Outside the mansion, chaos reigned. Soldiers clad in mismatched armor sprinted through the snow-dusted courtyards, their breaths visible in the frigid night air. The clash of metal and the frantic shouts of men filled the space as officers barked orders, trying to restore some semblance of order amid the confusion. Some soldiers hauled crates of arrows toward the walls, while others struggled to ready their weapons—spears, swords, and bows glinting faintly under the flickering torchlight. The cold winds carried the tension, mixing it with the distant, eerie howls of wolves.

  General Zhang, now fully clad in his battle armor, stepped out of the mansion with the calm presence of a man who had seen countless nights like this. His armor gleamed faintly under the dim light, a simple but sturdy set worn by a man who valued function over display. His steps were purposeful, his posture straight—not hurried, but determined, the kind of steady gait that inspired confidence in those around him.

  Two guards flanked him, their expressions tense but resolute. The general moved through the chaotic courtyard, and as he passed, soldiers instinctively made way, their frantic movements slowing, if only for a moment, in the presence of their leader. His calm amidst the chaos was like a stone in the middle of a raging river.

  When General Zhang ascended the fortress wall, the defenders were already in position. Archers lined the ramparts, their bows drawn and eyes focused on the dark silhouettes rushing towards them. The ground trembled beneath the weight of the charging barbarians, their howls and war cries growing louder with every passing second.

  The general stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the approaching horde. The barbarians were closer now, their numbers vast, their movements wild and unrelenting. But Zhang’s gaze was steady, unshaken.

  “Archers,” he called, his voice carrying over the sounds of battle, calm but commanding, “prepare to fire.”

  The archers adjusted their stances, drawing their bowstrings tighter, the tension in the air matching the pull of their strings.

  For a brief moment, there was silence—just the howl of the wind and the distant roar of the enemy.

  Then, with a sharp, decisive motion, Zhang raised his arm and brought it down.

  “Fire!”

  A thousand arrows soared into the night sky, their dark forms blotting out the stars. The cold, biting wind howled through the fortress, making it difficult for the arrows to follow a perfect trajectory. Yet, many still found their mark.

  Down below, the first wave of barbarians met the storm of arrows. Some were struck down instantly, their bodies collapsing into the snow, lifeless before they hit the ground. Arrows pierced through limbs, chests, and skulls, the sharp thwack of impact barely audible over the screams and roars.

  The unlucky ones fell where they stood, their blood staining the pristine snow. The fortunate—if such a word could be used—suffered only glancing wounds, arrows grazing their flesh or embedding shallowly into muscle. Many raised crude wooden shields to protect themselves, the arrows thudding harmlessly against the makeshift defenses.

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  But even as the volley slowed their advance, it did little to dampen their fury. The sight of fallen comrades, the sting of blood in the air—it only fueled their bloodlust. With wild, guttural roars, the barbarians surged forward once more, their pace undeterred, their hunger for battle burning hotter than before.

  General Zhang watched from the walls, his expression unreadable. He knew this was only the beginning. The real battle had yet to unfold.

  Arrows continued to rain down like a relentless storm, their sharp whistles slicing through the frigid night air. But no matter how many barbarians fell, it was as if the horde had no end. Their numbers surged forward, undeterred, the bodies of the fallen trampled beneath the feet of their comrades. Even those pierced by arrows in their limbs or shoulders refused to falter, screaming in defiance as they pressed toward the fortress walls, their blood staining the snow crimson.

  General Zhang stood firm atop the battlements, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched the barbarians draw closer, their wild roars growing louder with each step. He knew the walls wouldn’t hold them back forever. It was time for the next phase.

  “Archers!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Fall back! Prepare for melee!”

  The soldiers reacted instantly, their discipline honed by countless drills and battles. The archers swiftly slung their bows over their shoulders and retreated behind the front lines, while half of them dropped their quivers and seized spears from the weapon racks lining the wall.

  “Melee units, forward!” Zhang commanded, his voice steady, unwavering. “Form ranks! Hold the line!”

  The heavily armored soldiers surged to the front, their shields locking together with a resonant clang, forming an impenetrable barrier of steel and determination. Spears bristled between the gaps, ready to skewer any foe who dared breach the wall.

  Zhang turned to his men, his voice lowering but losing none of its authority. “Listen well!” he called out, his gaze sweeping across the rows of hardened faces. “Once they’re on the wall, cut them down. Do not let them gain a foothold. Push their ladders back—break their momentum. No one breaches this line. Not while I still draw breath.”

  The soldiers nodded grimly, their grips tightening on their weapons. The tension in the air was palpable, but Zhang’s presence grounded them. Their general wasn’t just giving orders—he would stand and fight beside them.

  Moments later, the first barbarian ladders slammed against the fortress walls with a heavy thud, shaking the stone beneath their feet. The barbarians began to climb with reckless fury, their hands grasping for blood and victory.

  But the defenders were ready.

  The first barbarian to crest the wall barely had time to raise his weapon before a soldier’s sword cleaved through his neck, sending his body tumbling back into the chaos below. Another attempted to climb over the battlements, only to be met with a spear thrust through his chest, his scream cut short as he was shoved back into the writhing mass of bodies below.

  Ladders were kicked away, some splintering under the force of the defenders’ boots, sending entire groups of barbarians plummeting to their deaths. But still, they came—wave after wave, their bloodlust only growing as more of their brethren fell.

  The battlements became a slaughterhouse. Blood splattered the stone walls, running in thick rivulets and pooling at the soldiers’ feet. The screams of the dying—both barbarian and defender—rose into the night, mingling with the clash of steel and the guttural roars of rage and pain. The air itself seemed to shudder under the weight of the violence.

  As the battle raged, the soldiers began to tire. Their muscles burned, their breaths came in ragged gasps, and their arms felt heavy from the constant swinging of swords and thrusting of spears. But discipline held. As one soldier faltered, another stepped in to take his place, the line never breaking.

  Above the melee, archers who had remained on the wall continued to loose arrows into the fray. Though their shots were less effective now, they still managed to thin the ranks of the barbarians surging toward the ladders, buying precious moments for the defenders.

  Through it all, General Zhang fought alongside his men, his blade a blur of cold steel. Each swing of his sword was precise and deadly, cutting down any barbarian foolish enough to approach him. His armor was streaked with blood—some his own, but most belonging to the enemies who had underestimated him.

  But even with their relentless defense, the battle showed no signs of slowing. The barbarians’ numbers seemed endless, their fury unyielding. The fortress walls were slick with blood, and the bodies of the dead—both soldier and barbarian—piled high, creating grotesque barriers of flesh and bone.

  Yet, through the horror and chaos, the defenders held the line, their spirits anchored by the unyielding presence of their general. The fortress had become a crucible of blood and steel, and only time would tell who would emerge victorious from the symphony of screams and steel that echoed through the snowy night.