The thunder of ten thousand crossbows firing shook heaven and earth. Before its echo faded, thick, ink like smoke billowed wildly from the front line, forming a huge curtain that blotted out the sky. Sunlight was completely cut off, leaving only dim yellow gloom. All eyes could see were flying wood chips, broken bolts, and swirling blood mist. A suffocating stench of blood swept on the wild wind—not the smell of ordinary battle, but the despair of thousands of lives perishing in an instant, the sharp, sweet scent of steel tearing flesh. It pierced deep into the nose and marrow, making even veteran soldiers' stomachs churn until they nearly retched bile.
Heaven and earth fell silent for a moment, then were torn apart by extreme, shrill wails.
The giant shields the Macedonian soldiers hastily raised were as fragile as children's paper crafts against the Eastern Legion's steel storm, utterly defenseless. Those bed crossbow bolts, over ten feet long, tore through the air with mountain splitting force, wrapped in howling wind and enough power to pierce metal and stone, slamming into the shield wall. A series of teeth grinding crashes rang out. Hard solid wood shields shattered inch by inch like late autumn dead leaves, fragments flying deep into soldiers' eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. Their refined iron armor was useless, easily torn to scrap. Even the Macedonians' proud bronze heavy armor and reinforced shields melted like thin ice under scorching sun before such absolute power, unable to withstand a single direct hit.
The triple heavy crossbow formation followed. Arrows poured down like a torrential rainstorm, darkening the sky, leaving no room to dodge or breathe. Every bolt was forged a thousand times, razor sharp. Once in a body, it embedded deep in bone, powerful enough to pierce two or three crowded soldiers and pin them to the ground like beads. Front line Macedonian elites could not even scream before their throats were pierced. Their bodies stiffened, then fell in entire rows like weeds cut by a sickle, slamming into pools of blood. The shield wall that had claimed to be unbreakable, that had swept Eurasia, collapsed completely under the Eastern divine crossbows' savage assault without holding out for even one round, reduced to scattered broken wood and corpses.
The battlefield's horror would make gods and ghosts turn pale.
Severed limbs flew with the arrow rain: arms, legs, heads rolling in mud, trampled into bloody mire by those behind. Blood streamed into rivers, winding through gullies into a dark red swamp. It was sticky and slippery; one misstep meant a fall, to be trampled into pulp by panicked men and horses. Broken spears, twisted shields, shattered armor littered the ground, tangled with bodies, painting a terrifying portrait of hell on earth. Soldiers still clinging to life lay helpless in blood, watching their bodies pierced again and again, their comrades falling beside them, making gurgling sounds of despair before breathing their last in endless agony.
That Macedonian phalanx—once undefeated, which had flattened Persia, conquered nations, swept all before it; that iron blooded lion of the West—was stunned, broken, and torn apart by that terrifying volley. Soldiers threw away their armor and weapons; formation vanished. Only bone deep fear remained in their eyes, not a trace of conqueror's pride.
On the high slope behind the lines, Alexander sat on his horse. His face turned from solemn calm to livid, then to bloodless pale.
He had raised an army in youth, campaigned for over ten years, destroyed countless states, defeated innumerable famous generals and powerful nations. The Macedonian phalanx's firm shields, sharp long spears, heavy cavalry charges, and cunning stratagems—all the world's top tactics and elite armaments—he knew them by heart and had pushed them to their peak. He had seen arrow storms, broken fortresses, armies trampling each other. But he had never seen, never even read or imagined, such terrifying, overbearing, unreasonable weapons of war.
This was no evenly matched fight. This was total, one sided crushing.
This was no fair duel between two armies. This was a one sided massacre from the East.
"The shield wall… useless?"
Alexander muttered hoarsely, his voice trembling without his noticing. For the first time, a thin but clear crack appeared in his imperial heart, which had never wavered through countless life and death battles. An unprecedented panic, like a cold poisonous snake, crept up his spine, chilling him to the bone.
