Three Kingdoms: Conquer Wu from Maicheng with Cavalry and Swords, Don't Fall Behind

Hu Zongshen flew into the sky, muttering, "What the Grand Commander said is all true, the battle reports are all true. How can Jiangdong possibly win against such an unparalleled genius?"

When Xu Xiang saw Fu Shiren's head fall off as easily as chopping vegetables, he felt a pang of sorrow: "Taking the enemy's head from among ten thousand troops is as easy as taking something out of a bag. The Grand Commander's defeat is not unjust."

The mighty footsteps surged forth, and the defenders of Maicheng poured out, crushing everything in their path.

Countless people and horses transformed into dragons, moving back and forth in a continuous stream, forming a network.

The once crowded and tightly packed Jie Fan Camp was completely divided into pieces by the crisscrossing thousand-strong force, each fighting its own battle and utterly routed!

In the past, this would have been unimaginable.

Ding Feng's personal guards, having suffered countless defeats alongside him, were utterly terrified of that strongman.

That kind of fear isn't the fear of a knife to your throat; it's a fear ingrained in your bones, a fear that makes your legs go weak at the sight of a crescent blade.

This fear spread like wildfire, and the entire team lost their spirit.

When the general's orders came down again, no matter how much they shouted, few people moved.

It's not that I don't want to move, it's that I can't move. My soul is gone, how can I fight?

The troops in Jiangdong were routed, and the land was filled with the shadows of the defeated.

Guan Yinping galloped back and forth, slaughtering relentlessly. Dozens of light cavalry pursued her relentlessly, like tigers chasing sheep.

The fleeing soldiers, terrified, threw down their weapons and surrendered. Some knelt down, burying their heads in their hands and begging for their lives. They were intertwined with the corpses lying haphazardly on the ground, filling the field of vision—a horrifying sight!

The Martial Saint is like an unshakeable divine mountain, suppressing the battlefield shrouded in malevolent energy.

Even the most outstanding peers, with lofty ambitions, can only look up and feel utterly dejected.

That mountain is too high, that peak too precipitous; even if you spend your whole life trying, you could never cross it!

The scoundrels were right in front of them, and they all collapsed to the ground, their limbs useless and unable to move.

The Martial Saint raised his crescent blade high, its blade gleaming coldly, pointing it at the enemy formation.

In an instant, an invisible pressure emanated from his body.

That was an immortal pressure, a murderous aura accumulated after countless battles and countless kills, weighing heavily on everyone's heart, making it hard to breathe!

The Jiangdong scoundrels stared wide-eyed, their eyeballs practically bulging out, unable to believe what they were seeing!

What's even more terrifying is that the power doesn't just press down on your body, it's more like it's crushing your soul, making you feel a chill from the very marrow of your bones, your legs tremble uncontrollably, and you wish you could kneel down with a thud, prostrate yourself on the ground, and kowtow in worship!

Those cowards were so shocked their eyes almost popped out, and they retreated in a panic!

Zhou Cang rode back and forth, shouting loudly, ordering his soldiers to gather all the surviving hostages and protect them in the middle.

More than a dozen corpses lay scattered about, killed by the enemy's blade.

His face darkened, and he said in a deep voice, "They were all lives; don't let them lie exposed in the wilderness. Come, carefully collect their remains!"

Guan Yinping reined in his horse, sword at the ready, looking heroic and valiant. Protecting the hostages and escorting hundreds of surrendered soldiers, they marched in a grand procession towards Maicheng.

Zhou Cang led his troops to stay behind and clean up the mess. The battlefield was filled with the clamor of voices and the neighing of horses. The Han soldiers were busy collecting weapons and carrying corpses.

They pounced on the battlefield like hungry tigers, scrambling to clean it up. Their eyes gleamed, and they didn't let anything usable slip by.

Armor, swords, spears, money pouches, and food sacks—all were taken!

Whether it's iron or copper, cloth or grain, they won't even let a single rope end go!

After several major battles, it's no exaggeration to say that the Han army risked their lives, but the truly valuable spoils they captured could be counted on one hand.

The sight of swords, spears, and armor scattered all over the ground is like a dream!

The soldiers looked at each other, their eyes gleaming with barely suppressed excitement, trembling with elation.

I've never seen so many treasures in my life!

The Martial Saint rode Red Hare, wielding his Crescent Blade, galloping across the battlefield, truly like a god descending to earth, his aura overwhelming mountains and rivers.

Looking at those Jiangdong scoundrels, they were all terrified, wishing they had more legs, and fled for their lives, not one of them daring to look back.

I didn't even dare to look back!

Qi Ye twisted his neck, stretched his legs, found a comfortable position, and lazily lay on the chair, dozing off until the battlefield was cleaned up before getting up.

The Martial Saint commanded domineeringly, "Return to the city."

The large group of people entered Maicheng in a grand procession, and the relatives who had been waiting inside the city gate rushed forward.

Wives embraced their husbands and wept bitterly, elderly mothers hugged their sons and murmured to themselves, and children rode on their fathers' shoulders and shouted with joy. Everywhere there were tears and laughter.

On the other side, however, there were also hot-tempered soldiers who, red-faced and visibly angry, were arguing fiercely with their families.

Warmth and excitement mingled together, their buzzing sounds blending into one.

In the corner, someone knelt on the ground, holding the cold corpse, crying heartbreakingly, tears mixed with snow water, smearing their face.

He called out the names of his loved ones again and again, but no one answered.

Just as a general cannot be perfect in every aspect, players cannot save everyone.

Death is a definite outcome, which is why it is frightening; while living is a vague process, which makes people numb.

For Qi Ye, death was not a terrible end, but a destination. It was there, certain and clear.

He did not seek death, always cherished life, and sometimes even envied those who died for their country, feeling that it was the best end for them.

Liao's mother bravely chose her own way of dying, and Qi Ye believed that with countless rewinds, there would always be one or two slim chances to save her.

To go to such lengths to change someone else's decision and strip them of their honor is absolutely a selfish choice. Even if they are saved, they will still grow old, get sick, and die, dying without dignity on their bed.

Qi Ye shook his head, realizing he might have been overthinking things. It was absurd for an ordinary person to discuss the meaning of data life.

After a long while, he vaguely grasped something; perhaps the words "divine speed" contained some kind of divine will:

"Gods of the Three Kingdoms: Are Players Really Gods Who Create Everything?"

Footsteps could be heard through the headphones.

Wang Fu paced back and forth, sighing repeatedly. He closed his eyes, and after a long while, he said in a hoarse voice:

"Liao's mother is gone... Yuanjian is coming back, and I... where will I put my old face? How am I going to explain this to him?"

Yi Ji recalled the humiliating days he had endured as a prisoner, and his heart was filled with mixed emotions. He suddenly raised his head, his voice trembling:

"Mother Liao died a noble and honorable death! Unlike us... who live such a wretched life! To go to one's country with dignity is something countless patriots would rather die than do! I wish I could emulate her!"

The Martial Saint decreed that monuments be erected and biographies written for the martyrs to commemorate their merits, and that auspicious times be chosen for unified funerals to comfort their loyal souls.

Generals Zhou Cang, Guan Yinping, Yi Ji, Wang Fu, and Zhao Lei, all dressed in white armor, gathered before the spirit tablet, bowed their heads in silent mourning, and paid tribute to the heroic spirits.

The wind blew the banners, and everyone bowed in unison.

With his robes fluttering, the Martial Saint declared resolutely, "This chaotic world has lasted for over thirty years since the Yellow Turban Rebellion. It has had enough. I, Guan, will personally end it."