Chapter 380: The Fire Dragon of Yogyakarta

A cannon blast shattered the stillness of the early morning.

The marines positioned five three-pounder cannons at the southeast corner of Yogyakarta's outer city, using ricochet fire to bombard both its eastern and southern wall sections simultaneously.

The Yogyakarta defenders were already wavering in morale; caught by the sudden cannonade, they quickly abandoned the walls and fled into the city.

Then soldiers of three squads, holding up captured rattan-and-wood shields, advanced slowly toward the city wall.

The occasional arrow or javelin loosed from the wall was blocked by the shields.

The three squads soon reached the foot of the wall, took out their sapper picks, and began furiously digging at the wall's base.

The rammed-earth wall of Mataram's outer city was made of ordinary volcanic clay, mixed with small amounts of rice husks, coconut fiber, and gravel.

Its hardness approached that of stiff mud brick—sword blows and axe strokes left only shallow marks.

The Great Xia sapper picks were forged from refined iron and even steel, exceptionally sturdy; hammering them violently against the rammed-earth surface quickly cracked the outer shell, and the holes were steadily enlarged.

To avoid friendly fire, the three-pounder cannon fire was now extended to longer range, and the wall section above the marines' heads was no longer under artillery suppression.

But the Mataram defenders were scared out of their wits—no one dared cross the bombardment zone to come back and defend, leaving the marines free to chisel the wall in peace.

After roughly an hour, all three teams had dug out cylindrical deep holes about a foot in diameter.

The soldiers then quickly stuffed in gunpowder charges, ran out the fuses, while the others scooped up loose earth from the wall base and packed the openings shut layer by layer with their pick handles.

Once everything was done, the three squads retreated along the wall base away from the charges, and after pulling back seventy or eighty feet, lit the fuses.

A moment later, three muffled thunderous booms sounded—the rammed-earth wall burst apart from the middle, and dust and smoke wrapped in shattered earth and brick shot skyward, forming gray-yellow smoke columns several zhang tall. Dust blotted out the sky, and the shockwave rippled outward along the ground like an earthquake.

Clods of earth rained down all around, crackling and clattering without pause like a downpour.

Through the swirling yellow dust, the squad leader in charge of the demolition covered his mouth and nose with one hand and squinted to assess the situation. He saw the wall collapse in succession for fifty or sixty feet where the three charges had blown, the tumbled earth forming a gentle slope that could be charged straight up.

Around the breach, all the Mataram guards had fled—in the yellow dust, not a single figure could be seen.

The squad leader then returned and sent someone to report to Wang Ruzhong.

Upon receiving the news, Wang Ruzhong shouted: "Advance—into the city!"

A thousand marines held their breath and entered through the breach, while the three-pounders were harnessed to horses and hauled into the city.

To bring down the wall in one blast, each squad had used a hundred jin of gunpowder; the force of the explosion not only collapsed the wall but also hurled great masses of rammed earth into the city.

A dozen or so thatched huts near the wall were all caught in the blast and crushed flat by the falling earth blocks.

As the thick dust settled, the roofs of the surrounding thatched huts rustled continuously with falling grit.

Around the breach in the wall, both Mataram civilians and troops had fled—the marines were marching through what was almost an empty city.

Xiong Beizi looked around and saw that the city of Yogyakarta was hardly prosperous—it was like a compact Mataram village community. Gazing out, everything looked the same, and he spotted no obvious high-value targets.

"General, what do we do?"

According to Lin Qian's plan, the marines appearing around Yogyakarta and throwing the local nobles into panic was already mission accomplished.

Even Wang Ruzhong himself hadn't expected the attack to go so smoothly—they had stormed straight into the royal city in one go.

The Great Xia army was not a band of wokou ronin; they could not burn, kill, and loot wantonly, nor could they casually torch civilian homes. Only now, facing such a vast royal city, did they feel at a loss.

"Xiong Beizi, take some men and grab a few guides—find out where the city's granaries, government offices, treasuries, stables, and armor workshops are!