Yet he was still the Western Emperor, the lion of the grasslands, the conqueror who had shattered countless civilizations. Even with defeat looming and his legion on the brink of collapse, his innate pride and tyranny would not let him retreat. He gripped his spear tightly, dug his heels into his horse, and charged straight to the front, roaring like thunder:
"What panic! They only rely on weapons! Close combat! All charge! Their arrows cannot fire forever! Once we reach them, their machines are useless!"
His roar boomed over the battlefield. The surviving Macedonian soldiers clung to it like a last straw. Panic faded slightly; they steadied themselves, screamed, waved weapons, and struggled forward madly. They hoped to break through the arrow rain with flesh and blood, use melee to cancel the Eastern army's terrifying long range advantage, and reverse the doomed defeat.
But Xiang Yu would not give them any chance to close in.
At the very front of the Eastern formation, Xiang Yu stood proudly with his spear. His blood stained black armor looked even more ferocious in smoke and blood mist. Blood dripped slowly from its edges, blooming dark red flowers on the ground. He stood tall as a pine, his rage like a primeval beast. He glanced indifferently at the surviving Western legion, his eyes without killing intent—only the cold disregard of one looking down on ants.
To his left stood strategist Chen Ping, hands behind his back, handsome face sharp as an eagle's, a calm smile on his lips. He flicked his feather fan gently, seemingly relaxed, yet grasped the entire battlefield's situation. Every detail, every change was in his calculations. The timing of the crossbow volley, the formation's layout, the lure—all came from this strategist.
"My Lord, just as we predicted: the Macedonian phalanx's shields are broken, their formation collapsed. Alexander has lost his mind," Chen Ping said softly but clearly. "For all his power in the West, he does not know the might of our Eastern divine weapons. To seek victory in melee is but a trapped beast's last struggle."
Xiang Yu nodded slightly, his gaze still fixed on Alexander, not turning his head. His voice was ice cold: "Chen Ping, your plan was precise. You take first credit."
To his right stood a silver armored general with a sword at his waist, straight and steady as a mountain: Han Xin, now commander of Xiang Yu's elite warriors. His face was firm, his eyes deep. He watched the collapsing Macedonian formation without emotion, only the calm sharpness of a seasoned warrior. Han Xin rested his hands on his sword hilt, his aura restrained yet exuding the command of one who ruled thousands and planned strategies. Even facing the Western Emperor's legion, he remained calm.
"My Lord, the Macedonian remnants are chaotic but still willing to fight to the death. If we let them charge close, our crossbowmen may suffer casualties," Han Xin stepped forward, his voice steady. "I request to lead a flanking move to cut off their charge, coordinate with the crossbows, and trap them completely."
Xiang Yu glanced at him, a flicker of approval in his eyes. Han Xin's military talent was rare in the world—calm, ruthless, and flawless in planning. He was now Xiang Yu's sharpest blade.
"No need," Xiang Yu shook his head slowly, his tone domineering and unchallengeable. "In this battle, I want the West to see Eastern might with their own eyes. No flanking, no tricks. Use the most direct, savage power to crush all his pride and illusions."
Han Xin bowed and stepped back, waiting silently. Killing intent quietly gathered around him. At Xiang Yu's order, he would burst forth like a tiger and tear all enemies apart.
At the front, Alexander's roar still echoed. The Macedonian remnants began their charge.
Xiang Yu watched, and a cold smile tugged at his lips. It was quiet but carried far, full of undisguised contempt and tyranny.
"Close combat?"
His laughter shook the sky like thunder. "Are you worthy?"
Xiang Yu was no longer the Hegemon King of Western Chu who charged only by brute courage. Through life and death, ruling the world's armies, he had learned to command with strategy and overwhelm with momentum. From the start, he had woven a deadly net: light cavalry lured the enemy deep, making Alexander think he had a chance, step by step into a trap. Then divine crossbows opened the way, using absolute firepower to tear apart all seemingly exquisite formations, armor, tactics, and so called dignity. Before the Eastern Dragon's thunderous wrath, the so called Western Lion, the undefeated conqueror, was nothing but ants struggling in despair.
