The southern banks of the Red River were no longer the lush, silken reeds they had been a month ago. The earth was packed hard by the passage of thousands of feet, and the air was thick with the scent of stagnant water and the sour, sharp tang of unwashed bodies.
The Murim Alliance's "Silver Vow" army was a shadow of the million-man titan that had marched from Wuhan. Following the betrayal of the merchant guilds, the grand supply lines had withered. For three days, the rank-and-file disciples of the smaller sects—the Blue Sparrow and the Hidden Blade—had survived on little more than muddy water and prayer. Even the elite Namgung swordsmen, once proud in their silver-threaded robes, now looked like hollowed-out ghosts, their lightning-aura flickering sporadically like a dying lamp.
"They aren't even attacking us," growled Namgung Gye, a senior elder tasked with holding the rear guard. He leaned heavily on a sword that felt five times its actual weight. "They're just... waiting for us to starve."
The Heavenly Horse Descends
As the sun began its descent, painting the river in a bruised shade of purple, the silence of the southern ridge was broken by a sound that felt like the earth itself was breathing. It wasn't the heavy thud of traditional warhorses, but a light, rhythmic drumming that resonated with the frequency of the wind.
From the crest of the hill, the Yun Clan's Heavenly Horse Cavalry appeared. They were three hundred riders, but to the starving Alliance eyes, they looked like a tidal wave of white light. Their mounts were not standard chargers; they were spirit-beasts bred in the high altitude of the Heavenly Pillar, their hooves imbuing the ground with "Pure Heaven Ki" as they moved.
"Universal Origin Scripture: Heaven-Binding Breath," the Yun commander called out.
This was the core of the Yun's physical superiority. While the Alliance warriors relied on the limited "Internal Energy" stored in their Dantians—energy that was rapidly depleted by hunger and fatigue—the Yun warriors utilized a technique that drew Ki from the very act of movement. The more they rode, the more they breathed; and the more they breathed, the more they synchronized with the atmospheric energy. They didn't just have stamina; they were physically incapable of tiring as long as the wind continued to blow.
The Waltz of Exhaustion
"Form the 'Iron Turtle'!" Namgung Gye screamed, his voice cracking. "Overlap your Sword Qi! Do not let them break the center!"
The Alliance warriors tried to move. But the simple act of raising a shield was an agonizing labor. Their meridians felt like dry riverbeds, cracking under the strain of manifesting even a basic defensive aura.
The Yun cavalry did not charge head-on. They moved in Divergent Flow patterns, circling the Alliance formation like a "Cirrus" cloud gathering before a storm. They utilized Wind Walking to make their horses practically weightless, allowing them to gallop across the surface of the river reeds without breaking a single stalk.
"First Strike: Slash Projection!"
The Yun riders didn't need to close the distance. As they circled at high speeds, they swung their "Spirit Ash" spears in wide arcs. Waves of white Sword Force erupted from the weapons, appearing instantly inside the Alliance's "Iron Turtle" formation. It was an execution disguised as a skirmish.
Disciples of the Blue Sparrow Sect fell in heaps, their shields bypassed by the spatial displacement of the Yun strikes. There was no clash of steel on steel; there was only the sound of air being torn and the soft thud of bodies hitting the silt.
The Death of the Legacy
Namgung Gye, desperate to salvage his family's pride, leaped into the air, attempting the Heavenly Thunder Rock Blast. He channeled the last of his Blood Qi, intending to turn his own life-force into a final, explosive lightning strike.
But as he reached the apex of his jump, his lungs seized. The "Heaven-Binding Breath" of the Yun riders had created a localized vacuum around the battlefield. By drawing in all the atmospheric Ki to fuel their stamina, the Yun had literally "suffocated" the air for their enemies.
Gye fell from the sky, not struck by a blade, but simply because his body had run out of fuel. He slammed into the mud at the feet of the Yun commander.
"You fight for a name," the Yun commander said, looking down from his horse. His eyes were bright, his breathing as calm as if he were sitting in a tea house. "We fight for the Era. Your name cannot feed you, and your name cannot give you air."
The commander didn't even draw his spear. He simply released a "Martial Soul" pulse that shattered Gye's remaining Dantian, leaving the elder alive but powerless—a living testament to the Alliance's obsolescence.
By the time the moon rose over the Red River, the Alliance's rear guard had dissolved. The survivors didn't flee; they simply sat in the dirt and wept, watching as the three hundred Yun riders galloped back toward the ridge, their white robes still pristine, their horses as fresh as the moment the sun had risen.
The Battle of the Red River was not a triumph of strength, but a triumph of Life. The Yun Clan had proven that the Murim was no longer a world of "Legacy," but a world of "Vibration." And as the news reached Wuhan, High Lord Jo Mu-Sang realized that he wasn't just losing a war; he was losing the very right to breathe the air of the Central Plains..