The ravens of war are screaming.
Sharp and frantic, like the messengers of death cackling wildly.
Black clouds press down on the Fortress City as the army advances, murderous intent soaring to the heavens. The tattooed and painted barbarians puff out their chests, blowing massive horns whose mournful wails echo everywhere. The feverish atmosphere surges like a tidal wave.
Roar! Roar! Roar! The soldiers’ cries split the sky and shake the valley, like thunder exploding across the ground. The enemy camp is close—less than three arrows’ flight from the Fortress City. With this assault, there’s no turning back; it’s a showdown on a narrow road.
The lonely Fortress City trembles like an old man at death’s door beneath the iron hooves. The crumbling, low walls look ready to collapse at any moment, bits of rubble rattling down. Over ten thousand troops march as one, shaking the earth like a small earthquake.
This kind of shock—words can’t do it justice.
Fortress City quickly fills with defenders. Strings of Manichaean Sect disciples race up the walls, eyes locked on the invaders. They’re all pretty agile, with more military training than most Central Plains martial artists, but still not real soldiers. The Manichaean Sect’s origins are complicated, tracing back to ancient times, but their martial arts mostly come from the Old Man of the Mountain’s lineage.
The Old Man of the Mountain—also known as the King of Assassins—was all about the art of the kill.
Assassins facing regular troops, stuck defending a city with nowhere to hide, and way fewer numbers—yeah, things are looking seriously grim.
Boom, boom, boom—the giant war drums thunder as ranks of infantry stomp forward in unison.
The infantry are fully equipped—some hefting scaling ladders, some pushing arrow towers. The wooden wheels grind with a tooth-aching squeal as the soldiers steadily close in on the city walls, looking ready for a brawl.
There are even more archers, carrying deadly bows and bristling with wolf-fang arrows. At the commander’s shout, they nock arrows in a flash. Creak, creak—the sound of drawn bows rings out in waves, echoing through the valley and drying out everyone’s mouth.
A commander, high on his horse, swings his arm and roars. Suddenly, chaos erupts—killing intent bursts forth, ten thousand arrows fly, and the world shakes. It’s like a dark cloud lifts off the ground, arcs through the air, and blankets the Fortress City’s walls. Screams ring out, metal clangs, arrows thud, blades slice—sound effects rain down like a monsoon.
Blood instantly becomes the main theme of this war song.
"Kill!" shout the infantry, charging the walls with their scaling ladders.
"Kill!" shout the Manichaean Sect disciples, hurling flying knives and sleeve arrows, doing as much damage as they can in the sea of people.
"Kill!" Some push arrow towers, some smash them, others are locked in fierce combat atop the city walls.
Weapons clash nonstop, blades sink into flesh, people die and tumble from the walls. Everyone speaks a different language—Jill Young can’t understand a word, but she knows they’re all shouting the same thing: Kill!
Slaughter instantly becomes the chorus of this war song.
This siege battle kicks off at full, blazing intensity.
"Oh no!" Faye Bright is spinning in circles, totally at a loss. The sheer scale of the battle stuns her—she grips a nearby rock so hard her knuckles turn white. Suddenly, she gets what Jill Young meant by "just a little scuffle." Compared to this all-consuming war, the duels at the Saintess Ceremony are nothing.
Personal power is so puny in the face of this endless killing field. "What do we do, what do we do! The city’s about to fall—we have to help!"
"Calm down!" Jill Young grabs the frantic Faye Bright and steps to the front, looking down over the battlefield from above.
Her eyes flash like lightning, scanning every inch of both armies. The wind howls, the sky darkens, her hood flaps wildly. Underneath, her eyes gleam like sword blades—she’s spotted something. She points: "This is just a test. Neither side has shown their real stuff yet."
"No way!" Faye Bright can’t believe it; she thinks things are scary enough as is.
"Look closely—the Mongols haven’t moved, and the real Manichaean Sect experts haven’t shown up either." With Jill’s hint, Faye notices it too: those terrifying cavalry are just sitting tight. The ones charging ahead are all Persians.
Cavalry aren’t built for sieges, but these riders aren’t just here for show. Perched on their horses, they glare at the city walls, totally unfazed by the obstacles. They must have some tricks up their sleeves—the walls might not stop them at all.
Even stranger are the armored heavy cavalry. About thirty extra-burly riders line up in two rows, each gripping a massive iron chain. The chains are all attached to something big and long, covered in thick canvas—looks a lot like a Siege Ram.
"No... no way..." Faye Bright can’t believe her own guess. "How could cavalry haul a Siege Ram...?"
But reality slaps her in the face almost immediately.
At the Mongol officer’s order, those fierce knights wrap the iron chains tight around their arms and grip them hard. With a shout, all thirty riders accelerate together, slow at first, then faster and faster. The chains go taut, their arms strain, and iron hooves dig furiously into the ground.
It’s moving—really moving! The Siege Ram grinds over the sand, picking up speed.
The knights go from a trot to a run, then a full-on charge. The wind whips away the canvas cover, revealing the beast beneath—a massive log-like hammer, thick as a barrel and over ten meters long, with both ends wrapped in solid black iron. The iron is pitted and scarred, every dent a badge of honor from past battles.