In short, anything that can be used for military purposes—destroy whatever you see!"

"Yes!" Xiong Beizi acknowledged, called men to follow him, and added a specific order: "Bring plenty of fire jars—six jars per man!"

Wang Ruzhong said to the rest: "We advance on the inner city—bring all the cannons."

The marines pushed northward, occasionally encountering small bands of Mataram guards. Most broke and fled at the sight of the Great Xia army; some leveled their spears and charged, only to die horribly under volley fire and bayonets.

Command in Yogyakarta's outer city was now utter chaos—soldiers and civilians each fled for their lives, officers were nowhere to be found, and the scattered resistance lacked even numerical advantage, posing no trouble at all to the marines.

The marines soon reached due south of Yogyakarta's inner city.

At the center of the wall stood a massive gate of lacquered red teak, with straight walls extending east and west on either side, and behind the wall rose tier upon tier of dark-gray ceramic-tiled double eaves.

Before the gate lay a moat two zhang wide, spanned by a broad stone bridge piled high with barricades of chevaux-de-frise and sandbags, and in front of the bridge stretched a wide plaza.

The whole scene was imposing and solemn, radiating a powerful sense of order—a world apart from the outer city. This inner city was surely either the palace itself or the seat of the high and mighty.

The plaza was too close to the wall, so Wang Ruzhong had the artillery form up in the housing district south of the plaza, then ordered: "Demolish the surrounding houses and set up the artillery position."

On the wall, Mataram soldiers wearing red headbands were firing muskets at the Great Xia forces, but the range was too great—no casualties were inflicted.

The nearby thatched huts were loosely built; the marines used their sapper picks to smash and batter, quickly toppling the huts one by one and clearing a large open space.

The five three-pounders were unloaded in the open area. The gun captain extended his thumb to estimate the range, then ran to Wang Ruzhong's side and said: "General, that's over four hundred paces away—too far, can't shoot accurately. And the three-pounder's power is too weak to breach the wall; it can only suppress the ramparts."

Wang Ruzhong said: "Who told you to bombard the wall? See that big multi-tiered roof over there?"

The gun captain looked up—the inner city wall blocked his view, but he could see the pyramidal tiered rooftop.

Wang Ruzhong said: "Aim at that and fire. Elevate all the muzzles, lob shots high into the sky—doesn't matter if you miss, as long as it lands inside the inner city!"

The gun captain laughed: "That's much easier!"

With that he ran back to the artillery position, where the range-taker quickly reported the distance: "568.78 paces!"

"Thirty degrees elevation, full charge!"

The five three-pounders roared, shells tracing parabolas through the sky before plummeting with shrill whistles—soon a plume of dust and smoke rose from within the inner city.

After several more volleys, multiple columns of black smoke soon appeared in the inner city, flames licking upward along the wooden structures.

The red-turbaned troops on the wall were visibly panicking, their rate of fire slowing considerably.

"Hahaha—" Wang Ruzhong laughed, telescope raised, "Excellent shooting! Don't stop!"

"General, I see the Mataram fortifications use a great deal of wood and thatch—why not try heated shot?" said a marine squad leader.

Wang Ruzhong thought briefly, then said: "Good! Mind your safety, don't rush—we have all the time in the world."

That squad leader went down to relay the order, and soon men were gathering rubble and timber from all around, piling them into fire pits. Black powder was sprinkled over them and lit, and flames soon leaped up.

Soldiers used shot tongs to place solid iron balls beside the fire pits, heating them over open flame, while artillerymen loaded powder and rammed dry felt and wet clay into the muzzles in sequence. Finally, the balls glowing dull red were lifted out with the tongs and carefully lowered into the muzzles.

The shot rolled clunking down the barrel, struck the wet clay with a hissing sound, and white smoke seeped from the muzzle.

At the same moment, the gunner touched off the touchhole—the black powder ignited and blasted the white-hot iron ball forth with a thunderous roar.

Wang Ruzhong raised his telescope and carefully observed the results of the bombardment. Before long, he saw two more thick columns of black smoke rise into the air.

