Chapter 296: Flood Dragon Crossing the Yalu River

A little over a hundred riders rode out from the west gate of Zhenjiang, and the one at the very front was Leng E'li, the Great Jin garrison commander of Zhenjiang.

In the first year of Tianqi, after Amin was blasted to death, Zhenjiang was abandoned for a time.

Later, in the fifth year of Tianqi, when Hong Taiji attacked the Joseon kingdom, Zhenjiang, as a major city along the Yalu River, was rebuilt.

After the brotherly alliance was signed with Joseon and the Zhongjiang frontier trade market was opened, Leng E'li was appointed as the new garrison commander of Zhenjiang, stationed here to keep watch over Joseon and to wipe out the Dongjiang garrison's forces.

Though his post was in the small city of Zhenjiang, his power was immense—he was one of the Great Jin's Eight High Ministers, called the Eight "Gushan Ejen" in the Jurchen language. Among the Eight Ministers, Leng E'li managed affairs of the Bordered Yellow Banner and enjoyed deep trust from Hong Taiji. All Jin forces along the Yalu River were under his command. In the years stationed at Zhenjiang, he repeatedly led troops to raid and kill Ming soldiers who came ashore, and no fewer than a thousand Dongjiang garrison soldiers and civilians had died under his blade.

Had all gone smoothly, it would have been he who captured Pidao and cut off Mao Wenlong's head in the future.

Unfortunately...

This morning's round of cannon fire shattered his dream of winning glory and establishing merit.

When the Nan'ao fleet opened fire, Leng E'li was still asleep. By the time he was startled awake by the thunder of the guns, the entire city of Zhenjiang was already collapsing heaven and earth!

As far as the eye could see there was nothing but gunsmoke and dust. Guards, family members, and servants fled in every direction, and his ears rang endlessly from the pounding of the cannon blasts.

Zhenjiang's entire defensive system was destroyed in an instant. Soldiers couldn't find their officers, officers couldn't find their soldiers—utterly scattered like loose sand, with not the slightest room to respond or resist.

Leng E'li was brave and skilled in battle—when attacking Joseon he had won several great victories against superior numbers—but before the heaven-shaking might of thunderous cannon fire, all he could do was flee.

He barely managed to gather a hundred or so remnant troops and escape the city of Zhenjiang through the west gate.

Leng E'li's hands were soaked through with cold sweat; he could barely grip the reins, and his heart pounded wildly in his chest.

Galloping at full speed, he turned his head to stare back. He saw clouds and mist dyed an eerie orange-red by the flames, and in the sky, cannonballs trailing smoke like countless venomous snakes slithering into Zhenjiang.

Even outside the city, small stones kept falling, kicking up dust where they struck the ground.

The west gate tower—the one rumored to have crushed Amin to death—was silhouetted against gunsmoke and firelight, seeming as if it might collapse at any moment.

A chill ran through Leng E'li. He urgently spurred his warhorse and fled for his life.

The Jurchen soldiers were superb riders. Many also looked back, and when they saw the churning clouds and mist over the river, along with the terrifying shadow that stirred wind and rain, they were scared out of their wits.

Someone shouted in terror in the Jurchen language: "A flood dragon is crossing!"

Another Jurchen soldier called out loudly: "Say it's a dragon!"

"Right, it's a dragon, it's a dragon!" The other Jurchen soldiers chimed in.

"Flood dragon crossing" was a superstitious saying from Jiangnan in the Ming dynasty. Legend had it that a snake that cultivates for five hundred years becomes a hui, a hui that cultivates for five hundred years becomes a jiao flood dragon, and a jiao that cultivates for a thousand years becomes a dragon. Before becoming a dragon, the jiao must travel down rivers into the sea to undergo its tribulation—this is called "flood dragon crossing."

Legend said that when a flood dragon crossed, there would surely be torrential rain, thunder and lightning, and floods and whirlpools on the river that could easily destroy bridges and dikes.