The Mongols swept through the lands of West Asia—who knows how many victories this hammer has to its name.
The heavy cavalry charges, chains rattling, the hammer nearly flying as it barrels straight for the Fortress City’s gates. No dodging, no swerving—anyone in the way, friend or foe, gets crushed. If that hammer hits you, you’re not just dead—you’re a smear on the ground.
In that moment, everyone on the battlefield can’t help but stare at the terrifying hammer.
"Quick, stop them!" Faye Bright shouts. Of course, no one in Fortress City can hear her from so far away, but their response is the same. Panic breaks out—they rush to reinforce the gates with thick beams and fire off sleeve arrows at the iron-clad riders.
But none of it works.
"Ah—!" Thirty-plus riders roar in unison, swinging arms thicker than most men’s legs, and actually fling the hammer into the air. The force is so massive, even the iron cavalry slow down.
In the blink of an eye, the pitch-black Siege Ram whistles through the air and crashes into the city gate.
Thud! Everyone feels their heart skip a beat, like they’ve been struck themselves. Eyes wide, mouths agape—they’re mesmerized by the sheer impact.
They hear the splintering crack of wood, beams snapping and flying, sawdust everywhere. The gate shudders, debris falls, and a dozen Manichaean Sect members are flung aside. Blood spurts from their mouths and noses as they hit the dust, totally dazed and battered.
When they scramble to their feet, they see a huge hole smashed in the gate. The bloody, black Siege Ram pokes through, like the monstrous jaws of some alien beast—absolutely terrifying.
All thirty riders spin their horses, switch hands, and yank the Siege Ram back. Their heavy armor shrugs off sleeve arrows, leaving them unharmed. They gallop away, dragging the hammer back to its starting point.
After one round trip, both riders and horses are exhausted. But they just grin wickedly and hand the chains to their comrades. Another thirty riders grab hold, dig deep, and charge. The thunder of hooves shakes the earth, like some ancient beast on the rampage.
Faye Bright stares at those thirty riders, her eyes full of despair. Who on earth could stand against monsters like these?
Is this the power that let the Mongols conquer half the world?!
Watching the Fortress City totter, Faye Bright suddenly kneels toward the Promised Land. She makes the Sacred Flame gesture, lifts her Sacred Flame Token, and chants: "Blazing Sacred Flame, burn my broken body! What joy is life, what sorrow is death? To do good and banish evil, for the sake of the light alone. Joy and grief, all return to dust. Pity us mortals, so full of troubles. Pity us mortals, so full of troubles!"
Jill Young glances at her—Faye Bright’s grief and anger are the real deal. Looks like her Saintess status isn’t just for show.
"The Manichaean Sect has stood for ages—no matter how many purges, it’s never been wiped out. They must have some tricks up their sleeve." Jill Young watches the people on the wall. "If they’ve got something special, now’s the time to use it."
Meanwhile, in the Mongol camp, Tom Seven stares intently at Fortress City. He’s waiting too—he doesn’t believe the Manichaean Sect will fall so easily.
This is the Promised Land, the Manichaean Sect’s ancient holy ground. The Silver Priest himself said there must be something supernatural here—they have to find out what. Last time, a trip to Mystery Island scared them senseless: they charged in full of confidence and fled in total panic. If it weren’t for Dr. Long Fang’s eighteen scholars stirring things up, none of them would’ve escaped.
One martial artist woman left a permanent shadow in their hearts. That’s why they’ve gathered an army, terrified of running into another mysterious, unbeatable foe.
In the South Sea, they were the underdogs, but here in Persia, they’ve got home field advantage. Numbers are the key to taking down experts. The priests won’t get their hands dirty until they know exactly what they’re up against.
"Come on, show me what you’ve got—let me see something amazing!"
At that moment, deep in the Promised Land, an old man sighs and kneels before a massive stone wall, praying softly. Suddenly, mysterious glowing patterns and symbols appear on the wall, and a strange, powerful energy is unleashed.
Under Tom Seven’s watchful gaze, the Manichaean Sect members on the city wall suddenly begin to glow. The light is red, like tiny flames—so faint it’s almost invisible, especially in the sunset. Ordinary soldiers don’t notice, but Tom Seven’s eyes flash—he knows it’s real. As the glow spreads, the sect members seem infused with mysterious power; their attacks grow sharper and fiercer.
Buzz—every Sacred Flame Token vibrates and sings. Anyone holding one knows: some mysterious process has started early.
In the command tent, the Silver Priest gazes at Fortress City, murmuring, "Is this the power I’ve been searching for?"
On the mountainside, Jill Young’s eyes flash with insight. In that instant, she seems to see something hidden, then nods and shakes her head, letting out a breath: "No need to watch anymore—the Mongols won’t take the city today. They’ll retreat soon. By the way, what was that glow?"
"That’s the Will of the Sacred Flame." Faye Bright looks at Jill Young, her expression complicated. "That’s why I’m here. What about you—are you here for it too?"
"Nope." Jill Young shakes her head and turns to leave. "It’s strong—so strong it’s almost confusing—but it’s not the power I’m looking for. My miracle is deeper, hidden within and alongside the Will of the Sacred Flame. And that miracle-making power is about to wake up."