"Haha! We're getting somewhere—fire again!"

The gun crews followed the same procedure, firing one heated shot after another.

This type of heated shot had been taught in Great Xia artillery training, but was rarely used in actual combat.

Because the risk of barrel burst was high, and it was inconvenient to heat cannonballs aboard ship—loading was complicated and the rate of fire slow—the practical destructive power was limited.

But against the Yogyakarta royal city, which was built entirely of wood, heated shot was perfect.

After several volleys of heated shot rained down, fires broke out everywhere in the Yogyakarta royal city.

68】 The entire palace erupted into chaos in an instant. Palace maids and eunuchs screamed and fled toward the inner court for shelter, while the royal guards frantically tried to put out fires and rally the personnel.

The entire palace erupted into chaos in an instant—palace maids and eunuchs shrieked as they fled toward the inner court, while the guards scrambled to put out the flames and round up the personnel.

The weeping of the royal womenfolk mingled with the shouts of attendants—the normally strict ceremonial order had vanished without a trace.

The aged chief minister responsible for governing in the Sultan's absence walked out of his official residence and looked up at the sky, only to hear a sharp whoosh—a tremendous sound of something tearing through the air.

A solid iron cannonball struck the palm tree beside the official residence dead-on. The stout palm tree shook violently from the impact, its trunk emitting sharp cracking sounds of splintering wood as a great shower of palm fronds drifted down.

The cannonball bounced onto the lawn, hissing loudly. Soon the smoke grew thicker and thicker, until open flames gradually broke out.

Five or six royal guards rushed over carrying basins of water, splashing continuously to extinguish the fire—but the cannonball was so hot that the water splashed—

—turned instantly to steam, frightening the guards into retreating again and again, leaving them thoroughly discomfited.

While they were putting out that fire, another cannonball struck the dispatch office of the courier station directly. Roof tiles flew in all directions as flames flashed and black smoke rose.

The dispatch office was filled with flammable materials, and the entire structure was wooden. What's more, it was the dry season, the air parched—wherever the cannonball rolled, flames sprang up.

The royal guards stood before the dispatch office splashing water without cease, yet they could not put out the fire.

The dispatch office was the administrative seat of Mataram's courier relay system, housing the mileage registers of the post roads, the roster of lords for communication, and the master codebooks for secret correspondence. If it burned down, communications between the royal domain and the outlying regions would fail, and orders for mobilizing troops or requisitioning grain could no longer be effectively issued.

But compared to the disaster of the enemy bombarding the royal palace, this no longer counted for much.

"Lord Chief Minister, it's dangerous here—please take shelter north of the city!" a royal guard called out as he stepped forward.

The chief minister said: "I will not leave. Summon the guard commander—I want to ask him what is going on! Is the mighty Sultanate of Mataram, when faced with a powerful enemy invasion, only capable of tucking its head into its shell like a turtle?"

"The commander—he can no longer be found——"

"Then what of the outer city garrison commander?"

"He is lost as well——"

A profound sense of helplessness welled up in his heart. Looking at the palace maids and attendants fleeing in panic before his eyes, the chief minister let out a long sigh and followed that guard northward toward the palace.

Along the way, the chief minister saw palm trees blazing fiercely, palaces shrouded in billowing black smoke, guards whose bodies were fully engulfed in flames running and screaming in agony, and palace maids whose lower bodies had been blown clean off by cannonballs.

Throughout the history of Mataram, Yogyakarta had never suffered such a grievous humiliation.

That palace maid, her lower body gone, crawling along dragging blood behind her—it might seem she had merely lost her backside, but in truth what was lost was the Sultan's face.

Whether under the faith of the Kaaba or the earlier mandala system, the stability of the state depended heavily on the authority of the ruler.

In the eyes of the feudal lords and the common people, the Sultan of Mataram was a god-king, and his ruling power was in fact rooted in divine might.

In the eyes of the common people, the Yogyakarta royal palace was the divine realm—how could the divine realm be bombarded by cannons?

