Chapter 148: Bombarding Wankang, Blood-Sacrifice to the Ancestral Spirits

Chen Jiao followed the sound and saw that the speaker was an indigenous woman.

This woman was tall and sturdy, only half a head shorter than Chen Jiao. She wore animal hides over her torso and a cloth skirt below, revealing firm, slender thighs.

Her face was comely—among Han women she would rank as above average, and in the Madou settlement she was nothing short of a celestial beauty.

What astonished Chen Jiao even more was that she spoke Hokkien—accented and odd, to be sure, but at least understandable, which was extremely rare in this indigenous tribe.

"Anya?" Aban blurted out, then wore a helpless expression, avoiding her gaze as he snapped: "This is none of your business—withdraw at once!"

"Withdraw?" The indigenous woman named Anya sneered. "Withdraw, and watch you get everyone killed?"

Aban's temples throbbed violently. Gritting his teeth, he said: "Anya, don't think that just because you have an elder sister, and because I fancy you, you can spout nonsense in public! Matters of war are decided by the chief and the elders—you have no right to interfere!"

"Aban, use your head! The chief of Chikan is in the village—if his men were attacking now, would they be wishing the chief a short life?"

"Those Han might well be acting on their own!" Aban said with conviction.

Anya curled her lip in disgust and snorted: "Oh, please. Sticking a few hairs on your scabbard—is it really that important?

All these years you've gone headhunting far and wide—how many powerful tribes have you offended?

Sinkan, Soulang, Mattau—

You've slaughtered your way through every powerful settlement around—have you ever considered that one day, your enemies would come for revenge?

If three great settlements join forces, can Madou hold?

The village is in peril, and you're still making enemies! The truth is right before your eyes and you refuse to believe it—you're a complete fool! How did Madou ever choose you as chief!"

"Shut up!" Aban's face twisted savagely as he whipped out his blade, pointing it diagonally at Anya. "You really shouldn't have gone to Wankang and learned those Han ways. Now look at you—not a trace of a Siraya warrior left! Draw your blade! Since you challenge the chief's authority, let our war knives do the talking!"

Seeing this, the elders around them rushed to grab Aban's arm.

"She's a woman—even if she beat you, she could never become chief. Why fight a meaningless duel?"

"Chief, she is Xilin's younger sister—you cannot kill her, or the ancestral spirits will hold it against us—"

"No matter who the enemy is, one should never first draw a blade against one's own people. Put the knife away.

While the elders clamored with advice and admonishment at Aban,

Anya walked up to Chen Jiao, her eyes sweeping over him from head to toe. After a long moment, she broke into a smile: "My name is Anya. Are you the chief of the Han? Coming to our village all alone—you are very brave."

Chen Jiao asked in astonishment: "You can speak Chinese?"

One had to know that the languages of the indigenous peoples on Formosa were extremely diverse—Chen Jiao had expended tremendous effort just to find his current interpreter.

Suddenly encountering an indigenous woman who spoke Chinese felt to Chen Jiao no less remarkable than spotting a xiucai studying for the imperial examinations among a troop of monkeys.

Anya smiled: "I learned it in Wankang. There is more than one group of Han on this island. What you did today was right—you and I have spared our peoples an unnecessary conflict. Madou will remember this kindness."

"You flatter me, miss." Chen Jiao clasped his hands in salute.

Seeing this, Anya returned the salute in a clumsy, half-learned manner, then said: "It's not just me—the Inibs also know that the wrongdoings were not committed by Chikan. The ancestral spirits have already delivered their oracle. Siraya warriors will punish the true evil spirits—until then, please leave. This is not your quarrel."

Hearing this, Chen Jiao understood that Madou had split into two factions. There was no point in his continued involvement—the misunderstanding had been cleared up, and as long as the mud wasn't splashed onto Chikan's name, that was enough. He clasped his hands in farewell.