If one witnessed such a sight, one had to avoid the taboo—one could not say "jiao," and certainly could not say "snake." One had to say "what a huge dragon," or else one would surely be avenged! Liaodong was bitterly cold, vast and sparsely populated, and itself had many tales of spirits and monsters.

Among these, dragon and flood dragon legends were the most numerous. For instance, Baldy-Tail Old Li was widely told across the Liaodong lands, and many places in Liaodong were named after dragons and flood dragons—such as the Black Dragon River, Jiao River, Dragon Pool Mountain, and so on.

This was a land where three peoples intermingled, and the Jurchen soldiers were heavily influenced by these legends, so they hurriedly avoided the taboo.

Strictly speaking, no matter how terrified the Jurchen soldiers were, they should have been able to tell naval cannon fire apart from dragon breath—but they had been startled from sleep, and their minds were not clear.

Add to that over a hundred and forty cannons firing in rotation, and the sheer force exceeded ordinary people's understanding of what cannon fire could do.

Moreover, the fleet was shrouded in thin mist and gunsmoke, hazy and indistinct—a visual effect that was extremely terrifying.

With fear gripping their hearts, it was only natural they spouted nonsense.

Leng E'li focused solely on fleeing and had no time to mind his men's talk of flood dragons and ghosts. Even he himself harbored a faint doubt in his heart. Even the sea mad dog Lin Qian, back in the day, would have needed a whole night to destroy Zhenjiang—yet that huge shadow in the mist had reduced Zhenjiang to rubble in less than two hours. Could such power truly be the work of a mortal man?

Leng E'li led his men galloping northwest along the main road at tremendous speed, and in the blink of an eye they had covered three li.

At this distance, the sound of cannon fire had diminished considerably, and the ground no longer trembled violently.

Cold sweat kept breaking out all over Leng E'li's body. Though he had already escaped danger, his heart was still filled with dread.

The further he ran, the stronger his sense of terror grew.

In another moment he had covered five li, and his fear reached its peak. At this distance he was out of danger—surely even a flood dragon couldn't reach him here. He was just about to order a halt when, ahead on the main road, a thick hemp rope suddenly snapped taut, kicking up a trail of dust!

A tripping rope!

Leng E'li's eyes flew wide. He was just about to shout when his mount stumbled and pitched headfirst to the ground.

At full gallop, when a warhorse falls forward, even if the rider survives, his bones are broken and sinews snapped.

But Leng E'li's riding skill was astonishing—the instant he left the saddle he pulled his feet free of the stirrups and rolled on the ground to absorb the impact, rising to his feet completely unharmed. Behind him came the screams of horses and the crashes of their falls, the cries of soldiers, and the unceasing snap of breaking bones.

From the woods on both sides of the road came dense footsteps and killing shouts, followed by the twang of bowstrings and the whistling of arrows streaking past his ears. Leng E'li looked around and goosebumps rose all over his body. He saw an ambush of some four to five hundred men in fine armor—not the ragtag remnants of Pidao. He and his men had fled in panic without wearing armor; many didn't even have weapons, and their bows were all still on their horses, unreachable now. Poor Jurchen warriors of the Bordered Yellow Banner—every one of them skilled in archery and horsemanship, brave enough to cut down generals and seize banners—yet they were being shot down like stupid deer. And Mao Wenlong charged at the very front, clad head to toe in cloth-faced iron armor, wielding a long-handled great saber with sweeping, powerful strokes that whistled through the air. Every slash sent Tartar soldiers' flesh and blood flying.

Soon, half of Mao Wenlong's body was stained red with blood, his killing aura billowing—like a god of slaughter incarnate.

The Mao family army followed close behind Mao Wenlong. His several adopted sons and foster grandsons were each terrifyingly strong, cutting down the unarmed Jurchen soldiers as easily as chopping vegetables.

Geng Zhongming wielded a long spear, its tip flashing like darting light, moving like a swimming dragon as he stabbed every Tartar he encountered to death.

