Chapter 139

Ever since the Revolutionary Army entered Xixia, Heizi had wanted to join them—they stood tall and armed, crushing the once-mighty Qinsheng Army into dust.

Though their skills were extraordinary, they didn’t kill, burn, or rape like other troops; they treated the common people well, even stood up for them, dragging those corrupt lords who had shit on their heads to trial tables, making the once-arrogant nobles bow like grandchildren before them.

Every time he thought of it, Heizi felt no hero in the world could match them.

Now that he had become one of them, he was naturally overjoyed.

After joining the Revolutionary Army, he found their life far better than he’d imagined—though training was brutal, the rations were never lacking, and the veterans here never bullied new recruits like those in Xixia’s army.

Officers didn’t withhold pay or food, nor did they beat or curse them.

Here, there was no such thing—there was a Soldiers’ Committee, made up of soldiers themselves, who supervised officers; officers couldn’t arbitrarily cut rations or whip them.

Of course, their officers weren’t like that either—though strict, they cared deeply for their men, teaching them everything they knew without holding back.

He often said, “Sweat one more drop in training, shed one less drop of blood on the battlefield—we’re still young, we still have to go home and marry wives.”

This feeling was like that of a father—strict, yes, but you knew everything he did was for you.

After several months of training in the new recruit camp, they were assigned to frontline units; Comrade Guo was about to lead them in liberating the impoverished masses across the entire Jin region.

There, not only Jin’s scholar-gentry lords had fled, but also Mongol and Xixia lords—they had gone there to beg for reinforcements.

When he first entered the prisoner camp, he’d heard that the Revolutionary Army in Mongolia had just driven out the lords who had shit on their heads and built a country where the people ruled themselves; the Xixia king, incited by those Mongol lords, had attacked them.

To let lords remain lords and slaves remain slaves, the Mongol Revolutionary Army had marched in and liberated Xixia; every time he thought of it, he still felt grateful to those Mongol lords—after all, if they hadn’t urged Xixia to attack, the Revolutionary Army wouldn’t have arrived so soon; back then, he’d probably have waited years before eating his fill.

But if they came with a huge army to drag the lords out of prison and let them climb back on their heads, they’d fight to the death against those men.

According to the political instructor, those men hadn’t come yet because the Revolutionary Army in Jin had also risen in rebellion to overthrow the lords.

But once that rebellion was crushed, Jin would send a massive army to drag the lords out of prison and let them shit on their heads again.

Fighting in Jin wasn’t just to liberate its people—it was for their own future lives.

Heizi gripped tightly the rifle named Wu Liu Ban; this weapon gave him immense confidence—after all, even among the elite Qinsheng Army guarding the capital, archers were among the most formidable warriors.

These men came from wealthy families, raised on fine rice and white flour since childhood; a single punch could crush a man’s skull.

Even their best archers could shoot only 120 steps; if the enemy wore iron armor, their arrows barely scratched like tickling—plus, after three or four shots, they couldn’t shoot anymore; further shooting would blister their fingers and paralyze their arms.

But they could fire their rifles four hundred steps, effortlessly killing armored soldiers who had once ruled the battlefield.

With a Wu Liu Ban, one man could take on ten Qinsheng soldiers; three men in a san-san formation could confidently chase down a hundred Qinsheng soldiers.

A formation of twenty-seven men could annihilate a hundred Qinsheng soldiers—but they weren’t three or twenty-seven; they were three hundred thousand.

In the past, they’d always heard the older generation say how powerful the Jin army was—that “ten thousand Jurchens were invincible,” that men were dragons and horses tigers—now they’d see for themselves just how formidable this Jin army really was.

Heizi gazed eastward, silently thinking: “Comrades of the Revolutionary Army in the Central Plains, hold on a little longer—we’re about to reach the battlefield.”

Three hundred thousand Xixia troops marched straight toward Guan-Shaan; the commander of Xiaoguan, Wanyan Hu Ke, cursed aloud: “These Mongols really know how to pick their moment—coming right when our Jin is in chaos.”

These days, rebellion had erupted within Jin; the capital was besieged, and regional command posts had sent troops to rescue it—but Shandong, Henan, and lands south of the Yellow River had fallen to the rebels.

He’d been wondering whether to send troops to rescue Zhongdu, but if he did, what if the Mongols attacked? In fact, he hadn’t been wrong to worry.

The Mongols had indeed come—and by the look of it, thirty thousand strong.

Looking out at the endless sea of troops, dust-choked and mostly Mediterranean-skulled, Wanyan Hu Ke pounded the wall in fury: “In just half a year, that Guo Jing has organized two hundred thousand Xixia troops to fight for him—is he even human?”

Thirty thousand troops were a force even Great Jin had to muster all its strength to meet—and yet their own country was still in civil war.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic—the Xixia troops outside just defected; their combat effectiveness is weak. As long as we hold firm, once the rebellion inside is crushed, reinforcements will arrive anytime.”

Wanyan Hu Ke comforted himself inwardly and prepared to defend the city.

The moment the siege began, he fully realized how profoundly he’d underestimated the Mongols’ strength—he’d thought the cannons on the walls would terrify the enemy, but reality far surpassed his expectations: the enemy’s artillery was devastating, shattering the city’s cannons in an instant, rendering them utterly useless.

Below the walls, three hundred thousand Mongol soldiers each held a rifle, lined up in perfect formation, unleashing a torrent of fire like a downpour; the archers on the walls couldn’t even raise their heads to return fire—any slight exposure meant instant death. They were forced to crouch behind the ramparts, helplessly watching the enemy advance, filled with powerlessness and terror.

The Mongols advanced like a breaking dam, effortlessly storming the walls and engaging the defenders in close combat.

The only casualties inflicted on these Mongol and Xixia troops came from hand-to-hand fighting between defenders and attackers.

How ironic.

Wanyan Hu Ke did not retreat; as a bloodline of the Wanyan clan, his pride and dignity would never allow him to flee in disgrace.

If the city stands, I stand; if the city falls, I fall with it.

“Brothers, I, Wanyan Hu Ke, descendant of Crown Prince Aguda, if I cannot hold this city against the enemy, then let us die with it—brothers, for Great Jin, charge with me!”

Wanyan Hu Ke roared, like a tiger descending the mountain, shaking the air around him; without hesitation, he seized his battle blade, its edge gleaming with lethal cold, as if it could cleave through any obstacle—he led the charge straight into the surging enemy.

Behind him, his personal guards, fired with passion, followed without fear, charging headlong into the enemy.