- The Great Battle
Part I – Attrition in the Killing Corridor and the Death of Mongroe
Gateukrip did not leave the battlefield, though his losses were staggering.
The traps laid in the narrow pass between the mountain ridges kept tearing at his formation.
Yet the will of the tribes did not break.
The longing to return to the grasslands—their ancestral steppe—drove the ranks forward.
They surged like waves, fell back for a breath, then surged again, until the plains of Haran turned into a sea of corpses and blood.
So-un stood at the far end of the trapped corridor, where the pass opened.
He had been given only a single day to prepare, and so the traps ended there.
Had he been granted more time, he would have laced the entire field with them.
He watched the point where the exit widened as if it were the throat of the battlefield itself.
Arrows poured toward the enemy carefully advancing through the narrow lane between traps.
Fewer than eight hundred White Dragon riders drew and released in unison.
At first the enemy crept forward with eyes fixed on the ground, only to fall one after another.
When daylight strengthened, they raised shields and began to leap and twist, trying to deflect the shafts.
The moment their timing faltered, the hidden pits beneath their feet swallowed them whole.
A thin single rank moved forward cautiously, and the waiting Han archers crushed that layer with disciplined volleys.
To step out of line meant death.
Those who tried to flee sideways plunged into concealed traps and died instantly.
Within the narrow corridor the enemy stretched long and exposed, like targets lined on a range—one rank becoming two, then four.
Once revealed, a trap was no longer a trap; they hacked away the antler barricades and toppled the chariot-spears, advancing step by step.
It was an advance into open killing ground, widening the path with their own dead.
So-un set two arrows at once.
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Each release brought a man down.
He did not pause.
Even under relentless fire, the nomads refused to abandon the opening they had carved.
Their lighter armor gave way under the arrows, and the Han soldiers exploited every angle with ruthless precision.
The ranks were soaked in blood, yet still they pressed forward.
Then Mongroe appeared in the middle of the column.
What caught the eye first was not his horse, but his shoulders.
Broad and steady, they remained low and fixed even as the formation heaved like a storm-tossed tide.
Dust clung to his back, matted with blood; sweat slipped from beneath his helmet and ran along his jaw.
Mongroe did not slow.
He tested the exposed ground with his horse’s hooves, advancing a step at a time.
The pressure of the warriors behind him pushed at his back.
His gaze was fixed ahead, yet in his mind flickered the wind of the steppe and the scent of open grass.
The promise of returning home drove him onward.
So-un recognized him.
They had crossed blades before.
Even amid chaos Mongroe’s control was unmistakable.
His balance in the saddle never faltered, his shield angle remained precise.
The arc of his saber was explosive, yet his center never wavered.
So-un steadied himself and drew.
Two arrows were nocked together.
The tips trembled faintly.
The wind slid sideways, and So-un waited for the moment when the motion settled.
He released.
The bowstring sang like it might snap.
The first arrow glanced off the rim of Mongroe’s shield; the second struck the flat of his blade and ricocheted away.
Seeing So-un’s intent, the White Dragon riders loosed in a concentrated volley.
Arrows struck before the horse, scraped along its flank, and thudded into shields.
Mongroe used the carcass of a fallen horse as cover, drew a breath, and pushed forward again.
Then his eyes lifted.
For an instant, their gazes met across the churned air.
In Mongroe’s eyes burned a stubborn resolve—
the will to endure, the obsession to break this path open.
So-un read it clearly.
At the same time, a heavy grinding sound rose—the winding of a gueljanno crossbow.
Three men braced the stock with their feet and hauled the string back with both arms.
Metal locked into place.
Then release.
A long, heavy iron bolt tore through the air.
It split dust and blood alike, pierced through the back of a man in front, and burst forward in a spray of red.
Even then Mongroe was still moving to deflect So-un’s arrow.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face.
The next instant, something immense and crushing struck his chest.
The iron bolt punched through the seam between breastplate and shoulder guard, carrying the force left from passing through another body.
It drove straight through his chest and burst from his back.
His horse staggered.
Mongroe lowered his head and stared at the shaft embedded in him.
His hand rose slowly to grasp it.
A long breath escaped him.
The wind of his homeland brushed past once more; the open plains, the felt tents, the vast blue sky—all receded at once.
Strength drained from his limbs.
His body tilted.
He slid slowly from the saddle.
When he struck the ground, the sound was dull and heavy, dust mixing with blood in a spreading red cloud.
So-un watched the light leave Mongroe’s eyes.
The fierce resolve that had held the line dissolved into emptiness.
Though his death occurred at the center of the formation, its shock rippled outward.
The front rank faltered.
Those behind pressed forward in confusion.
Shouts wavered.
Fear seeped into the gap, and feet began to move too quickly.
With Mongroe fallen, the vanguard lurched toward the exit.
The Han formation, spread wide, focused its fire on that single opening.
Anyone who emerged was riddled with arrows before advancing a dozen steps.
As the front dissolved into chaos, the traps at the exit were rapidly dismantled.
The moment the opening widened, the battlefield shifted—
from a suffocating corridor into the open plain.