Kong Youde was even more ferocious. Using a great water-buffalo-horn bow, he loosed arrows with incredible speed, hitting his mark nearly every time, killing men as easily as drinking water.

Seeing Mao Wenlong charging forward, he simply tossed aside his great bow, grabbed his long-handled saber, and charged in, heading straight for the densest clusters and points of resistance. In a few strokes he sent heads rolling, scattering the Tartar soldiers who had barely managed to regroup.

Kong Youde fought more fiercely as the battle wore on, like a savage beast of the wilds. Wherever he went, it was like boiling water melting snow—the Tartars fell back in droves.

As a man of Liaodong, skill in archery and horsemanship was the very foundation of survival—whether soldier or civilian, nearly everyone possessed it.

And Kong Youde had previously been a miner. Though the word "miner" had a "worker" in it, he was no craftsman—he was a genuine desperado. His days of prospecting veins and chiseling rock were fewer than his days of fighting mountain bandits, wild beasts, and robbers. He was far more adept at swinging a great saber than swinging a hammer.

Mao Wenlong knew these sons and grandsons of his—they were almost all miners, salt workers, boatmen, or hunters by origin. Their character might have flaws, but their martial prowess was top-notch, one and all. Among these fierce warriors, Kong Youde was known as the number one fierce general of the Dongjiang garrison—even the Joseon people praised him, saying "his valor outshines all the armies; in battle he is always the first to ascend the walls." A major reason this group of fierce men had lurked in the Dongjiang garrison for years without achieving great deeds or gaining fame was the shortage of weapons and equipment.

To fight the Jianzhou barbarians in open field, they lacked warhorses.

To attack Jianzhou cities, they lacked scaling ladders, siege engines, and cannons.

To train troops, they lacked pay, rations, and even blades, spears, and armor.

In a word—other than personal bravery, they lacked everything.

Even Kong Youde, while at the Dongjiang garrison, had only a suit of old iron armor. Ordinary soldiers had only cloth clothing, and their weapons were just wooden clubs and rusted blades. In the worst times, they had only one bowl of porridge a day, and the soldiers were so hungry they could barely walk.

How could one fight a war with such starving, hollow-eyed troops?

That they didn't mutiny and become refugees upon coming ashore was already a sign of competent discipline.

But the Nan'ao fleet had swept through the Joseon navy of Jeolla Province and Gyeongsang Province, seizing countless weapons and suits of armor.

These crudely made cold weapons were something the Nan'ao army wouldn't even look at—they didn't fit the Nan'ao army's combat system, and even the Nan'ao garrison troops disdained to use them. So after the materiel was captured, it was all piled up on Jeju Island, destined to gather dust in warehouses for a lifetime.

In the end, Lin Qian approved the cooperation with Mao Wenlong, so Bai Qing handed these supplies over to Mao Wenlong.

Mao Wenlong received this scrap metal that the Nan'ao army looked down upon and treated it as a priceless treasure, using it to fully equip his elite troops.

As the saying goes, "The Emperor does not send hungry soldiers," so Bai Qing also transferred a considerable amount of military grain to the Dongjiang garrison.

Those grain sacks were all stamped with the mark of the Water Chenla Special Agricultural Reclamation Company, not only marking the year and month of production, but also noting the rice variety as "92 Rice," and even marking which reclamation district and which li-jia unit it came from.

The soldiers and civilians of the Dongjiang garrison couldn't understand what "Water Chenla," "Company," or "92 Rice" meant, but when they ate that first mouthful of rice, many of them broke down in tears.

This grain was actually semi-milled rice!

Never mind their days on Pidao—many of the poor soldiers had never eaten semi-milled rice in their entire lives!

The standard ration for Ming soldiers was brown rice—that is, rice that had been hulled but not milled at all. Because it retained the husk, bran layer, and germ, it had a coarse texture and a pronounced bran taste.

