Chapter 181: The Soldiers Sing Proudly of Their Triumphant Return

The people of Xuanfu got a real eye-opener today. Several days ago, early in the morning, they heard red-plumed messengers galloping at full speed and shouting at the top of their lungs, just like in Tang-dynasty tales: "A great victory!

A great victory! His Majesty led the campaign in person!

A hundred thousand Tartars slain in battle! A great victory!"

Ligdan Khan had besieged Xuanfu for quite a long time but had basically gained no advantage at all; word was he had also lost troops and officers, and the Great Ming had smashed him so hard he tucked tail and fled back to the steppe like a beaten dog.

According to those red-plumed messengers, Ligdan Khan had seized Great Ming commoners to threaten the Emperor into giving them passage, and as a result the enraged Emperor personally led a charge and slaughtered over a hundred thousand in one breath.

The heads used to build the victory mound were piled as high as a small hill; the turf on the entire battlefield was trampled flat, and mixed with all that Tartar blood the place has now turned into a bloody bog — next year the grass there will grow even more lush than anywhere else.

The Great Ming common folk couldn't care less about grass or no grass — the grass out on the nearby steppe was already plenty for the few sheep their families raised. What interested them was: how on earth had the Great Ming Emperor managed to kill over a hundred thousand Tartars?

The Emperor had been to Xuanfu before, and he hadn't looked like the sort of ruthless character who slaughters men like flies.

Still, whatever the case, the fact that a hundred thousand Tartars had been smashed to death was definitely true. An emperor's teeth are as good as gold — if he says a hundred thousand, then it's a hundred thousand; anything short of a hundred thousand simply wouldn't do.

For any gang, the more their boss is a ruthless character who can stir up trouble and shoulder it, the straighter the little brothers in the gang can hold their backs.

Now that the boss of the farming gang, the Chongzhen Emperor, had taken the lead and smashed a hundred thousand nomadic horsemen to death, this was good news — they had to go see.

Word was that the boss had brought only fifty or sixty thousand of his own horsemen; what kind of men were these fifty or sixty thousand heroes? Were they eight-foot giants, every one of them built like a bear?

So early that morning, the people of Xuanfu, having learned that the Emperor was about to enter the city at the head of the great army, hurried over to the city gate well ahead of time.

Xuanfu, troops and civilians combined, had a population of over a hundred thousand. What does it look like when they all crowd around Xuanfu's north gate, which was only about six li long?

In later ages, cramming three thousand students onto a middle-school sports ground already feels like a solid black mass — let alone over a hundred thousand. At that moment, at Xuanfu's north gate, apart from the road into the city, there was not a single spot left to set foot.

On top of that, the weather was hot; even though people were dressed lightly, they were still drenched in sweat.

Yet no one was willing to leave. Aside from the grand spectacle of the Chengzu Emperor's northern campaigns, passed down from generation to generation, the Great Ming had not known for who knows how long a great victory with a hundred thousand Tartars slain in battle.

Miss this one, and who knew when the next would come.

It was not until nearly noon that a burst of urgent hoofbeats came from the north. A line of over ten riders, covered in dust, some with bundles strapped to their backs, some holding objects in their hands, came galloping at full speed.

Only when they were nearly upon the crowd did they suddenly yank the reins, pulling their warhorses to a whinnying halt, the mounts nearly rearing upright.

The ten-odd riders paid it no mind; they merely swept a cool glance over the crowd, then lightly nudged their horses' flanks and rode down the passageway, over thirty feet wide, that the crowd had left open.

When they reached the middle, the riders holding objects casually tossed what looked like long spears but with long wool tassels bound to them onto the ground. Those among the Xuanfu crowd who recognized them immediately covered their mouths and cried out: "Those are Mongol sulde!"

Next, other riders untied the bundles on their backs, took out the objects inside, and likewise tossed them carelessly onto the ground — banner after banner, flung onto the open ground without the slightest regard.