Anya bade them farewell with the courtesy of a Central Plains man, escorting Chen Jiao and his men all the way out of the village.

Seeing this, Aban shouted: "Stop them! Don't let them leave!"

Anya's status in Madou was transcendent—no one truly dared to block their way.

Chen Jiao and his men boarded their ship without trouble and set sail back to Chikan.

The trip had been rough, to be sure, but at least it hadn't been for nothing.

After returning to Chikan, Chen Jiao ordered his men to prepare for battle. From his understanding of the situation, this matter was far from over.

That evening.

A Bermuda-rigged schooner cut through the waves and moored at the Qianjiang Bay docks.

At that moment, in the main courtyard of the Nan'ao Administration Hall, a bronze mortar sat on display.

Lin Qian was circling the mortar, admiring it, occasionally stroking it with his hand and smiling.

Zheng Zhilong behind him said: "Helmsman, this cannon—I don't see any difference between it and the Ming navy's mortars. The Macanese aren't trying to fob us off with a showpiece, are they?"

In excellent spirits, Lin Qian joked: "What do you know. Ming mortars fire solid stone shot—this one fires explosive shells."

Before the invention of mercury fulminate, developing explosive shells had always been a technical challenge.

If one used a long-barreled cannon like the Siren as an example to fire explosive shells, the risk of barrel burst was simply too great—the number of your own men killed might well exceed the enemies killed.

As history had proven, the mortar was the cannon best suited for firing explosive shells.

Therefore, the moment Lin Qian acquired a stake in the Calau foundry, he had the factory produce mortars as a top priority. Now the first cannon was finally finished and shipped to Nan'ao.

With mortars, the fleet could fill the gap in shore bombardment. The power of a single explosive shell far exceeded that of a solid iron shot.

The only problem was that the trajectory of an explosive shell followed a parabola, requiring precise calculation—unlike the Siren cannon, which could hit whatever it aimed at.

To solve this problem, a small booklet had been shipped along with the cannon, detailing the powder charges, firing angles, and fuse lengths needed for different firing distances.

By this time, Europe already had early ballistics—calculating such trajectories was not too much trouble.

Lin Qian planned to mount the mortar on a ship the next day and find a deserted island to test-fire it.

Just then, an urgent dispatch arrived from Formosa.

Lin Qian unfolded the letter, and the smile gradually faded from his face. After a long pause, he gave the order: "No need to find a deserted island—I've found a better place to test the cannon!"

At dawn three days later, under Lin Qian's orders, the mortar was loaded onto the bow of the Cloud Sail. The Celestial Origin and the Cloud Sail then left port together, bound for Formosa.

A day later, the two ships arrived at the port of Chikan City.

In the captain's cabin of the Celestial Origin.

Chen Jiao reported to Lin Qian on what he had seen at the Madou settlement, as well as the latest developments during that period.

In a grave tone, Chen Jiao said: "Two days ago, the chief of Madou led all the tribe's warriors out in force to go headhunting at Wankang—little knowing that Wankang had long since contacted Sinkan and Soulang.

Those two settlements seized the opportunity to attack Madou, and countless Madou women and children were killed or wounded.

During their retreat, Madou was ambushed again by Wankang, suffering heavy losses—"

"I never expected these sea bandits to be so well-versed in the art of war." Lin Qian remarked with a sigh.

Since meeting Chen Jiao, Lin Qian had not asked a single question about the earliest attack on Madou Village.

In Lin Qian's view, whether this dispute was started by Chikan or by Kuigang,

the one that would be wiped out could only be Wanggang.

Lin Qian had crossed the Black Current not to arbitrate disputes among natives, Han, and Japanese pirates.

Whether there were grievances or they deserved what they got, in any case, this was a golden opportunity to destroy Wanggang.

After Wanggang was destroyed, all the evil deeds would naturally be attributed to the Wanggang Japanese pirates.