Brown rice was further divided into new brown rice and aged brown rice—as the name suggests, the latter was brown rice that had been stored for a long time. If aged brown rice was kept long enough, it became moldy rice. The military grain that Dongjiang garrison soldiers had previously received from the Great Ming had always been aged brown rice mixed with moldy rice and a bit of sand. That stuff had nothing to do with being edible; you could only furrow your brow and choke it down to keep from starving.

But the Nan'ao army's military grain was not only free of age, mold, and sand, it had also had most of the coarse husk removed beyond the brown rice stage.

It didn't hurt your teeth to chew, didn't scrape your throat when you swallowed, and left a rice fragrance in your mouth—and the more you chewed, the more fragrant it became!

The Dongjiang soldiers called this rice semi-milled rice because it had been milled one additional pass beyond brown rice.

Nan'ao called this rice "92 Rice" because for every hundred catties of brown rice, after a second milling pass, roughly eight catties of coarse husk were lost, leaving approximately ninety-two catties of pure rice.

The greatest advantage of 92 Rice as military grain was its storage durability.

The bran layer of brown rice is rich in oils, and after a few months it easily bred insects and mold. The Ming army always had to store the new and eat the old—that was where all that old rice came from. Additionally, 92 Rice had its coarse husk fiber removed, so eating it didn't easily cause bloating, which also helped maintain the army's fighting strength.

Furthermore, 92 Rice had no coarse husk, absorbed water quickly, and saved firewood—after all, in this era, it wasn't just grain that was in short supply; firewood was even scarcer.

With Bai Qing's material support, these elite troops who had come ashore managed to eat their fill for a solid half month, and every one of them held a burning resolve in their hearts—they would slaughter Tartars fiercely and not let the grain in their bellies go to waste!

Leng'eli was also a fierce general seasoned by many battles; a tripping rope couldn't possibly bring down all one hundred-plus riders.

This battle should have been a real fight, but who would have thought the Dongjiang soldiers' morale was so high—every one of them charged and struck with reckless disregard for death.

They hacked the Jurchen soldiers into a daze, leaving them with no power to resist—it was almost a one-sided slaughter.

"Rally! Form ranks!"

Seeing his men fighting individually and being picked off one by one, Leng'eli shouted at the top of his lungs.

But not only did few Jurchen soldiers listen to him, Mao Wenlong heard him instead, and strode over with a sinister grin, wielding his great blade.

Leng'eli's temper flared, and he raised his waist saber to meet the challenge, using a short weapon against a long one—and actually drove Mao Wenlong back step after step.

Seeing this, Kong Youde swung his great blade and charged in. One strike sent Leng'eli stumbling, and then he followed up with a diagonal slash.

With a wet thud, Leng'eli's right arm flew up into the air, blood spraying everywhere. His face went white as paper as he clutched the wound and staggered backward.

Mao Wenlong lunged forward in one step and chopped off his left lower leg with another strike.

Leng'eli collapsed to the ground, his wounds caked with dust, the blood staining the earth beneath him a dark red. He screamed in agony and struggled to crawl backward. Mao Wenlong said coldly, "Dog Tartar! This strike is for the soldiers and civilians of Tieshan!"

Leng'eli suddenly widened his eyes. This man's accent and appearance both matched the rumors of the Dongjiang Regional Commander. In disbelief, he confirmed: "You are Mao Wenlong?"

"I'm your granddaddy!" Mao Wenlong said, then raised his great blade and brought it down with the force to split a mountain. A crisp, wet sound rang out.

Leng'eli's skull was split in two, his neck cleaved apart as well, blood, brains, and bone fragments splattering in every direction.

The gushan ejen of the Bordered Yellow Banner died on the spot!

The remaining Jurchen soldiers had completely lost their will to fight and scattered into the surrounding woods. Mao Wenlong had long since stationed archers all around, who shot down the fleeing Tartar soldiers one by one. Mao Wenlong pulled his blade from Leng'eli's corpse and looked at the horrific scene of enemy dead strewn across the field, his entire body trembling with excitement.

"I've done it!" He looked at his own blood-soaked form and wept silent tears.

Ten years!

He had taken He Ping's great merit, for a full ten years!