When the last rider unwrapped the object in his hands and threw it onto the ground, the entire populace of Xuanfu erupted. Who didn't recognize this thing?

From the old Song, to the Great Ming, and perhaps even into the future, the great wool standard had always stood for blood and fire and slaughter. The people of the north, especially, loathed this thing to the marrow.

Now, seeing the great wool standard that represented Ligdan Khan tossed to the ground by Great Ming cavalrymen like so much garbage — the feeling in their hearts defied description.

Before the people could even begin to buzz and discuss among themselves, a faint, indistinct tremor and a thud-thud-thud rose from the ground. Knowing that this was the imperial army returning south, the common folk all craned their necks and gazed northward.

In the distance, a great banner emerged first, bearing a single enormous character "Ming" that billowed and fluttered in the light breeze; the fierce, fang-and-claw-baring dragon coiled around the character rolled and tumbled as if about to choose a victim and devour it.

"Great Ming, ten thousand victories!"

No one knew who led the shout, but in an instant the crowd boiled over, all crying out in unison: "Great Ming, ten thousand victories! Great Ming, ten thousand victories!"

By the time the common folk, unable to contain the excitement in their hearts, had shouted themselves nearly hoarse, the army in the distance had finally drawn near and begun to march into the passage through the crowd.

The soldiers of the Capital Camps and the New Army, drilled by the young noble Zhang Zhiji and Liu Xingzuo, moved even the simple act of lifting a leg and taking a step as if they were a single man.

The unified footfalls of nearly thirty thousand soldiers temporarily assigned as infantry made the very ground tremble; the rise and fall of their steps seemed to carry a strange magic, making hearts rise and fall in time.

Yet when these thirty thousand infantrymen at the head of the column actually marched before the crowd, the previously clamorous mass fell silent, as if struck by a body-freezing spell.

These infantrymen marched in step, and even the objects they held in their hands were uniform — each man held a golden pagoda. These had been ordered by the Chongzhen Emperor, scoured from Xuanfu and the surrounding area, to hold the ashes of the fallen soldiers.

The common folk fell silent. No one was a fool.

To slay a hundred thousand Mongol Tartars in battle — what casualties had they themselves suffered? Though it is said the earthenware jar can only break beside the well, who would ever wish to die in battle?

Each of these golden pagodas held a soldier who had died in battle for the Great Ming!

"How can you say you have no robe? I will share my robe with you. The king raises his host; I will mend my lance and dagger-axe. I share your foe!"

"How can you say you have no robe? I will share my under-robe with you. The king raises his host; I will mend my spear and halberd. I rise together with you!"

"How can you say you have no robe? I will share my lower garment with you. The king raises his host; I will mend my armor and weapons. I march together with you!"

Suddenly, from among these thirty thousand soldiers, a Chiliarch began to sing this battle song that had echoed through the lands of Qin for a thousand years. Slowly, the entire vanguard of thirty thousand men took up the song in unison.

Through the song, repeated again and again, the soldiers' gazes grew ever more resolute. They trampled over the great wool standard, the sulde, and the banners that had earlier been thrown to the ground, and marched step by step into the city.

And in the eyes of the people of Xuanfu, though this army before them held no blades or spears in their hands, only golden pagodas, the feeling they gave off was that of a Great Wall — nothing in this world could ever make them waver.

After the thirty thousand soldiers bearing golden pagodas had entered the city, the tremor in the ground did not cease. In the distance, cavalry stretched as far as the eye could see, following behind.

Every man bore bloodstains; their armor was all tattered and torn, some nearly reduced to strips of cloth, others riddled with holes. Even the blades and spears in their hands were notched all over; the bloodstains on them seemed not yet dry, as if they might begin to flow again at any moment.

Yet at this moment, not a single person laughed at this troop that looked like the Beggars' Sect, or even worse than beggars. A sky-piercing killing intent coalesced around them, terrifying gods and startling ghosts!

(End of chapter)