Chapter 382: Mataram's Revenge

Lin Qian finished speaking and immediately rose to leave.

Surya shouted in despair from the meeting room: "If that's the case, do you dare to fight? Both armies deployed in formation, an honorable battle—don't hide behind your strong walls, like a man..."

Lin Qian had already walked out the door.

Inside the meeting room, the Great Xia officer in charge of guiding the way said: "Honored envoy, please go ahead. The kitchen didn't prepare you any lunch."

Surya left, cursing and muttering.

Behind the side of the meeting room, Li Yu flew into a rage upon hearing this and said: "What a villain! Does he really think we're afraid of him? Your Majesty, this subordinate is willing to lead troops out to fight." Lu Ruoteng said: "The Sultan of Java places tremendous importance on face. Your Majesty's burning of Yogyakarta, the performances atop the city walls, the mockery during negotiations—all of it is meant to trap Sultan Agung in a dilemma where fighting is difficult and retreating is impossible.

If the general rashly leaves the city, he'll be playing right into Sultan Agung's hands. You must not act on impulse."

Lin Qian said: "Exactly so. Wang Ruzhong's burning of the Yogyakarta palace is like Sun Wukong wreaking havoc in the Heavenly Palace—all the feudal lords of Mataram are watching Sultan Agung's reaction closely.

If he swallows his pride and leaves, rebels like the royal house of Surabaya will spring up everywhere, and his throne will have reached its end.

If I were him, before withdrawing my troops, I would need a small victory at any cost, then blow it up into a great triumph, and pretend the army was returning in glorious victory—only then could I win over the masses. So the initiative is in our hands. We must keep our composure."

Li Yu said indignantly: "So we can only sit and wait?"

Lin Qian said: "Who said anything about sitting and waiting? Send word to the puppet craftsmen—modeling on the Mataram envoy, make another puppet and have it perform atop the walls too, with the gongs and drums even louder.

Also, tell Aban to keep his spirits up these next few days. Wasn't he complaining there weren't enough targets? This time, let him kill to his heart's content!"

The moment Surya stepped into the Mataram camp, he heard the sound of gongs and drums coming from the walls of Batavia.

He turned to look and saw that another puppet wearing a black turban had appeared on the wall, with a white banner nearly two zhang tall erected behind it—clearly an imitation of the Mataram envoy.

Beneath the white banner, the envoy kept kowtowing and prostrating himself before the Great Xia puppet, then pressed his palms together in a gesture of supplication.

At the entrance of the camp barracks, the soldiers looked at the city walls, then at Surya, their gazes heavy with meaning.

Surya couldn't talk his way out of it, and was so furious he nearly spat blood.

He had only just left Batavia—no more than an hour had passed—and already the puppet mocking him had been made. The Great Xia's efficiency at slander was simply too high.

As he walked toward the Sultan's tent, the eyes of every general and soldier along the way turned to him, their stares prickling his back like needles.

Upon entering the tent, Surya truthfully reported everything he had seen in the city.

Sultan Agung was so enraged that his vision went black before his eyes.

Bahu, forgetting all decorum between lord and subject, shouted: "Shameless! Utterly shameless! The island of Java is our land—they seized it by force, and yet they act so self-righteous. This is the height of shamelessness!"

Some generals were so enraged they burst into tears on the spot, kneeling and pressing their palms together as they said: "Your Majesty, let us fight them to the death!"

The moment these words were spoken, they won the agreement of every general present.

"Yes! Fight them to the death!"

"Your Majesty, this humble servant would rather die in battle than retreat! Tomorrow, this humble servant will personally lead men to storm the city!"

Sultan Agung pressed one hand to his chest, his jaw clenched so tightly he nearly ground his teeth to powder. He took a deep breath, forcing down his fury, and said: "Transmit my order—the royal guard withdraws at dawn tomorrow!"

"What?"

The generals stood frozen in shock.

Bahu tried to dissuade him: "Your Majesty, if we forcibly strike camp and retreat, the army will fall into chaos!"

Sultan Agung said: "We will follow the Ciliwung River, retreat ten li upstream and form our lines, gathering the scattered remnants, and set ambushes on both banks of the river.

When the enemy sees our army in disarray, they will surely pursue. When the ambush springs, we can turn defeat into victory!"