How had he lived through those ten years? Tormented day and night! And today, he had finally cleared his own name with his own hands!

From now on, he, Mao Wenlong, was no longer a base villain! He could be an upright and honorable hero too!

Just as he was in the throes of excitement, his adopted grandson Geng Zhongming said, "Commander, the cannons at Zhenjiang have stopped."

Mao Wenlong, in a state of extreme elation, wiped the brains and blood from his face and gave the order: "Follow me—charge in!"

According to the pre-battle plan, the Nan'ao fleet was responsible for striking the mountain to startle the tiger—blasting the Tartar soldiers out of Zhenjiang—while the Dongjiang forces were responsible for intercepting and killing the fleeing troops.

Once the cannon fire stopped, the Dongjiang forces were to take possession of Zhenjiang.

That was the plan, but according to what Mao Wenlong had revealed, there were no longer any Han civilians in Zhenjiang city—only Han troops who had surrendered to the Jin and Tartar soldiers. So the Nan'ao fleet's cannons had bombarded without restraint, nearly reducing Zhenjiang to a blank slate, with only a few stretches of city wall still standing. From Mao Wenlong's position, his view was blocked by the woods and the city wall, so he couldn't see what was happening inside the city.

But Geng Zhongming, standing halfway up the hillside, could see it all clearly.

Beneath the thick smoke, there was not a single intact building in Zhenjiang city—the ground was entirely covered in rubble and debris, and large sections of the eastern city wall had collapsed. To have endured such terrifying cannon fire without fleeing, to have stayed put in Zhenjiang city, survived the bombardment, and still insisted on defending the city after the guns fell silent—that took some doing. Mao Wenlong also ran up to the hillside to look. One glance was enough to quiet him down, and inwardly he cursed Bai Qing for not keeping his word.

They had agreed to strike the mountain to startle the tiger—so why had he gone and collapsed the entire mountain?

At this rate, his, Mao Wenlong's, achievement seemed to have been downgraded from recapturing Zhenjiang to intercepting fleeing soldiers!

Could that still make up for his earlier false claim of merit?

Mao Wenlong's heart gradually sank. He felt that familiar shadow creeping back, enveloping him once more...

"We'll attack Fenghuangcheng!" Mao Wenlong gritted his teeth and squeezed out a single sentence.

According to intelligence from the Joseon court and information Kong Youde had gathered, Fenghuangcheng had a garrison of over six hundred soldiers and was a transfer station for shipping grain from Zhongjiang to Shenyang. As luck would have it, the frontier trade market had been open for over ten days now, so a considerable amount of new and old grain had surely been stockpiled there.

If they could burn it all down, it would be an even heavier blow to the grain-starved Jianzhou barbarians than capturing Zhenjiang!

Geng Zhongming tried to dissuade him: "Commander, according to the pre-battle arrangements, Fenghuangcheng is to be attacked by Mao Yongxi (Shang Kexi's alias) leading the fleet.

If we march there on foot, never mind whether we can make it in time—even if we did manage to breach Fenghuangcheng, there'd be no way to retreat!"

From Zhenjiang to Fenghuangcheng was roughly a hundred li. On foot, it would take infantry close to three days to get there. Adding in the fighting, it would take at least another day or two, and then three more days for the return trip.

And the Jianzhou barbarians' iron cavalry was extremely fast—once Zhenjiang was attacked, the surrounding camps would receive word quickly and send reinforcements to Fenghuangcheng.

Even if Mao Wenlong's forces managed to take Fenghuangcheng by some stroke of luck, there was absolutely no way they would make it back alive.

Fortunately, Fenghuangcheng was right next to the Ai River, so it could be attacked by naval forces. After taking the city, the fleet could retreat downstream with the current, leaving the Jianzhou cavalry staring helplessly at the river. The Ai River was very shallow—not only could the Nan'ao fleet not enter, even the navy's Fujian junks and Haicang ships couldn't sail in.