"That last volley was only a warning."
Xiang Yu slowly raised his overlord spear. Its black blade glinted with cold light, pointing straight at Alexander. Where the tip aimed, even the air seemed to tear. "Now comes true despair."
He spoke, then let out a sharp roar that shook the wilderness:
"Bed crossbows! Divine crossbows! Reload!"
Chu soldiers waiting behind the lines moved in perfect unison, no panic. Heavy winches spun rapidly, making teeth grinding creaks like the whisper of death across the battlefield. Giant iron bolts were drawn back again. Cold arrowheads aimed once more at the tattered, charging Western legion, killing intent soaring, chill piercing bone. Triple crossbowmen quickly reformed, kneeling on one knee, strings drawn full. Arrows glinted, waiting only for the order to become another world destroying steel rain.
Chen Ping flicked his fan, his smile deepening: "My Lord's power is unmatched. After this volley, Macedon will never rise again."
Han Xin's eyes sharpened, locked on the enemy's charge. He had already calculated the attack rhythm and follow up route. As soon as the crossbows fired, he would lead his men to finish the battlefield.
And behind the crossbow formation, a deeper, more frightening vibration rose slowly from the earth—heavier than ten thousand crossbows' roar.
Heavy cavalry, men and horses both clad in thick armor, towering like iron towers, marched forward in steady, heavy steps. Horses wore heavy armor, only cold eyes showing. Riders were wrapped in refined iron, only noses and mouths visible. Armor plates clanged like rolling thunder, deafening. Each step made the ground tremble slightly, as if to crush it. Even the air twisted under their terrifying aura.
This cavalry had no fancy decorations—only pure killing and siege power.
They were Xiang Yu's most fearsome, unstoppable assault weapon: the Iron Buddhas.
Divine crossbows had shattered shields. The Iron Buddhos were ready to march.
Long range crushing was over. Next came the heavy cavalry's frontal trampling—the ultimate clash of flesh and steel.
Xiang Yu looked indifferently ahead, at the Macedonian soldiers struggling through the arrow rain, at Alexander's livid, unwilling, furious face. His voice was calm yet apocalyptically domineering, each word a heavy hammer striking every Western soldier's heart:
"Alexander, you wanted battle?"
"I shall grant it."
He raised a hand. Killing intent in heaven and earth condensed to its peak:
"This volley falls, then the Iron Buddhas charge."
"I will flatten your formation, crush your army, end all your hopes, destroy all your pride."
"I want to see how many of my attacks your so called undefeated Western Lion can withstand!"
Smoke billowed wildly. Wind wailed like weeping.
The Eastern war beast had fully awakened, baring its fiercest, most terrifying fangs. Divine crossbows roared. Iron Buddhas gathered strength. Thousands of soldiers held their breath, waiting for the final kill order.
Alexander at the front stared at the scene: the terrifying crossbows drawn again, the Iron Buddhas pressing forward like iron mountains. His last trace of luck and pride collapsed completely. He finally understood: he faced not an army, not a tactic, but a war machine beyond his knowledge, an Eastern power he could never resist.
His proud phalanx, shield wall, courage, and stratagems—all were useless before absolute power disparity.
Surviving Macedonian soldiers stopped charging. They stared at the darkening arrow storm and mountain like heavy cavalry, only utter despair in their eyes. They wanted to retreat, to run, but were trapped by military orders and the shadow of death, frozen in place, trembling, waiting for the final slaughter.
Han Xin stepped forward, requesting quietly: "My Lord, the time has come. Order the volley!"
Chen Ping flicked his fan, speaking calmly: "Strike while the iron is hot. Sweep the enemy away."
Xiang Yu's hand on his spear tightened. His aura erupted like a primeval beast awakening.
He looked at the Western Emperor, at the once arrogant legion, a cold smile on his lips.
True destruction had only just begun.
Heaven and earth fell silent. Ten thousand crossbows were ready to thunder as one.
The Hegemon King of Western Chu's wrath was about to devour the entire Western legion.