Of course, Kuigang also had Han people, but a group of sea bandits and smugglers mixed in with Japanese pirates—what good could they possibly be? Might as well blast them all to death.

Since he had cannons in hand, Lin Qian had no intention whatsoever of distinguishing right from wrong.

Moreover, now that Madou Village and Wanggang and the other natives had become enemies, the situation was even clearer.

In just a few sentences, Lin Qian had pronounced the death sentence on Kuigang.

The words he spoke were even fewer than his instructions to the mortar crew.

Chen Jiao was dumbfounded on the spot—so this was how it could be done? Then what was the point of his solitary charge into Madou Village to argue his case?

Hearing this, Lin Qian laughed: "Elder Brother went to the meeting alone, a matter of great consequence—at the very least, you cleared up the misunderstanding and made the Madou natives trust you even more."

Chen Jiao smiled bitterly. Lin Qian couldn't even find a good reason to comfort him.

Lin Qian guessed what he was thinking: "What I said is not comfort, Elder Brother. Madou Village will be of great use in the future development of Eastern Formosa. You'll understand later. What's most urgent now is to send someone to Madou Village again."

Chen Jiao's face turned serious: "I'll go myself!"

"No need—just send someone to deliver a message: say the Great Ming has come to avenge them!"

As he said this, Lin Qian's face was hidden in shadow, his voice devoid of joy or anger, yet it made Chen Jiao's hairs stand on end.

The next morning at dawn.

In Wanggang, Yamamoto climbed out of bed.

On the bed still lay a native woman, her hands and feet bound, a piece of hemp cloth stuffed in her mouth. Her taut body was covered in whip marks, bruises, and bite marks. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes hollow—she had been tormented until only half a breath remained in her.

Yamamoto dressed himself, then surveyed his "masterpiece" of the night with lingering satisfaction.

These native women, though their faces were hard to describe, were all tall with defined muscle lines, full of wild beauty.

Having grown accustomed to the cherry blossom fragrance of his homeland, he found eating wild game now and then to be a novel delight.

Yamamoto slung his sword on his hip and stepped outside, looking at the houses and stockade walls of Kuigang, smelling the blood and damp grass in the air—his desire for conquest was greatly satisfied.

So this was what it felt like to be a daimyo?

"Lord Yamamoto, was the woman to your satisfaction? Shall we keep one for tonight as well?" A ronin came forward to ask.

Yamamoto said softly: "Change her out. Bring all the captives tonight—I'll choose personally."

After the ronin bowed and withdrew, several Han women brought willow twigs, tooth powder, a washbasin, towels, and other items to attend to Yamamoto's washing.

Yamamoto didn't need to lift a finger the entire time, feeling as if he were floating on air. Even while washing, he kept groping the serving women.

The serving women wore humiliated expressions, tears in their eyes, yet dared not resist.

Not far from their feet lay a woman's severed head, eyes wide open in death—this was the fate of the last one who resisted.

After washing, Yamamoto waved the serving women away, feeling completely refreshed and clear-headed. He summoned his remaining subordinates to discuss the next phase of conquest.

In Yamamoto's view, although the natives were physically robust, agile, and quick, their weapons were too poor to match the ronin.

Chikan City to the southeast had a fair amount of firearms, but ultimately too few men.

As for Wanggang, it not only had over a thousand ronin but also more than a hundred iron cannons—the strongest force—and had additionally allied with the two great native villages of Xingang and Xiaolong.

Looking across all of Eastern Formosa, the Wanggang under his command deserved to be called the hegemon!

Given time, who could say he might not unify Eastern Formosa and establish the Eastern Formosa Shogunate.

To display his ambition to his subordinates, he had taken up his brush last night and written four large characters—"Loyal Souls Guard the Realm"—which now hung in his room.

His calligraphy was mediocre, but the four large characters were written with extremely heavy ink, wild and clawing, carrying a certain air of fierce ambition.

