- The Great Battle
Part III – The Flanking Maneuver, the White Dragon Cavalry’s Side Assault, and the End
When the center failed to open as expected, the enemy began to flow outward.
The troops that had battered the middle veered toward the flanks, searching for a path to break free.
Lee Hee noticed the change in their movement first.
From the heart of the battlefield came Jin Muguang’s command.
“White Dragon unit—annihilate those turning to the sides.”
“Rear ranks, shift to both flanks.”
Jin Muguang issued orders even as his blade cut through the press.
Enemy commanders hesitated to face him directly, and that moment of reluctance warped their formation.
While the rear repositioned, the White Dragon riders had to seize the flanks.
Cavalry could not block a road outright; they had to sever its flow.
As the rear shifted, a narrow gap briefly opened along the side of the formation.
Nomad cavalry wheeled their horses toward it in unison.
Lee Hee judged that they must not meet them head-on but slice across their side.
The White Dragon riders seemed to scatter, yet they angled inward like a slanted wedge, cutting toward the enemy’s exposed flank.
At the moment of impact, shields braced for frontal collision were shoved sideways, their balance collapsing.
The first contact came not as sound but as shock.
Shoulders of horses slammed together.
Blades flashed.
Men toppled from saddles.
Instead of pushing forward, the White Dragons cut through and passed, carving pieces from the mass.
They broke the current, curved in a half-circle, and scraped the flank again.
Wherever a section was severed, the enemy’s footing faltered first.
So-un chose the halberd over the sword.
Even at full gallop he locked its three sections into place.
Steel and wood became one in his hands.
He swung it wide—
like a windmill.
The sound of it cutting air hummed low.
Yet the motion was no flourish; it struck along the falling arc of an axe.
At first it was calculation—
reading trajectories, measuring strides, searching for seams.
He struck the enemy’s weapon to scatter its force, then let the rebound flow through his waist.
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At the end of the rotation the blade-head snapped forward.
A thrust.
It slipped into the empty space between saddle and torso.
The rider lifted, balance broken.
So-un did not pull him down—
he pushed, enlarging the fall, sending him tumbling clear.
Breath shortened but did not break.
Inhale—block.
Exhale—cut.
Inhale again—turn.
The halberd’s path was circular, but the intention was straight.
Each full rotation concluded a single exchange.
Like recalling a sword form, the silent rhythm of his training murmured in his mind.
Strike high.
Sever low.
Pierce the emptied seam.
The weapon was only a tool; its principle was the same as the sword.
Its length granted advantage.
It reached before the enemy’s steel, crossed a horse’s neck to hook a shoulder, and once it caught, escape was rare.
He spun it wide, then in the next instant drew it in tight.
Held short, it became a spear.
Extended, it became a sweeping glaive.
He cleaved, parried, turned, thrust short, drove long.
But after several exchanges, calculation faded.
Only rotation remained.
As the halberd traced its circle, so did his vision.
Front, side, above, below—no longer separate.
The feel of metal striking flesh accumulated in his palms.
Blood sprayed across his face.
The more he moved, the emptier his mind became.
Battle noise receded.
Only the horse’s breath and his own remained.
If there were a word for it, it was no-self.
With each turn something was cut away—
a neck twisted,
an arm broken,
a body sliding from the saddle.
The sweeping arc that grazed a helmet shattered balance;
the thrust toward the waist emptied a seat.
Those who blocked from the front were slipped aside by the shoulder;
those who came from behind were struck by the wake of the spin.
Within the halberd’s path there were only two fates:
fall back, or fall down.
As the White Dragons circled in their half-moon pattern, So-un’s halberd became the sharpest point of that arc.
Where he passed, horses staggered and men spilled onto the churned earth.
A cry rose again from the enemy ranks.
“The boy commander!”
The more the name spread, the more eyes fixed upon him.
Yet attention served him.
Men did not rush him—they tried to flee.
Concentration stiffened movement.
Stiffness could be read.
He spun once more.
At the end of the rotation the blade dipped low, cutting beneath a knee.
A horse collapsed, its rider thrown clear.
His breath no longer faltered.
As in morning drills.
As in night practice.
The silent formula continued—
power from the waist,
path from the circle,
end with the breath.
The battlefield remained chaos, yet his motion was constant.
The enemy attempted to encircle him.
An axe dropped before him; a spear thrust from the side.
The halberd turned in a single great sweep, knocking both aside.
At the arc’s completion it struck low again—
a knee shattered, a body pitched forward, a throat opened.
The next instant he had already turned elsewhere.
Sound thinned.
Drums, shouts, the clash of steel—all distant.
Only breath remained.
Inhale.
Turn.
Exhale.
Thrust.
His face emptied of expression.
The eyes held focus; emotion was gone.
One enemy rider slowed, staring.
“He’s mad…” someone muttered.
It was madness—but not directionless.
It followed the flow exactly, a focus beyond calculation.
The halberd grew heavier with blood, yet the rotation did not slow.
If the wrist twisted, the waist supported it.
If the waist bent, the horse’s stride carried the motion onward.
He no longer saw individuals.
He saw masses—
and the weakest seam within them.
Once he pierced deep, the formation tore itself apart.
The man who stepped in to fill a gap was cut down in turn.
When connections broke, the formation lost breath.
Where he had passed, only bodies lay on the ground.
It looked like madness,
yet within it the breathing was perfect.
So-un spun once more.
The blade cut downward through open air.
Two men fell almost together.
Only then did he release a long breath.
Clarity returned.
The noise of battle rushed back.
The shattered cavalry lost direction and scattered into isolated fights.
The field was slick with mud and blood.
Horses heaved.
Weapons grew heavy.
Arms stiffened.
Still, the White Dragon riders maintained their rhythm.
They wheeled once, accelerated, wheeled again, scraping relentlessly at the flank.
As momentum shifted, those who could fled northwest.
Those who could not collapsed upon the plains of Haran.
The battle that had begun at dawn ended near dusk.
Those who broke through the Han wall rode hard toward the northwest.
Those who failed lay fallen across the field.
Gateukrip slipped past along the edge guarded by the White Dragon riders.
When Jin Muguang gathered the dead and tended the wounded,
the evening sky spread red—
deeper than blood.