Bahu's worry turned to joy, and he praised: "Your Majesty, this... this is truly a brilliant plan!"

Surya's eyes lit up, and he said fiercely: "The Great Xia are arrogant and conceited to the extreme—they will surely fall for the trap!"

The next morning at dawn, under strict orders, the Mataram royal guard began striking camp and withdrawing.

The Pateh accompanying the army were dumbfounded. They had all opposed the withdrawal and made their preparations sluggishly, never imagining the Sultan would truly abandon them. Within the Mataram army, the royal guard was the strongest fighting force—once they left, the black-turbaned troops of the various Pateh would be no match for the Great Xia.

Thus, after the royal guard left the camp, the black-turbaned troops began frantically packing their supplies. With time so short, and the white-turbaned auxiliary troops already scattering, the remaining soldiers fled, broke ranks, and brawled—the camp dissolved into utter chaos.

On a high ground south of the camp, Sultan Agung silently watched the scene.

The bait had been cast. Now they just had to wait for the Great Xia army to take the hook.

"The Great Xia army has left the city!" Bahu said in a low voice.

Sultan Agung raised his telescope and looked north. He saw the gates of Batavia swing open, and thousands upon thousands of Great Xia soldiers marching out in formation, like a river of crow-black.

The corners of Sultan Agung's mouth curled slightly—the Great Xia army had indeed taken the bait. He then put away his telescope and said: "Pass the order to hasten the march. Set up the ambush as quickly as possible!" "Woo—"

A deep, muffled conch horn sounded, and the Second Battalion of the New Army advanced in a horizontal line toward the Mataram camp.

At this time, over ten thousand Mataram soldiers still remained, some unable to find their superiors, some still fighting over supplies on the spot, and others standing in formation awaiting orders.

As the Great Xia army drew closer and closer, these soldiers gradually felt fear and began fleeing outside the camp.

By the time the two sides were two hundred paces apart, the Mataram soldiers had almost entirely scattered, offering not the slightest resistance.

Within the formation, the various Battalion Commanders saw their battle merits fleeing away and slapped their thighs, shouting in regret.

But there was nothing to be done—the Mataram army had broken into scattered fragments fleeing in every direction, while the Great Xia army advanced in locked-step formation. They could chase for a lifetime and never catch them.

In the center of the army, Li Yu said in a deep voice: "Pass the order down—no one is to leave formation to pursue. Anyone who disobeys will be severely punished without mercy!"

Two messengers mounted fast horses and galloped to the left and right ends of the line, shouting the order at the top of their lungs.

"No leaving formation! Disobedience means severe punishment!"

A Battalion Commander had just been about to order a charge; hearing this, all he could do was let out a heavy sigh: "Alas!"

After the time it takes to eat a meal, the Great Xia army had marched to the Mataram camp, and as far as the eye could see, everything lay in utter disarray.

The outer chevaux-de-frise lay toppled in a crooked heap, the interior was filled with tilted tents, and rattan shields and spears were stacked in rows and bundles against the sides. Half-eaten coconut rice balls, empty water gourds, and lengths of burnt matchcord scattered in the mud were everywhere.

Inside the tents were large quantities of batik head-wraps—the Mataram soldiers had left in such haste they had even forgotten their most important turbans.

In some camp areas there were sacks of paddy rice; some had been set alight, while others lay neatly stacked, with cattle and goats leisurely grazing beside them.

Judging from this miserable scene, the Mataram army had absolutely not feigned defeat to lure the enemy—this was a genuine, full-scale rout.

A Battalion Commander said to Li Yu: "General, that open ground over there used to be Sultan Agung's tent. Before, that area had the most red-turbaned troops, but now it's completely clean. That old bastard Agung must have seen the situation was hopeless and abandoned his troops to flee!"

Sultan Agung's tent was made of teak with a gilded top, surrounded by numerous red-turbaned guards—extremely conspicuous, and the Great Xia officers and soldiers remembered its location well.

Now the golden-domed main tent had been completely dismantled and carried away, leaving only the compacted circular earth and the soil holes where the wooden stakes had been fixed.

Another staff officer immediately clasped his hands and said, "General, if we split our forces now, we can still catch them."