After this battle, the authority the Sultan had painstakingly accumulated over more than a decade of diligent rule would likely turn to nothing——

"Whoosh—BOOM!"

Just as he was lamenting inwardly, a cannonball struck dead-center in the western part of the royal city—the residence of the Sultan's harem.

Moments later, flames shot up and black smoke rose. The women of the palace—the Sultan's consorts and concubines, the Princesses—all covered their mouths and noses and fled in panic, screaming and wailing as they ran, like a flock of startled chickens and ducks. Some were disheveled, their pale, tender skin exposed as they moved.

"Allah!" the chief minister wailed in despair.

The guard behind him urged: "We're still within the enemy's firing range—don't stop!"

The chief minister let out another long sigh and continued north. North of the palace lay the rear garden, furnished with pavilions and flower beds, planted with tall palms and coconut trees—the royal family's everyday place of leisure.

By now the garden had become the royal family's refuge. The lawn and flower beds were crowded with people, and those precious flowers—ylang-ylang,

night-blooming cereus, double-petaled jasmine, and the like—were being trampled like weeds.

Princes and Princesses, consorts and palace maids—all wore faces of utter panic, huddled together in clusters. Some were shouting to open the north gate and flee beyond the palace walls.

In the center of the rear garden was a man-made square pond, fed by a river channeled in from outside the city—now reduced to a source of firefighting water.

Royal guards were drawing water at the pond's edge with wooden basins and buckets, splashing it over the flower beds until the ground turned to mud. So many people passed through that the area was trampled into a quagmire.

Seeing the chief minister arrive, the youngest son of Sultan Agung stepped forward and roared: "What in the world is going on? Father entrusted Yogyakarta to you—how could it have come to this?

Who is the enemy? How many are there? Where is our army? What—what in the world is going on?"

By the end, the Sultan's youngest son was nearly hysterical.

The chief minister was struck speechless. Just then a guard from the north gate came running up: "Lord Chief Minister, please come and see——"

The chief minister followed him up the tower, and suddenly his breath caught in his throat as if struck by a thunderbolt from five directions. To the north beyond the outer city, Mataram's granaries were blazing fiercely; a gust of wind carried the rich aroma of roasting rice.

"It's the Han Chinese of Great Xia!" the guard said bitterly, pointing at the marine in the crow-blue uniform.

"It's over—everything is over——" the chief minister stammered. He turned slowly, looking toward the south of the city. His gaze passed over the smoke-wreathed palace to see multiple fires burning in the southern outer city, the fierce flames distorting the very air with heat.

"Allah——what have we brought upon ourselves——" the chief minister wailed hoarsely, two lines of clear tears tracing down his deeply wrinkled face and dripping to the ground.

Great Xia's heated shot bombardment lasted a full ten hours, nearly uninterrupted from early morning until dusk. By the end, three of the five cannons had burst their barrels, and only then did Wang Ruzhong call a halt.

He then ordered his men to regroup within the city and withdraw before evening. His majesty had instructed that he must not be greedy for glory or press his advantage recklessly in this battle.

Now he had struck straight at the enemy's heart and achieved an unprecedented feat of merit. Even a man of Wang Ruzhong's appetite was sated—content and satisfied, he knew when to stop.

Around the zi hour, the entire marine force marched out of the city. No one carried torches—the glow of Yogyakarta's fires alone was more than enough to light the way.

Wang Ruzhong stood on a high platform and looked out. There were no fewer than several dozen fires burning within Yogyakarta city, the brightest and tallest flames being those in the inner city.

The Mataram royal palace was built entirely of teak—fine-grained, rich in oils, extremely resistant to burning—and its heat and brilliance were astonishing, as if Zhurong himself had descended and fiery dragons danced wildly.

Early the next morning, Wang Ruzhong led his men back to the southern beach. Because they had seized a vast quantity of supplies from Yogyakarta's granaries and treasuries, nearly every marine was laden with bundles and bags, making the march extremely slow.

And the Mataram people, their capital burned and destroyed—such a grievous humiliation—would surely muster their forces to hunt them down. The marines were deep in enemy territory alone and had to withdraw as quickly as possible.

