The setting sun bled crimson, spilling over the boundless wilderness, and cast the land—fresh from a savage, earth-shaking battle—in an even more ghastly and terrifying light. Gunpowder smoke lingered low in the air, curling and drifting in wispy threads and thick clouds, mixing with the pungent stench of blood, the burnt smell of scorched weapons, the rank rust of iron armor, and the fetid spray of dying horses. It wove an airtight net that shrouded the entire battlefield, pressing tight on every chest and stealing breath. The blood on the ground was still wet; fallen corpses, broken weapons, and mottled loess all clung to dark red stains that had not seeped into the soil. A bitter northern wind swept by, and blood beads rolled slowly down weapon edges and corpse flesh, splattering tiny mud spots on the cracked ground—as if this slaughter-ravaged land wept silently for the epic bloodbath.
The entire battlefield had become a living hell, devoid of all life, with nothing but desolation and utter silence as far as the eye could see. The tawny wilderness, soaked thoroughly with blood, had turned into black-brown sticky mud. It was slimy and slippery underfoot, sinking half a sole with every step, and soles were caked with shredded flesh, bone fragments, and clotted blood. The once flat and open battleground was now pitted with craters—dense, uneven gouges left by galloping cavalry, piercing spears, and crashing boulders. Blood pools filled with murky blood were everywhere, reflecting the setting sun's last light like hollow, desperate eyes, staring fixedly at the gray sky and recounting the brutal fight moments before.
The Macedonian legion, the lion of the West, had long lost its former conquering prowess, losing seven or eight out of ten men and nearly being wiped out. Of tens of thousands of elite soldiers, few could barely stand now. Survivors either lay collapsed among the corpses, unarmed and drenched in blood, or huddled behind broken shields, lacking even the strength to lift their eyelids. Their armor was cracked all over—some pierced straight through by spears, some gashed by long blades. Torn fabric stuck to festering skin, and every slight move tugged at bone-deep wounds, drawing agonized muffled groans. Yet even in extreme pain, no one dared to wail aloud; only ragged, weak gasps echoed intermittently across the silent battlefield, brimming with dying despair. The surviving soldiers had empty, lifeless eyes, their faces caked with blood and dust, lips cracked and bleeding, hands hanging limply at their sides. Some gripped half-broken spears so tightly their knuckles turned pale, but had no will to resist; others stared blankly at the sky, minds blank, fear and despair coiling around their hearts like vines, their fighting spirit utterly crushed by this crushing defeat.
The once neat, formidable, world-feared Macedonian phalanx—the undefeated legion that swept across Eurasia—was now shattered and in complete disarray. The impenetrable bronze shield wall was gone, only tattered shields scattered everywhere: some trampled flat by horses, some split in two by battle axes, the engraved Macedonian sun emblems on their surfaces covered in blood and barely recognizable. Rows of sharp spears were broken to pieces, shafts split into splinters, tips bent and dull; some were stuck deep in the dirt, only half their bodies swaying weakly in the wind, full of desolation. Neat armor lay in fragments—breastplates, shoulder guards, leg greaves scattered across the wilderness, some crusted with clotted blood, some embedded with bone splinters, others twisted by horse hooves. More striking than broken weapons and armor were the cold corpses strewn across the wilderness, piled high in mountains, both Macedonian soldiers and loyal Chu warriors. Some were decapitated, their necks mangled; some had spear-pierced chests with gaping wounds; some had crushed bones and twisted bodies; others died clinging to their comrades, a final bond of protection. The stench of blood hung thick in the air, and buzzing flies had already landed on warm corpses, adding to the post-battle desolation and horror.
The wind, carrying a heavy blood reek, swept over the ruined battlefield, threaded through corpses and broken blades, kicked up clouds of dust, and made Xiang Yu's pitch-black heavy armor flap loudly. Forged from hundred-refined steel, the armor fit tightly with neat patterns, glowing with a cold matte sheen, dotted with blood stains—some dried black, some still warm and moist, all from enemies slain in the fierce fight. Beneath the armor, Xiang Yu stood towering like a mountain, his back straight as a spear, his innate overlord aura more suffocating than the gunpowder smoke.
He stayed mounted and motionless, like an eternal war god statue, his imposing presence making no one dare to look directly at him. His steed Wu Zhui was pure black with no stray hairs, hooves firmly planted on blood-soaked loess, its body also covered in blood. The horse snorted heavily, breathing white mist, yet held its head high, ears alert, full of unruly ferocity—only showing absolute obedience and loyalty to its master Xiang Yu. Xiang Yu's Overlord Spear hung slanted at his side; the shaft, forged from century-old ironwood, was rough and sturdy with a steady grip, and the tip, tempered in hundred-refined steel, still glinted with chilling sharpness even caked in blood. The tip hung half a foot above the ground, as if ready to strike and kill at any moment. His right hand clenched the spear shaft tightly, thick knuckles taut, his tiger mouth slightly red from prolonged grip; his left hand rested loosely on the reins, tight but steady, not a finger trembling, full of calm dominance.