Li Yu looked toward the direction the Mataram men had fled—upstream of the Ciliwung River, an immense, boundless rainforest—and could not help recalling the king's warning. That staff officer continued to urge, "General, even if we don't commit the whole army, at least send out the vanguard scouts to pursue."

Li Yu nodded and said, "Fine, do it that way—send out all the vanguard scout banner companies!"

The messenger galloped off with the order, and three vanguard scout banner companies swiftly left the formation, plunging headlong into the rainforest.

The routed Mataram soldiers were all loaded down with plundered supplies and could not run fast at all; they were soon caught by the vanguard scout companies, and cries of battle and screams of agony quickly rang out through the rainforest.

But Li Yu refused to send any more troops in pursuit no matter what, and simply made camp at the edge of the rainforest.

When he had left the city, Lin Qian had instructed him that even avoiding contact with the enemy counted as merit, but that any small defeat would be severely punished—so even though he was eager to distinguish himself, he dared not risk stepping into the rainforest.

And while Li Yu's main force cautiously made camp, those three vanguard scout companies were charging ahead at full speed, chasing a full five or six li in one breath, killing no fewer than several hundred routed Mataram soldiers along the way.

Unfortunately, everyone was traveling on two legs, and the routed Mataram men were locals—when they saw the Xia soldiers closing in, they dumped their supplies and ran like the wind through the rainforest. After five or six li, the vanguard scout companies could basically no longer catch them, and could only turn back in frustration to report, probing the road ahead as they went.

Though the routed Mataram soldiers had not suffered heavy casualties, they had been scared out of their wits by the pursuit and kept running wildly, even racing past the royal guard's main camp and continuing their flight southward.

In the rainforest south of the royal guard, two hundred Siraya mercenaries were quietly waiting for their prey. Moments later, the routed Mataram soldiers appeared like a startled herd of beasts.

One black-turbaned soldier happened to be running right beneath the tree where Aban was hiding. Aban let out an excited shout and leaped down from the tree, his heavy body of nearly one hundred eighty jin landing squarely on top of that black-turbaned soldier.

The black-turbaned soldier had no time to react, crushed to the ground by the sudden immense weight.

The sound of bones cracking traveled up through the soles of his feet. Aban stood up, raised his foot, and stamped down on the black-turbaned soldier's throat.

The black-turbaned soldier did not even let out a single cry of agony—blood gushed endlessly from his mouth, his face instantly swelled to a purplish red, his eyes bulged and filled with bloodshot veins, and in moments he had lost all breath.

This had all happened so fast—like a falcon striking a rabbit—that the surrounding Mataram routed soldiers were momentarily frozen in place.

Aban swung his Siraya sword in a fierce chop with his left hand—the heavy blade forged of Foye fine steel split the skull of the man beside him like splitting a watermelon, the blade embedding all the way down to his nose. Red and white flesh and blood sprayed out from the wound like a fountain, raining blood all around. At the same time, more Siraya mercenaries dropped down from the treetops, some with war swords, some with javelins, beginning their slaughter without mercy. When Great Xia soldiers fought and killed, it was for duty and military merit—but this pack of Siraya war-fanatics did it purely for love of the craft.

Ever since becoming mercenaries, with food and money no longer a worry, these Siraya men spent their leisure time doing only one thing: honing their killing techniques. War swords, javelins, crossbows, daggers—they were skilled in them all.

And any surplus money beyond food and drink, they used entirely to upgrade their equipment.

Years of patient accumulation finally paid off today—every Siraya mercenary was beside himself with excitement.

But the routed Mataram soldiers had long since been scared out of their wits. Though they vastly outnumbered the Siraya mercenaries, not a single one had any thought of resistance—they all turned and fled. The Siraya men loosed javelins and crossbow bolts alike, pursuing relentlessly from behind, their bodies moving as nimbly as apes, their camouflage-clad forms darting at high speed through the green forest. The Mataram men could not even see them clearly, and fled back to the royal guard's main camp wailing like ghosts and howling like wolves.

After the routed troops had crashed through twice, the area around the ambush zone had become so noisy and chaotic that the ambush had turned into a joke.

Sultan Agung could only order his commanders to gather the troops and prepare to cross the river.