Between the weight of the plunder and the speed of the march, Wang Ruzhong knew well which mattered more, so he ordered that the seized rice and

The goods and valuables were all distributed to the villagers along the route.

The villagers along the way were wary at first, but when they realized the Great Xia army truly was giving them food, they all knelt and pressed their palms together in gratitude.

Ever since the two failed sieges of Batavia, the financial burden on the kingdom of Mataram had been heavy. The Sultan had been forced to raise taxes again and again, and the people had long since been driven to misery. Many households grew a dozen or more mu of rice paddies and still starved until their bones poked through their skin. These provisions and valuables were truly help in a time of dire need.

By the time the army reached the mountain pass where the five hundred black-armored troops had been defeated, the distribution of the seized goods had just been completed.

The marines rested for one night. Two days later, they reached the coast without incident and boarded their ships for the return voyage.

The flames at the Yogyakarta palace burned for a full day and a half. When they finally died out on their own, all that remained of the once magnificent and imposing palace was a charred black framework and thick, lingering smoke.

Even the rear garden had been caught in the blaze, burned to a patch of scorched earth.

To escape the fire, the royal family could only move outside the city under escort of the imperial guard—which thoroughly destroyed whatever face they had left before the people.

Four hundred li away, on the beach of the port of Surabaya.

The old Surabaya royal Pangeran Pécik was strolling along the sand with Jiang Wei. Behind the two of them, someone held a parasol, and maidservants carried grapes, mangoes, and coconuts in attendance. Before them lay seawater as clear and translucent as jelly, a gentle sea breeze blowing—sheer comfort.

Of course, if those three Great Xia warships towering like city walls weren't out on the water, Old Pé's mood would have been even better.

After surrendering to Sultan Agung, he had lost his power, but his life had not changed—rather, it had grown more prosperous and leisurely by the day. As time passed, he forgot his homeland and his ambition faded, leaving him with not the slightest interest in the Great Xia envoy's proposal of an "alliance."

"Honored Envoy, look how clear this seawater is, look how white and fine this sand is——"

Jiang Wei forced out a few words of agreement, then could no longer hold back and said bluntly: "This envoy did not come to Surabaya to watch the sea, play in the sand, or drink coconut water!

My king wishes to join with you in a great undertaking, to jointly punish the tyrant—why do you keep dodging the subject and speaking of other things?

Have you already forgotten the pain of Surabaya's fall?"

Old Pé's expression shifted slightly. After a moment he sighed and said: "How could I forget? It's just that the Sultan is a man of great talent and bold vision. Under his rule, the people are prosperous and the army is strong——

Sultan Agung is the divine king of Java. I am merely a mortal—how could I defy the will of the gods——"

Jiang Wei was dumbfounded. After a long pause he said: "That business about the divine king—you actually believe it?"

Old Pé stopped in his tracks, his expression displeased: "Divine nonsense? Honored Envoy, those words are far too arrogant and rude! As far as I know, don't you Han Chinese emperors also have the title 'Son of Heaven'—that is, son of the gods! How is that any different from our Java?"

"This——how is that the same thing?" Jiang Wei was greatly shocked, but this was not the time to argue about the connection between Heaven and man, so he changed tack.

"Fine, let's not speak of gods and spirits. Let's talk about Sultan Agung's civil and military achievements.

Mataram has a population of no less than a million. He raised his army twice and still couldn't take a tiny Batavia—you call that a strong army?

These past few days I've sent people into the city to investigate. The court has collected seventy percent of the taxes owed by the people, and now they're demanding eighty! On top of that, there's a head tax, corvée labor, and conscription into the army.

Farmers don't even have enough grain for their own mouths or for seed. The labor force everywhere is shrinking, and popular resentment is boiling over—you call that a prosperous people?

If you'll only nod your head, you'll have Great Xia's support from without and your royal lineage within. Overthrowing the tyrant, seizing control of Java, and reclaiming the throne—wouldn't that be as easy as turning over your hand?"