So this battle was to be fought by Shang Kexi piloting Cangshan ships and sand ships, and the main force of the Dongjiang army was also in Shang Kexi's hands.

Originally, Mao Wenlong was supposed to attack Fenghuangcheng, but his obsession weighed too heavily on him—he had to personally take Zhenjiang city, which was why he was here instead. It wasn't until he had killed Leng'eli with his own hands and witnessed Zhenjiang destroyed by the fleet's cannons that Mao Wenlong began to feel regret.

But there was still time to regret it now.

Mao Wenlong smiled and pointed at the battlefield: "Who said we're walking there? We have horses!"

Geng Zhongming swept his gaze across the battlefield and exclaimed in surprise: "Commander, there are fewer than eighty horses!"

Leng'eli originally had over a hundred horses under his command, but some had been lamed by trip ropes, some had been wounded by stray arrows, and some had run off—now, fewer than eighty were fit to ride.

"We're going as reinforcements—eighty elites are more than enough!" Mao Wenlong said confidently, then ordered Kong Youde to pick the elite troops, Geng Zhongming to have men lead the horses, and the remaining soldiers to clean up the battlefield, cutting off the Jianzhou barbarians' heads and sending them to Commander Bai.

Soon, Geng Zhongming reported back: "Commander, seventy-two war horses in total, all prepared!"

Kong Youde also came to report: "Commander, the soldiers have been selected—the cream of the cream!"

"Good!" Mao Wenlong took the reins from his personal guard, swung himself onto the horse, and looked back—over seventy riders mounted up together. Though their weapons and armor differed, every one of them was drenched in blood and bristling with killing intent.

Bold spirit surged in Mao Wenlong; he felt he had not been this exhilarated in ten years. He declared loudly: "Brothers! Zhenjiang's city has fallen—leave it for the Nan'ao troops to occupy. Let's ride for Fenghuang City!"

With that, he spurred his horse and galloped off at the lead.

Behind him, over seventy riders gave chase at full speed. The fine horses flew, hooves thundering like rolling drums, and soon nothing remained on the official road but a trail of dust.

The sun climbed to mid-sky, and the mist and gunpowder smoke along both banks of the Yalu River gradually dispersed.

The stench of sulfur and blood in the air was so thick it shot straight to the crown of one's head, and the ears were filled with the dull roar of cannons firing in unison.

On the stern deck of the Zhulong, the officers raised their telescopes and scanned the city in every direction—not a single living person was to be seen.

A moment later, a plume of dust rose from the western side of the city.

"They're the Dongjiang troops," said the helmsman.

Bai Qing grunted in acknowledgment.

The Dongjiang troops, following the battle plan, took their positions and occupied the broken walls and ruins of Zhenjiang.

A messenger approached the shore, boarded a transport boat, and came aboard to report the battle situation and Mao Wenlong's whereabouts to Bai Qing.

Such conduct would count as acting on one's own and disobeying military orders in the Nan'ao army, but the Dongjiang troops were not Nan'ao units, so Bai Qing could hardly say much. The messenger continued: "Our army took one hundred and thirty-six enemy heads outside the city, to be disposed of at the Commander's discretion."

Tartar heads could be kept and exchanged for military merit with the Great Ming.

Yet Mao Wenlong handed all one hundred-plus heads over to Bai Qing—this was, in essence, a gesture of alignment and goodwill.

He was no fool. The Dongjiang garrison currently found itself unwelcome on all three sides—between the Great Ming, the Joseon court, and the Jianzhou barbarians. Only the Nan'ao army treated him like a person, giving him food and clothing, and even offering him chances to earn battle merit.

And crucially, the Nan'ao army's combat power was absurdly strong, their wealth astonishing—even their army rations were half-polished rice, damn it.

Since he had already cooperated once, Mao Wenlong would find it even harder to stand in the Great Ming from now on, so he might as well walk the dark road to the end and throw in his lot with Nan'ao altogether. These hundred-odd heads, plus the capture of Fenghuang City, would be his pledge of allegiance.