The Ciliwung River ran north to south. Sultan Agung had placed ambush troops on both the east and west banks—to return to Mataram, they would need to cross the river and head east.

As the army was crossing the river, a scout happened to arrive with a report: "Your Majesty, the main force of the Great Xia army is camped downstream of the Ciliwung River, near our siege camp." "Understood." Sultan Agung's tone was heavy.

He had originally intended to use the routed troops as bait to lure the Great Xia army into pursuit, but not only had the Great Xia army refused to take the bait, they had even eaten part of his fishhook. Now they were camping outside the rainforest—both a temptation and a provocation.

If he withdrew his troops now, it would no longer be a voluntary lifting of the siege, but a panicked flight after defeat.

"Damn it!" Sultan Agung clenched the hilt of his kris with all his strength, a deep sense of powerlessness welling up in his heart.

Compared to when he had been beneath the city walls, he was now even more trapped—unable to advance or retreat.

He felt like a moth that had fallen into a spider's web—the more he struggled, the tighter he was bound.

Just as Sultan Agung was seething with frustration, a fast horse galloped into the camp and gradually came to a stop. The rider tumbled from the horse's back. The horse, startled, neighed and ran off. Looking closely, they saw a javelin protruding from the rider's body—a fine steel head, a pitch-black shaft—entering through his back and emerging through his chest, piercing clean through. His mouth, nose, and chest were covered in blood; he was already dead.

The royal guards searched his body for a moment and found a blood-stained secret letter, which they handed to Sultan Agung.

The hand Sultan Agung took the letter with was trembling slightly.

He forced himself to stay calm and opened the letter. It detailed in full how the Great Xia army had burned the royal capital to the ground, and also spoke of the old Surabaya royal house raising troops in rebellion. Shock, humiliation, rage, grief—a host of complex emotions flooded into his heart all at once. Sultan Agung felt his vision go dark, the world spinning around him.

His legs went weak beneath him, and like a drowning man he reached out and grabbed wildly—fortunately catching hold of a vine to steady himself.

He swept his gaze around him. His ministers, generals, and soldiers were all staring at him in astonishment, and when they met the Sultan's gaze, they all lowered their heads in fearful deference.

Sultan Agung picked up the letter and read it through once more. The paper had been soaked through with the messenger's blood, staining the Sultan's hands a mournful red.

His hands trembled beyond his control.

Before he had made an enemy of Great Xia, he had been the king of the land and the volcano, the Sultan revered by ten thousand, the greatest conqueror in the history of Java. Why, in less than a single short month, had everything changed? He himself had become a clown, and his nation was plunged into irredeemable ruin.

There had not even been a decisive battle yet—why was his proud Mataram army already showing every sign of defeat, trapped in the rainforest, unable to advance or retreat?

At this point, even cutting off the tail to save the body was likely no longer possible.

He was already standing at the edge of a cliff—even if a tiger were behind him, he would have no choice but to draw his sword and face it.

At this thought, a fierce light flashed in Sultan Agung's eyes, and his expression gradually hardened. He abruptly drew his kris and shouted, "Soldiers! Gather around! Raise your heads—your Sultan has something to say!"

Hearing this, the ministers and generals around him, along with the royal guards, all crowded forward.

Sultan Agung stood on a tall section of teak root and said, "Soldiers, you must all be wondering in your hearts why the ever-victorious Mataram army has had to retreat again and again in the face of the Great Xia army.

It is because the despicable Great Xia people launched a sneak attack on the capital city of Yogyakarta!"

The moment these words were spoken, the troops erupted in uproar.

Bahu hastily hurried forward and said in a low voice, "Your Majesty, Your Majesty, this cannot be said."

Sultan Agung paid him no heed and continued, "I had intended to bring you back to your homeland, to protect your property, to defend your wives and children!" The families of the royal guards were all living near Yogyakarta. Hearing the Sultan's words, they all secretly nodded. The army that had just been hanging its head in dejection suddenly raised its eyes and looked toward their Sultan.

Agung deliberately spoke slowly, so that the soldiers could pass his words down through the ranks.

"But alas, we were one step too late—the capital has already fallen to Great Xia. This man was the messenger who came to report it."