With his men assembled, Yamamoto laid out his plans: "Akaba Takesho, you lead a thousand men to defend this place, keeping watch against the Madou natives.

Kuroda Tadayuki, you take thirty men plus five iron cannons to monitor Chikan City's movements."

"Lord Yamamoto, Chikan has cannon ships—" Kuroda Tadayuki hesitated mid-sentence.

Yamamoto smiled calmly: "Merely a small vessel with a dozen-odd cannons—nothing to worry about."

The Changfeng's cannon battle had taken place at night, and no one in Kuigang had seen what the ship looked like; they could only roughly guess the number of cannons from the recollections of Madou captives.

Yamamoto had personally experienced the Macao sea battle—the Ming flagship's broadside had nearly thirty cannons, and a single full volley shook heaven and earth.

Compared to that, Chikan's single cannon ship was truly unimpressive.

"Yagyu Sakuyo!" Yamamoto called out another name.

The man whose name was called merely stepped forward and bowed, offering no verbal response, appearing extremely arrogant.

This man wore a crimson kimono with two katana tucked at his waist. On his cold, stern face ran a vicious scar, and from the iron-cold aura he exuded, he was clearly not someone to be trifled with.

The surrounding ronin had all heard, to varying degrees, of the Yagyu clan's reputation, and all felt fear, not daring to look directly at this man.

"You take two hundred men aboard ships and hide in the reeds of the inner lagoon. Once Chikan City's cannon ship comes to attack Wanggang, you lead your ships out, board them, and seize the vessel!"

Yagyu Sakuyo gave a slight nod, which counted as acceptance.

Such an attitude not only failed to disgust the other ronin—they instead felt this was the bearing befitting a sword master.

Yamamoto smiled, quite pleased with his own arrangements.

It should be known that the Yagyu clan was a Japanese swordsmanship lineage. With their hereditary art—the Yagyu Shinkage-ryū—they had slain countless powerful enemies, won the trust of Tokugawa Ieyasu, established a domain, and become true daimyo.

Yagyu Sakuyo's reputation was not prominent—likely a cadet branch member out on his wandering training.

Yamamoto had once tested Yagyu Sakuyo's skill; a single exchange of gazes had made his heart race, and he hadn't even possessed the courage to draw his sword.

Only after Yagyu Sakuyo left did Yamamoto realize he had broken out in a cold sweat.

He had long heard that the Yagyu Shinkage-ryū emphasized "no-sword capture"—that is, "victory without killing"—overwhelming the opponent's will to fight through spiritual and aura suppression, forcing them to submit.

At that moment, if Yamamoto had truly drawn his blade, the stirring of intent alone would have been enough for Yagyū Sakuyetsu to cut him down in a single stroke.

From that day on, Yamamoto believed that Yagyū Sakuyetsu had received the true transmission of his clan's arts, and only called upon him at critical moments.

On the day of the Wanggang uprising, Yagyū Sakuyetsu struck first, cutting down three guards in an instant—Yamamoto hadn't even seen how he swung his sword.

Arranging for such a swordsman to board the Chikan cannon ship alongside Yamamoto was a plan without a single flaw.

"Two hundred men is too many." Finally, Yagyū Sakuyetsu spoke, his voice like a spring in a deep valley, cold to the bone. "I need only fifty warriors."

Yamamoto knew his temperament and nodded. "Very well, fifty men it is. I'll also send Tobita Shun with fifty more to cover your flank."

Yagyū Sakuyetsu had already turned toward the door, but stopped at these words, looking back coldly. "As you wish—so long as Tobita doesn't get in the way of my blade."

All eyes followed Yagyū Sakuyetsu out the door. Morning light fell upon his shoulders, and all present were awed by his swordsman's bearing.

Rumble—rumble—rumble!

A sudden peal of thunder came from the horizon, shattering the serene scene.

The rōnin all looked up at the sky—the weather was clear, so whence came this thunder from a cloudless sky?

