The other leaders of Wagang Village he knew also brought their own loyal followers and became entangled in a deadly struggle with the Black-Clad Army. In just the few breaths he had spent “treating” his good friend Little Ben, the left flank of the Wuying Army had completely collapsed! His father, Walter King, was forced to repeatedly draw forces from the central army just to barely hold the line. Meanwhile, farther away, the right flank of the Wuying Army and the left flank of the Black-Clad Army were locked in a life-and-death battle, unable to break away to provide any reinforcements in the short term.

“Little Ben, Little Ben, open your eyes, open your eyes!” Arthur King was sweating profusely with anxiety, gripping Eric Scott’s left hand and shaking it hard. “If you don’t wake up, you’ll turn into a complete fool! Everyone is struggling to survive; no one will come to save you!”

“I—I’m not a fool!” It felt as if a sharp awl had stabbed him in the heart. Eric Scott shuddered in pain and shouted at the top of his lungs.

Before he had the name Eric Scott, many people in the village had thought he was a fool. But he firmly believed he was not. He had only lost his memories of the past. And Second Uncle Scott had said it didn’t matter if he couldn’t remember who he was.

“It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember who you are, or what your original surname was, or who your parents were. What matters is that you don’t forget to strive to live well, to work hard to become a true hero!”

Suddenly, the words of Brian Scott echoed in his ears again. Sight, hearing, smell, and control over his body all returned to him at once. Following Arthur King’s urging, he forced his eyes open and faced the blood-soaked battlefield.

He saw the chief of Wagang Village, Thomas Brooks, charging on horseback into a group of Black-Clad cavalry. His spear stabbed left and right, sweeping aside all who stood in his way. Over a dozen elite Wagang fighters guarded the chief’s back, desperately fending off attacks from behind.

In the next instant, Thomas Brooks continued his fierce charge, the Black-Clad soldiers swarming around him like crows, enveloping and completely swallowing up their figures.

In the following moment, Thomas Brooks broke out of the encirclement alone, both man and horse drenched in blood. Not a single brother remained behind him. He turned his horse, raised his spear, and charged back into the Black-Clad ranks, disappearing once more.

Another squad of elite cavalry rushed over to join him. They clashed head-on with the oncoming Black-Clad cavalry—either falling to their deaths or knocking their opponents from their horses. There was no third outcome.

Soon, the figure of the third chief, Richard Foster, appeared in his field of vision, surrounded almost entirely by Black-Clad soldiers, with only a few Wagang brothers nearby. Yet the third chief showed no fear, wielding his iron-spined serpent spear with both hands, launching attack after attack in all directions.

The fourth chief was not far from the third, several long black-feathered arrows stuck in his back, staggering but refusing to retreat. The sixth and seventh chiefs were nowhere to be seen. Countless familiar village leaders were being killed by the Black-Clad soldiers right before his eyes. He saw it all, every detail, missing nothing.

A chilling fear shot from his feet to the top of his head. He couldn’t just stand here and watch—he had to charge forward and live or die with them! His life had been saved by them; he had spent months as a bandit with them, eating, drinking, and living together. He had even received a share of the bounty from selling Khitan heads without doing anything. Now, as they died in battle, he could not stand by and watch.

“Brothers—!” Raising his spear high, Eric Scott imitated the heroes he imagined and shouted loudly, “Follow me!”

“Follow you, my ass!” Suddenly, a bloodstained palm slapped his face, knocking all his passion to the ground. The fifth chief, Frank Thompson, appeared at his side like a ghost, hair disheveled and furious. “Follow me, we’re going to save the chief. Everyone else is fighting for their lives—what right do you have to slack off?!”

With that, he ignored everyone else, grabbed Eric Scott, and, using the terrain, quickly charged toward the center of the battlefield.

“My grandpa once said…” Arthur King’s anxious voice called from behind, but it was soon drowned out by the surrounding shouts and screams.

Frank Thompson gripped Eric Scott’s wrist tightly, stumbling forward. Anyone who tried to approach them, no matter where they came from, was swatted away like a fly with his crutch.

They rushed past a pile of corpses and dodged another melee. Suddenly, he stopped abruptly, bent down, and picked up a blood-soaked battle flag from the ground, draping it over Little Ben to cover the gleaming armor. “Run! Get as far as you can! Don’t worry about us, and don’t trust anyone anymore! Go, run! You fool, do you hear me? Run!”

Note 1: The standard Taiji diagram was created by Chen Tuan. But before the Taiji diagram, there were already similar patterns such as the Yin-Yang diagram, the Natural diagram, and the Double Dragon diagram, which were widely circulated. Even in ancient Rome, there was a blue-and-yellow “double fish” pattern used as a legion’s battle flag.

Chapter Two: Frost Blade (Part One)

“Run? Why should we run? Where would we even go?” The sudden turn of events was too much for Eric Scott to process. He just stumbled a few steps in the direction Frank Thompson had pushed him, then turned back, his face full of confusion, and asked.