Sultan Agung's tone was heavy with grief as he pointed at the messenger lying on the ground, pierced through by the javelin. Then he raised the blood-stained letter in his hand, suddenly raising his voice in a tearful accusation.

"The cruel, greedy Great Xia people, in our homeland, raped and plundered for three full days.

They seized every last grain of rice, burned every field, tore down every house, and killed every living soul they laid eyes on!" "What?!" The army erupted in uproar. Everyone was whispering to one another, and some collapsed into sobs. On the verge of mutiny, Bahu watched the troops, sweating cold with tension.

But there was not a trace of fear on Sultan Agung's face. He roared, "At this point, we have nothing left to lose—only blood for blood, tooth for tooth. We will make the bandits who ravaged our homeland pay the price.

We will have revenge!

The Dutch, the Great Xia—these foreigners have occupied Java for far too long. They have plundered countless treasures and owe us countless lives. Tomorrow at dawn, we will take everything back!"

By this point, Sultan Agung's face was flushed red, the veins on his neck bulging, his expression nearly manic.

He extended his left palm, then slowly drew the kris across it—in an instant, blood streamed down his hand.

"I, Sultan Agung, swear by blood here that when battle comes I will personally lead you in the charge, and I will lead you to slaughter every single Daxia man!" After a brief silence, the entire army erupted in deafening roars and cheers—tens of thousands shouting together, the sound shaking the rainforest, hardly seeming human. The next morning at dawn.

Outside the walls of Batavia, morning mist wrapped the countryside like wet gauze. Shadows of trees loomed thick at the edge of the rainforest, not a sound of human voice to be heard, only the occasional flutter of forest birds' wings. The reveille had not yet sounded, but Li Yu, habitually an early riser, was already practicing with a large spear.

Around the Daxia camp, a sentry stood every ten paces, facing the rainforest on alert. On the temporary watchtowers, soldiers also stood guard with weapons at the ready. The early-morning camp was extremely quiet, broken only by the gurgling of porridge cooking in the mess.

In the rainforest, several hundred Tarik scouts led the way, driving back Daxia's forward picket flag squads.

Several li behind the scouts, forty thousand Mataram soldiers advanced slowly along the banks of the Ciliwung River, long spears slanted against their shoulders, batik headcloths wrapped over the lower halves of their faces, their breathing pressed to an extreme softness.

Sultan Agung stood amid the army, hand resting on his kris sword hilt, staring toward the direction of Batavia. The humiliations he had suffered flashed through his mind, and he silently swore he would reclaim them all at once!

Suddenly, a sky-rocket burst sounded in the distance—this was the Daxia army's warning signal.

Forty thousand men on the march could never be hidden; that he had managed to reach this point using the rainforest and the heavy fog was already enough.

"Beat the drums!" Sultan Agung said in a low voice.

The command passed down level by level, and dull drumbeats immediately sounded through the rainforest. The drums were low-pitched but carried extremely far—several dozen of them across the whole army, beaten together, the sound shaking the surrounding wilds, leaves trembling, birds scattering and beasts fleeing, the momentum awe-inspiring.

Listening to that thumping rhythm, even men's heartbeats could not help but quicken.

"Swoosh—crack!"

Another sky-rocket rose into the air from the rainforest.

"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!" From the watchtower, the Daxia sentries shouted at the top of their lungs.

"Wooo—" The grim whistle of the conch horn sounded.

Soldiers from the entire camp swarmed out through the camp gates, and from every corner of the camp came the sounds of officers forming up their men and barking reprimands.

"Grab your guns, form ranks! Get into formation fast!"

"Squad leader, take your men and tear down the tents—make it quick!"

"Everyone, check your weapons and ammunition! When we make contact, follow my commands!"

"Brothers, the time to earn our merit has come!"

"Artillery, take position! Load the shells, fast!"

Li Yu had already thrown down his large spear and hurried to the central command, asking: "What's going on?"

The staff officer attached to the army spoke at breakneck speed: "The Mataram have counterattacked—their main force is just three li away."

A Battalion Commander cursed: "Why report only now? What about the three forward pickets ahead? Where the hell did they all die?"

"The enemy traveled light, and with the heavy morning fog in the woods, the pickets got tangled up fighting the enemy scouts—that's why the report was delayed."