Only Yamamoto's expression shifted, from bewilderment, to confusion, to deep, profound terror.

"Nigero (Run)!" Yamamoto shouted with all his might, eyes wide as saucers.

Before the words even faded, solid iron cannonballs came crashing down!

In an instant, the earth shook, buildings swayed, and the familiar sounds of splintering wood, screams, and collapsing houses erupted all at once.

The rōnin trembled in fear, crouching low, looking about in confusion.

Only Yagyū Sakuyetsu stood unafraid, tall and straight, gazing toward the thunder—his face, like solid ice, not a single furrow on his brow.

The next second, a cannonball smashed through the roof, smashed through the floor, bounced once on the ground, and slowly rolled to a stop at Yagyū Sakuyetsu's feet.

Yagyū Sakuyetsu stared at the cannonball, his heart as calm as a still well, without the slightest stirring of intent.

The rōnin, impressed by his composure, were about to voice their admiration.

When they heard—from somewhere—the hiss of a fuse.

"Hiss—whoosh."

The fuse sound ceased, and then the cannonball exploded violently.

With a tremendous boom, the blast wave flung nearby grass and trees aside. The rōnin's ears rang as if struck by a heavy hammer, and they could hear nothing at all.

A flash of crimson fire passed by, and black smoke billowed into the sky.

When Yamamoto recovered and surveyed his surroundings, the building had already collapsed by a third. The plaque reading "Loyal Souls Guarding the Realm" had been shaken to the ground, its paper half-scorched, the two characters "Loyal Souls" gone without a trace.

His ears rang, his head spun, and he saw that half the rōnin in the room had been knocked senseless—and Yagyū Sakuyetsu——

This swordsman of the Yagyū clan lay three paces from the blast, his body from the chest down reduced to bloody pulp, his face frozen in shock, eyes wide open in death.

His two katana—one had been snapped by the blast and lay nearby; the other was nowhere to be found.

The entire room of rōnin stared blankly at the scene, unable to make a sound.

Yamamoto reacted first, shouting for his men to flee, to escape into the mountains.

With that, he trotted out the door, his wooden clogs stepping through the swordsman Yagyū's pulped remains as he hurried away.

The other rōnin snapped out of their stupor and quickly followed.

Soon, a second round of bombardment struck, and all of Wanggang was pounded like a pot of boiling water.

Before such heavenly might, human strength was utterly powerless.

Scattering in panic like pigs and wolves, Yamamoto reached an open space and looked back—and saw a sight that chilled his heart.

There, on the inner sea, two cannon ships had appeared from nowhere, bombarding the harbor relentlessly with their broadsides.

One of the ships was somewhat smaller, but the other had towering sides, with no fewer than two gun decks.

Each volley sent up gunsmoke thick as a wall!

Yamamoto's mouth went dry, his head buzzed, cold sweat poured from every pore—he had seen this ship before!

This was unmistakably the flagship of the Great Ming navy from the Battle of Macao!

Gods and Buddhas! What great sin have I, Yamamoto, committed, that the Great Ming navy would travel a thousand li just to hunt me down!

No—this wasn't a hunt. This was an outright extermination!

Wanggang had stood on Dongfan for decades, with sea bandits, smugglers, and wokou coming and going without end. The Great Ming navy never came to exterminate them before, and never came after—but they chose to come precisely when I, Yamamoto, was rising to power!

Heaven's decree, how unjust you are!

Watching the enterprise he had gained only days ago crumble into ruins, watching the "loyal souls" of his "realm" perish one by one—

Yamamoto's heart ached so much he could almost weep blood!

He stared at the Great Ming warships firing at will, and swore in his heart: one day, he would repay this humiliation twofold!

"Yamamoto, what are you staring at? Run!"

Seeing Wanggang destroyed and his power scattered, his rōnin subordinates could no longer be bothered to add the honorific "sama."