Old Pé shot back: "And then be manipulated and pushed around by your Great Xia?"

Jiang Wei said with complete confidence: "Exactly."

"Ha! With just a few cannon ships? Even the Dutch, strong as they are, could do nothing against the Sultan!

If Great Xia were truly as powerful as you claim, then why did your Xia King flee north with his fleet in panic when he heard the Sultan was personally leading the campaign?

You're just trying to drag me in as a shield to share the pressure at Batavia. Do you really think I can't see through it?"

Jiang Wei did not get angry—he laughed instead.

Old Pé, furious at having misspoken, stole a glance at the three warships out at sea. The Candle Dragon's ornately carved, gold-gilded sterncastle dazzled brilliantly in the sunlight, stinging his eyes, and regret churned in his heart.

Just then, a personal guard came trotting over and leaned close to Old Pé's ear: "Pati, Pekalongan, Batang, and Semarang have come under naval bombardment. Most of the three cities have been leveled."

Old Pé's eyes went wide and he blurted out: "This——who did this?"

The guard did not answer, only gestured with his eyes toward the man beside Old Pé.

Old Pé came to his senses and slowly turned to look at Jiang Wei. Jiang Wei was still wearing that calm smile, and the smile carried a deep chill.

"You, you people——"

Before Old Pé could finish, another guard came running—running so fast he tripped over a coconut palm root and got a mouthful of sand, yet he did not dare stop for even a moment, scrambling forward almost on all fours.

Even when the three ports of northern Java were bombarded, the messenger guard had not been so undone. Whatever this was, it had to be something enormous.

Old Pé swallowed hard and stared blankly as the man approached.

The guard ran up and whispered in his ear: "Pati, the royal city of Yogyakarta has been breached. The granaries, stables, and government offices have all been plundered, and the palace has been burned to the ground."

"Ah?" Old Pé's mouth hung wide open, his mind gone blank.

The guard said: "It's true. More than a dozen patis in central Java all received letters begging for aid before the enemy took the city. They say the enemy numbered over ten thousand, and they violated the Sultan's wife and daughters—the people of the royal city all saw it——"

"Ah?" Old Pé's jaw hung so wide it nearly dislocated. His vision swam black, and only a sharp ringing remained in his ears.

Ten thousand men, suddenly appearing beneath the walls of Yogyakarta, defying all common sense and every rule—as if they had been transported there by divine power. Could it be that the Xia King was the true divine king after all?

"This——ah?" Old Pé could not keep his footing and staggered back three steps. He looked at the guard, then at Jiang Wei, feeling that the whole world had become unreal.

As a former Surabaya royal, he knew better than anyone how powerful Sultan Agung was.

A man so iron-fisted, so cruel, so calculating, undefeated in a hundred battles—and he had been humiliated to this degree by his enemies while personally leading a campaign?

Throughout all of Javanese history, since the Majapahit Empire, no shameful defeat had ever been comparable to this.

When a kingdom falls, having the enemy break into your capital and violate your wife and daughters—that is a helpless tragedy.

But for a powerful empire, while its sovereign is away on campaign, to have the enemy breach the capital—that is stupidity of the highest order, the kind of supreme idiocy that could be recorded in the annals and stink for ten thousand years.

And that this stupidity should befall the greatest monarch in the history of Java—the contrast was too stark.

Several minutes passed, and still Old Pé could not believe it. He looked at the unruffled Jiang Wei and confirmed in a trembling voice: "Is this true?"

Jiang Wei said: "Great Xia never does things like violating women."

He did not deny the capture of Yogyakarta.

"This——" Old Pé stood frozen on the spot. After a long while, a complex surge of emotion welled up in his heart.

He looked at Jiang Wei, and saw Jiang Wei looking back at him, a smile on his face but ice in his eyes—as if to say that if he did not cooperate, Agung's fate today would be his tomorrow.

Now, one step forward made him master of Java; one step back meant utter ruin. The choice before him already had its answer in his heart.

He shouted out like one pledging loyalty: "Summon all the generals!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen