiating menace—as if ready to kill at any moment. The Persian allies shrink away, too scared to get close.
By rough count, there are over three thousand Mongol soldiers. The Persian lords and city rulers scraped together more than seven thousand allies, making up a force of about ten thousand. But the seven thousand allies are just cannon fodder—the real threat is the three thousand Mongols.
They are battle-hardened and brutal—the Golden Horde Berserkers, Kublai Khan’s elite. They fear no one, kill anyone, and don’t flinch at death, believing they’ll return to Eternal Heaven for everlasting glory.
They were a terrifying iron army of fanatics.
Such an army could strike fear into any foe.
As they watched, a horn blared from the Mongol camp. Instantly, the camp sprang to life—soldiers poured out, forming ranks at shouted commands.
A wave of killing intent seemed to explode in the air. Crows, startled by the bloodlust, took flight, screeching in panic. The sunset painted the river red—like flowing blood.
Blood flowing like a river—it’s not just a metaphor. It could become reality any moment.
Boom, boom, boom—deafening war drums shook the earth. Dozens of bare-chested men, drenched in sweat, pounded giant rhino-hide drums with all their might.
Boom, boom, boom—the battle drums thundered, killing intent rising to the sky, darkening even the heavens. Shouts and neighs rang out as the army marched out: infantry, archers, cavalry—all in strict formation, leaving no opening. Clearly, a famous general was in command.
Ten thousand troops might seem trivial in a game, but when they spread across the plain, poised for battle, even a bystander would feel their power.
Let alone the Fortress City at the center of it all.
“Damn, at a time like this?” Brandon’s face changed. “The Mongol Army is attacking the Fortress City!”
Such an army could strike fear into any foe.
As they watched, a horn blared from the Mongol camp. Instantly, the camp sprang to life—soldiers poured out, forming ranks at shouted commands.
A wave of killing intent seemed to explode in the air. Crows, startled by the bloodlust, took flight, screeching in panic. The sunset painted the river red—like flowing blood.
Blood flowing like a river—it’s not just a metaphor. It could become reality any moment.
Boom, boom, boom—deafening war drums shook the earth. Dozens of bare-chested men, drenched in sweat, pounded giant rhino-hide drums with all their might.
Boom, boom, boom—the battle drums thundered, killing intent rising to the sky, darkening even the heavens. Shouts and neighs rang out as the army marched out: infantry, archers, cavalry—all in strict formation, leaving no opening. Clearly, a famous general was in command.
Ten thousand troops might seem trivial in a game, but when they spread across the plain, poised for battle, even a bystander would feel their power.
Let alone the Fortress City at the center of it all.
“Damn, at a time like this?” Brandon’s face changed. “The Mongol Army is attacking the Fortress City!”