Yet this silent man and horse pressed the entire battlefield to suffocation. Even the howling wind turned low and hoarse, and survivors' breaths grew cautious, fearing to disturb this Eastern overlord. Xiang Yu's gaze was calm, no joy of victory, no bloodthirsty rage, just a faint sweep over the messy battlefield and trembling Macedonian survivors. His deep eyes held the arrogance to look down on the world, the resolve to fight to the death, and utter disdain for the weak. He issued no orders, roared no cries, made no moves, but the aura he radiated weighed like an invisible mountain, crushing everyone. One slight move from him, it seemed, would unleash another bloodbath.
All Chu soldiers, regardless of wounds or exhaustion, stopped in unison, fixing their eyes on Xiang Yu at the front, their gaze filled with reverent awe and sincere admiration. He was their king, the Hegemon of Western Chu with strength to move mountains and prowess to shake the world, the war god who led them to victory against odds and crushed the undefeated Western legion. Some soldiers propped themselves up with broken spears, struggling to stand from the mud, eyes red, grinning in relief at the black figure; some personal guards gripped weapons tightly, standing at strict attention, showing loyalty to their king in solemn form; even severely wounded soldiers, trembling in pain and drenched in cold sweat, forced themselves to stay alert, their eyes locked on Xiang Yu, with only one thought: follow the Hegemon, and we shall never be defeated. Though the Chu army also suffered heavy casualties and exhaustion, their morale was high and fighting spirit unbroken, each man's eyes shining with unwavering faith—a stark contrast to the despair and collapse of the Macedonian survivors.
All Macedonian survivors trembled violently and turned cold with fear under Xiang Yu's calm yet deadly gaze, lacking the courage to look up, desperate to bury their heads in the mud to escape his aura. Some soldiers knelt in the mire, shaking uncontrollably, hands bracing the ground; some chattered teeth and trembled lips, unable to speak a complete plea for mercy; some even wet themselves, spreading a fetid stench, yet no one dared to show disgust. In their eyes, Xiang Yu was no mortal, but a demon from hell, a nightmare that shattered their legion and undefeated legend. One glance from him sent their souls flying, erasing all thought of resistance. Their former conquering pride and glory were wiped clean by the battle, leaving only bone-deep terror.
Among the crowd, Alexander was in the most wretched and desperate state. A lifelong warrior who ascended the throne young, swept across Eurasia and Africa, and never tasted defeat, he had never suffered such humiliation. Now his eyes were bloodshot, pupils slightly bulging, filled with resentment, rage and disbelief—the collapse of his undefeated legend, the despair of his life's work gone to waste. His golden royal armor was soaked through with blood, dark red stains seeping through gaps and sticking to his robes, some clots dried black, others still oozing from battle wounds. The armor, once shiny and a symbol of supreme kingship, was covered in scratches and dents from spear strikes and horse collisions, now tattered and broken. He was drenched in blood, and his steed was also covered in gore, mane matted together, panting heavily, legs shaking violently, on the verge of collapse.
Alexander's mind replayed the brutal battle nonstop: the neat Macedonian phalanx ripped apart by Chu cavalry, their sharp spears no match for Chu's giant axes and long blades, tens of thousands of elites retreating in defeat, corpses covering the field; the golden battle standard, symbol of Macedonian kingship, hacked down and trampled into mud; countless personal guards falling to protect him, their hot blood splattering all over him. He charged forward with his sword, trying to steady the formation and turn the tide, but the Chu army's attack was ferocious, Xiang Yu's strength terrifying, unstoppable wherever he went. His proud army was crushed like paper. This was the worst defeat of his life, a humiliation carved into his bones, more painful than death itself.
"Your Majesty! Flee! We're surrounded—if we don't retreat now, we'll all die here!" his personal guard screamed at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse and broken, full of endless anxiety and despair. The guard was covered in wounds, his left arm pierced through by a spear, blood streaming down, yet he still gripped his sword tightly, fighting desperately against approaching Chu soldiers, every strike with all his strength, shielding Alexander with his body to buy time for escape. The clink of clashing blades, soldiers' screams and horses' neighs intertwined, deafening, but the guard's roar cut through clearly, piercing Alexander's ears and hurting his eardrums.
Alexander snapped back to his senses, only to realize his helmet had fallen off in the battle, his long golden hair disheveled, stuck to his face and neck by sweat and blood, utterly wretched. Once, he was immaculately dressed, his golden armor gleaming, full of royal dignity, worshipped by all wherever he went; now, his hair was messy, face haggard, caked with blood and dust, lips cracked and bleeding, his eyes stripped of all kingly poise, leaving only panic and humiliation. He looked around at the piles of corpses, scattered soldiers, and advancing Chu army, his heart clenched tightly by a big hand, pain nearly suffocating him. He knew he had lost—completely, utterly—with no chance to turn the tide.
He dared not look at the battlefield, his fallen soldiers, or that demonic black figure any longer; every glance was a ruthless trampling of his dignity. He gritted his teeth until his gums ached, panic flashing in his eyes, abandoning all royal decorum. He spurred his steed sharply and fled west with remaining guards, desperate to run as far as possible, escape this shameful place, escape Xiang Yu's grasp. Guards clustered around him, slashing swords to carve a path, the shouts of Chu soldiers and clink of weapons growing louder behind, the shadow of death closing in.
Watching Alexander's panicked retreat, Long Ju, a top Chu general, curled his lip into a cold sneer, eyes full of disdain. In his eyes, this so-called Western Emperor was a fraud, a coward who fled in defeat, unworthy to face the Hegemon or be called a king. Without hesitation, Long Ju squeezed his horse's flanks hard; the steed neighed, galloping forward like a released arrow. Clad in tight armor, sword in hand, he moved swiftly, closing the distance to Alexander's guard in an instant, his soldiers following close behind to form an encirclement.
Just as he was about to catch up, Long Ju lashed out with his strong arm, grabbing Alexander's gilded belt firmly, knuckles digging tight to block any escape. Alexander felt a crushing force around his waist, beyond his resistance. He tried to struggle and slash at Long Ju with his sword, but all strength drained away, movements slow and feeble, powerless to fight back.
Long Ju snorted, yanking hard, then lifting and flinging Alexander forward with brute force, hurling him off the horse. Alexander arced through the air in a wretched curve before slamming heavily into the muddy loess with a dull thud. Mud splattered everywhere, covering him completely; he coughed violently, stars bursting before his eyes, dizzy with pain, every bone feeling broken, grimacing and unable to get up.
"Seize him!" Long Ju ordered, and his soldiers swarmed instantly, pinning Alexander's arms behind his back and binding him tight, leaving him helpless, sprawled in the mud like a lamb to the slaughter.
The once-conquering Western overlord, supreme emperor of Macedonia, was now covered in blood and mud, golden armor tattered, hair disheveled, with no strength to resist. He glared furiously at Long Ju and the distant Xiang Yu, eyes blazing with rage, resentment and humiliation, chest heaving as he gasped for air. He tried to roar curses, but choked on mud, his throat dry and sore, only able to make low growls. His bone-deep pride and dignity were shattered in an instant, boiling rage and humiliation exploding in his chest, nearly consuming him—yet he could do nothing but submit to the Chu army, enduring the worst humiliation of his life.
Long Ju looked down at the prone Alexander, eyes cold and merciless; this, to him, was the fate of the defeated. He sheathed his sword slowly, waved his arm sharply, and his voice boomed across the battlefield: "Take him away! Bring him to the Chu camp for the Hegemon's judgment!" His words were firm and authoritative, echoing across the silent wilderness, cheering Chu soldiers and making Macedonian survivors give up all resistance and sink into despair.
Long Ju's guards obeyed at once: two hoisted Alexander's arms, two dragged his legs, carrying the bound emperor from the mud toward the Chu camp. Suspended in the air, his feet dangled limply, head tilted to one side, hair covering his face, his expression hidden, but despair and humiliation radiated from him. His gaze locked on Xiang Yu's motionless figure, unshakable like a war god—a mountain he could never climb, the ultimate terminator of his undefeated legend.
The setting sun sank lower, its last ray gently shining on the battlefield. Smoke still lingered, blood still wet, corpses scattered everywhere in ruin. Cheers of Chu soldiers grew louder, shaking the vast wilderness—joy of victory, loyalty to Xiang Yu. Macedonian survivors laid down their weapons and knelt to surrender, accepting defeat. The great Western overlord, Alexander the Great, conqueror of Eurasia, became a prisoner of Xiang Yu, Hegemon of Western Chu. This cross-era peak clash ended with Xiang Yu's complete victory, forever engraved in history under the blood-red setting sun.