Li Yu said: "This is not the time to assign blame. Form up the whole army and hold the position."

That Battalion Commander said: "General, why not withdraw to the foot of Batavia's walls and defend from behind the fortifications?"

"Too late for that." said the staff officer.

For already the Mataram war drums could be heard sounding in the distance.

Li Yu looked toward the direction of the war drums—through the hazy morning mist between heaven and earth, the distant Salak volcano was already invisible.

About two li away, at the boundary between the rainforest and abandoned sugarcane fields, countless figures surged out from the mist and from behind the trees—long spears raised at an angle, rattan shields linked into a wall of yellow-brown, marching north over dew and thatch grass, their footsteps shaking the very leaves to trembling.

Then the drums stopped, and the Mataram army halted, erupting in a mountain-toppling, ocean-roaring cry of killing intent. Some struck their shields with spears, shouting without end. One man doing this merely felt primitive and savage—but the Mataram army numbered forty thousand, their front stretching seven or eight li across, the human tide extending backward until it vanished into the sea of trees, seeming utterly boundless.

With so many shouting the killing cry at once, the sound struck the eardrums like a heavy hammer, a ringing sensation reaching to the crown of the skull, chests feeling tight, sand and gravel trembling slightly. The Daxia Second Battalion numbered only five thousand—outnumbered eight to one by the Mataram army, their frontage not even half the width of the Mataram's.

Even Li Yu could not help but show a grave expression. He could not understand how the Mataram—who just yesterday had been chased and slaughtered like drowned dogs—had recovered their morale in the space of a single night.

Could it be that the Mataram army's miserable state yesterday had truly been a feigned defeat to lure them in?

At this thought, Li Yu could not help but feel a wave of lingering fear. Had he not heeded the King's warning and advanced blindly, he and his five thousand brothers would likely all be dead men beneath Mataram blades by now.

His Battalion Commander urged: "General, we can use the method of alternating advances to gradually fall back to the city walls."

"Alternating advances" was a tactic of the Ming army's chariot camps—in simple terms, alternating cover for movement.

But the Ming army rarely used this tactic, after all, when two armies clashed, what was being contested was morale. Alternating cover while advancing was one thing, but once you began retreating, it could all too easily devolve into a full-army rout.

Moreover, since its founding, the New Army had been invincible wherever it went, never once having voluntarily retreated. In Li Yu's view, though the Mataram were numerous, they were nothing but a pack of chickens and clay dogs—what was there to fear?

Why should he yield to their edge?

Li Yu gave the order: "Form the angled-line formation!"

On the walls of Batavia, Lin Qian watched through his telescope as the New Army's right wing advanced toward the Ciliwung River while the left wing bent backward, anchoring its defense near the moat, forming a rough L-shape—this was a formation for protecting the flanks when frontage was insufficient.

Lin Qian already understood Li Yu's intent.

Beside him, the Tagu puppet artist asked cautiously: "Your Majesty, shall we still put on the show today?"

Lin Qian said: "We perform! Why wouldn't we!"

Soon, gongs and drums began sounding on the city walls again, and the yellow-turbaned Sultan puppet resumed its clownish antics.

At the same time, Lin Qian said to Geng Wu: "Fetch Fan Ti for me—make it fast."

Within the time it takes to burn one stick of incense, Fan Ti, still in his nightclothes, was carried directly up onto the city wall by four personal guards.

His face had gone bloodless with terror. When they set him down, his legs could barely hold him steady, and he immediately begged: "Y-your... Your Highness, I, I, I still have a family, a wife and children, I beg, beg, beg—"

Lin Qian cut him off: "This is an emergency—my apologies for the rough treatment. To raise the water level of the lower Ciliwung River by two meters, how long would it take?"

"Ah?" Fan Ti did not understand why Lin Qian would care about water conservancy in the midst of a battle between two armies, but he still estimated honestly: "Under normal circumstances, only three or four hours would be needed. But now the Mataram have diverted part of the river's flow, reducing the water volume—at the fastest it would take... six hours. Yes, yes."

Lin Qian said: "Good!"

Then he turned to Geng Wu and said: "Send word to the navy—all Sea Wolf ships are to sail into the Batavia canal immediately!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Handwritten