Bai Qing ordered his men to collect the Tartar heads and had the Dongjiang troops clean up the Zhenjiang battlefield—if they found any Tartar corpses, they were to cut off the heads as well. Ten years ago, when the Helmsman had taken Zhenjiang, he had piled a skull mound. Now Bai Qing would pile another!

And this one would be even bigger!

That first skull mound had been a response to the Jianzhou barbarians' practice of beheading captives and mounting their heads on stakes. Today's skull mound was meant to build momentum and magnify their prestige.

It was a political necessity—a counterstrike in the propaganda war against Yuan Chonghuan.

Bai Qing asked the staff officer aboard the ship: "How many heads did that first skull mound use?"

"I believe it was also over a hundred." Too much time had passed; the staff officer could no longer remember clearly.

If both were just over a hundred, the effect might not be strong enough.

According to intelligence, the Han troops and Tartar soldiers stationed in Zhenjiang today numbered over six hundred, but most had died under the cannon fire, their bodies obliterated, or were buried beneath the rubble. It was impossible to dig up corpses just to build a skull mound.

Fortunately, there were more than just this one band of Tartars nearby.

Bai Qing said: "Send word to Wang Ruzhong—bring back as many Tartar heads as possible."

Meanwhile, on Zhongjiang Island, over forty li northeast of Zhenjiang, the fighting had largely drawn to a close.

Xiong Beizi was leading his men in cleaning up the battlefield. The once-prosperous Zhongjiang frontier trade market had been reduced to a scene of devastation.

In the camp of the official merchants, the corpses were especially numerous—most had been killed by flintlock muskets, and some had been blasted by the Siren cannons.

On the surrounding waterways, the four ships—Zhang, Chao, Quan, and Hui—were cruising about, and a large fleet of Dongjiang warships surrounded them, sealing off the entire Zhongjiang Island tight as a drum.

Zhongjiang Island and Zhenjiang had been attacked simultaneously, but because Zhongjiang Island had many civilians, the fleet's bombardment had been restrained, and so it ended somewhat more slowly. "Ah!"—as Xiong Beizi was making his rounds, he suddenly heard a scream.

He rushed toward the sound at once. There, in the camp of the Eight Banners' official merchants, a Tartar lay on the ground, his face covered in blood, beaten down. Around him, two marines were kicking him viciously, while another was slamming the butt of his rifle into the man's head.

The Tartar screamed again and again from the beating.

"Stop!" Xiong Beizi bellowed in fury, striding over and dressing down his men. "What's going on? Have you forgotten the rules on prisoners?"

His subordinate stared at the man on the ground and said indignantly: "Squad Leader, this dog of a Tartar grabbed for a knife!"

Another man revealed his arm—there was a two-cun-long gash on it, blood flowing out and dripping down past his elbow.

"That dog Tartar cut me."

"Oh?" Xiong Beizi's gaze turned hostile as he looked at the man. He was covered in blood from the beating, his body caked with dust, and around him lay bloodstained broken teeth. He had almost no strength left to resist.

"Still, you are not allowed to beat prisoners!" Xiong Beizi scolded even as he drew his bayonet and tossed it over.

The Tartar's eyes lit up, and he immediately scrambled to pick it up. The moment his hand touched the bayonet's grip, a heavy boot stomped down, pinning his hand hard against the blade. In that instant, Xiong Beizi dropped to one knee and swung his fist in a savage blow. He was naturally strong—the sort of fierce character who, upon first entering the military academy, could carry a tombstone on his back for five li of mountain road.

The punch landed square on the cheekbone, and the Tartar's head slammed hard against the ground with a dull thud—he was nearly killed on the spot. As stars spun before the Tartar's eyes, he saw Xiong Beizi raise his arm for a second punch and instinctively lifted his hand to block—but his right hand was pinned fast beneath the boot on the bayonet grip and could not be pulled free, and his left arm had already been dislocated by the three marines' earlier beating.

In desperation, the Tartar shouted: "I am Enggeder! You cannot kill me!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen