48.
The collapsed face of the wall was no longer a wall.It was a slope of layered earth and stone, a gradient where blood, snow, and fire clung together.
The enemy climbed it as if it were a road.They planted spears, drove shields into the ground, and used fallen bodies as footholds, crawling upward in single lines.If one slipped, he climbed again.If one fell, the next stepped into his place.The slope itself had become an avenue of assault.
Above it, the Goryeo soldiers did not simply endure.They seized, pushed back, and rebuilt.
Behind the breach, just inside the collapsed face, a unit of crossbowmen formed a crescent.Neither a full circle nor a straight line, but a half-moon formation.The center was left open, the flanks curling inward.Enemies climbing the slope were drawn naturally into it.
"Hold the angle!""Upper slope—below the knees!"
The crossbows sang.Strings released together, iron bolts scraping down the incline.When the front line fell, those behind tripped over them.Bodies piled up, shields tangled, and the slope clogged once more.
But the blockage did not last long.The enemy pressed with numbers, filling gaps as they opened.At the same time, another battle raged along the wall.
"Bring stones!""On the sandbags!""Fill the gaps!"
The soldiers built while they fought.A shield in one hand, a sack of earth in the other.They shoved enemies back with spears, then rolled stones in behind them.It was slow—but steady, unmistakably growing.
Then, from the left side of the collapsed slope, dark figures charged in.The warrior unit.
They appeared in an instant and surged toward the enemy line.No formation. No spacing.Each moved at his own speed, with his own weapon—yet all in one direction.
The first master leapt down onto the slope.He stepped on shields, planted off spear shafts, and plunged straight into the heart of the enemy.As he brought his blade down, his body spun.Several enemy soldiers fell at once, as if their souls had been torn free.
The fallen left gaps, and through those gaps the next masters poured in.They pushed, hurled, and cast enemies downward.Men on the slope lost balance and rolled back.The crossbows did not miss the moment.They covered the warrior unit from behind.
The center of the crescent rang again.Iron bolts drove down, striking rolling bodies.The slope clogged once more.Time was bought again.
Behind them, the wall continued to rise.Stone laid upon earth, earth packed between stone.Not a complete wall—but tall enough to stand a man.
The warrior unit withdrew.Each time they pulled back, bolts lashed out like wind and rain.The crossbows sang again.The soldiers carried more stone.
There was no cry of victory in this fight.Only the repetition of sealing what had collapsed, closing what had opened.
Death climbed the slope.Behind it, a wall grew.
For every enemy who climbed, one fell.And inch by inch, the wall found its place again.
The battle that day was neither advance nor retreat.It was a fight that clutched a broken wall and turned time into stone.
A low drum sounded once behind the ruined wall.At the signal, the warriors moved.
They slipped down through gaps in the wall and flowed like shadows toward the enemy lines.
They carried only swords—no shields, no banners.They covered the hundred-pace distance from wall to trebuchets in a single rush.They moved in pairs or trios: one opened the path, the others matched his breath.They skimmed the ground, as if their feet barely touched it.The wind pushed at their backs, the snow erased their trails.
At the first trebuchet, three split at once.The machine loomed before them—a monster of wood and iron,a device that bound the strength of dozens to strike the sky.
One slid beneath the beam.One hauled the chain.The third severed the central axle.
The grain of the wood tore.Tension released.The leather sling sagged in midair.The massive machine collapsed like a wounded beast.
The next target was already chosen.As heads turned, their feet were already moving.The leading warrior leapt.The second team repeated the motion.Strike, cut—the axle snapped, the beam fell.
Enemy soldiers surged in.The warriors vaulted over them and ran on.They shoved, threw, and knocked aside.It was movement faster than death.
A third. A fourth.Trebuchets shattered one by one.The threat of long-range bombardment vanished in sequence.The arcs of stones rising into the sky were severed.
The final trebuchet was set ablaze.Oil spread, and fire raced up the beam.
The warriors scattered in all directions—and then, suddenly, were gone.Gone as they had come, returning calmly inside the walls.
The enemy camp no longer possessed weapons that could threaten the walls from afar.The warriors dispersed once more.
A pillar of the battlefield had been cut away.
There were no cheers.No boasts.
What they left behind were broken machines—and silence.