Before the face of life and death, the loss of authority pained Yamamoto even more deeply.

When he turned around, he found his rōnin had already run twenty paces ahead.

Yamamoto was so furious smoke rose from his seven orifices, but he could only hurry to catch up.

Along the way, Yamamoto saw many rōnin kneeling on the ground, committing seppuku.

As samurai, to suffer such a crushing defeat without even laying eyes on the enemy—this was a disgrace beyond measure.

Rather than be blown into mangled limbs by cannonballs, or bitten by poisonous insects in the mountains and die a dog's death—

Seppuku was more befitting of a samurai's pursuit.

For a moment, Yamamoto too entertained the thought of seppuku—but he had already clung to life once before, and the resolve to "court death" could not take firm root.

At least this time he was hiding in a forest, far better than that time he'd hidden in a dry latrine.

Yamamoto consoled himself thus, sprinting out of Wanggang and plunging headfirst into the golden sea of silvergrass.

The sword grass on the eastern frontier stood waist-high, and one could hide within it, extremely difficult to discover.

Yamamoto did not stop his steps, fleeing all the way into the forest before daring to rest and catch his breath.

Yet in the next moment, he froze—before him lay a corpse, precisely his subordinate Akaba Katsumasa.

Akaba Katsumasa was struck by several blades, his kimono soaked in blood, utterly gruesome; a native warrior was cutting off his head.

Seeing Yamamoto arrive, the head-cutting native warrior slowly rose to his feet. This man was extremely tall and robust, a full two or three heads taller than Yamamoto, and the war blade in his hand was as thick as an axe.

Behind that warrior also stood a native woman, holding a javelin, already aimed at him.

Then Yamamoto, horrified, saw among the trees countless shadows—native warriors running everywhere.

Among those shadows, a woman covered in tattoos, holding a rattan staff, stared at him with a chilling gaze, her eyes like ice awls that sent cold into Yamamoto's very bones.

Suddenly a flute sound rang through the forest—low and short, like the wailing cry of an owl.

The tall native warrior bared his teeth in a grim smile and swung his blade at Yamamoto.

Yamamoto dodged one strike and was about to counterattack when suddenly his waist went cold. Looking down, he saw a javelin piercing through his body from the right side of his waist to the left.

The spearhead was stained red with blood, dripping gore.

All of Yamamoto's strength drained rapidly through the wound at his waist; his vision darkened, and he struggled to lift his head.

He saw an axe-like Siraya blade sweeping toward him.

His neck went cold, and then his head flew up into the sky, spinning, and slammed hard onto the ground.

Aban, with practiced ease, tied the hair of the head into a knot, fastened it to his belt, and raised his blade, shouting: "Blood sacrifice to the ancestral spirits!"

The warriors around him raised their blades in response, their cries shaking the mountain forest.

The Siraya warriors scattered like in a hunt, occupying the entire mountain forest.

The wokou who had fled from Wanggang died without exception, all slaughtered beneath javelins and war blades.

On the deck of the Tianyuan.

Lin Qian lowered the hawksbill telescope given by the fat councilman and ordered: "Cease fire on both ships' broadside cannons; only the mortars continue attacking."

"Yes." Bailangzai sent someone to relay the order.

The Tianyuan's broadside mounted twenty-eight Siren cannons, and the Yunfan's broadside six cannons—they had already fired over a dozen volleys at Wanggang.

Those who could flee had basically fled; further shooting held little meaning now.

The remaining time was left to the mortars to finish things off.

After all, one important purpose of Lin Qian's trip was to test-fire the mortars.

With the broadside cannons silent and the muzzle smoke gone, the view through the telescope grew even clearer.

Lin Qian was observing the shell impacts with great interest when—

With a crack, a signal rocket burst in the western sky.

Immediately after, the lookout's voice came: "Enemy fleet sighted off the starboard bow!"

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen