Chapter 812: The Siege of Tongwan

Just past the hour of Zi, the darkness outside Tongwan City was so thick it felt as if someone had splashed a layer of concentrated ink across the sky.

The iron furnaces inside the workshop were burning at their peak; the charcoal in the hearths was blown to a searing, incandescent white by the airflow from the bellows, and waves of heat surged out from the furnace mouths, drenching the nearby craftsmen in sweat.

The first batch of giant iron-wood composite pipes was taking shape.

The old master craftsman squatted on the ground, directing his six apprentices to fit a hammered, arc-shaped sheet of iron onto the outer wall of a hollowed-out pine pipe core. The gaps between the iron and the wood were coated repeatedly with triple-boiled tung oil, filled with raw lacquer, and finally secured with two arm-thick iron hoops, locked tight with rivets.

Each pipe section was one zhang and two chi long, with a diameter of just over two chi; it took two strong men working together to lift one.

The old master reached inside the pipe to feel the inner wall, rubbed his fingertips back and forth over a seam, and turned to roar at the apprentices behind him.

"This seam isn't sealed tight! Brush on more tung oil! I want every ridge your fingers can feel filled smooth—if a single breath of air leaks in, the Zhuguo will have your heads!"

The apprentices scrambled over, carrying pots of tung oil.

Fifty paces outside the workshop, the Ming Guards who usually patrolled day and night had all been withdrawn, and even the sentry posts were empty.

Moonlight shone on the empty patrol paths; there was nothing but the sound of the wind.

It was far too quiet.

In a patch of withered grass three hundred paces from the workshop's north wall, twelve black figures lay motionless on the ground. Each had a pottery jar, tightly wrapped in animal hide, strapped to their back, with an oil-soaked hemp fuse protruding from the mouth.

Blazing Oil.

The leader of the suicide warriors pressed their face into a gap in the grass to observe for ten breaths, then turned back and signaled for the others to advance.

The twelve men slithered out of the grass like snakes, crouching low, their footsteps so light they made almost no sound.

They crossed the first low wall.

They crossed the second.

The workshop's north wall was right before them, and there wasn't even a shadow of a guard on the ramparts.

A nearly imperceptible curve appeared at the corner of the leader's mouth.

They drew a fire striker from their waist and rubbed the wax seal off the head with their palm; a faint spark emerged from the bamboo tube.

They raised the striker, aiming for the fuse of the Blazing Oil jar on their back.

Then, their hand stopped.

Something was wrong.

The patrolling Ming Guards were gone, the sentry posts were empty, and even the lanterns on the wall hadn't been lit.

The entire outer perimeter of the workshop looked as if it had been deliberately dismantled.

There was no such thing as a defense this stupid.

Their heart gave a violent jolt, and their left hand reached for the short blade at their waist.

It was too late.

A moon-white shadow dropped silently from the wall, not even bending a blade of grass upon landing.

Hongye's figure cast a fleeting silhouette in the moonlight; her right arm extended from her narrow sleeve, and the blade of her fine steel short sword captured all the moonlight in that instant.

The first strike was a horizontal cut.

The fire striker in the leader's hand, along with the four fingers gripping it, flew away, and blood sprayed from the stump of their palm in a black arc under the moonlight.

They opened their mouth to sound an alarm.

The second strike had already pierced their throat.

The tip of the sword protruded from the back of their neck, bringing out half an inch of steel, and the moonlight shattered into cold silver on the blade.

As Hongye pulled the sword from their throat, she tapped her toes lightly on the ground and shifted three feet to the right.

The second suicide warrior had reacted quickly; the moment they saw their companion fall, they slashed out with their short blade, the edge cutting through the air toward the spot where Hongye had just been standing.

They slashed at empty air.

Hongye had already appeared to their left, her short sword piercing the armpit of their sword-wielding arm at an extremely tricky angle. The cloth armor was thinnest there; the tip penetrated the fabric and muscle, severing a major artery.

The warrior's arm lost its strength, and the short blade slipped from their hand.

Hongye kicked their knee with her left foot, sending them sprawling to the ground, and followed through with a swipe of her blade across the back of their neck.

Three breaths.

Two lives.

The remaining ten suicide warriors finally recovered from their initial shock during those two breaths; they abandoned the plan to light the fires, and ten short blades were drawn almost simultaneously as they surrounded Hongye.

Hongye did not retreat.

Her figure wove rapidly through the encirclement of ten men, her moon-white sleeves dragging a series of dazzling afterimages through the moonlight.

Every swing of her short sword took the shortest path; there were no flashy moves, no wasted motions, and every strike landed precisely on the most vulnerable parts of the human body.

The side of the neck, the armpit, the inside of the elbow, the back of the knee.

The third warrior's throat was sliced horizontally.

The fourth warrior had three fingers of their sword-hand severed, followed by the sword tip piercing through their jaw and penetrating the entire cranial cavity.

The fifth warrior attempted a sneak attack from behind; their short blade was less than half a foot from Hongye's heart.

A crossbow bolt shot out from the shadows on the workshop wall, pinning them through the temple with a hum; the arrowhead protruded from the other side, nailing them to the low wall behind.

In the shadows on the wall, three Beiwei Death Guards held repeating crossbows, the strings on the arms still vibrating slightly.

Two more bolts flew out, piercing the chests of two warriors who were trying to turn and flee.

Hongye's short sword finished off the last three.

Clean and efficient, without a hint of hesitation.

From the first strike to the last warrior falling, no more than half a cup of tea's time had passed.

The sound of hammers inside the workshop had never stopped; the craftsmen working with their heads down didn't even know what had happened outside.

Hongye wiped the blood from her short sword on the lapel of the nearest corpse and sheathed it back into her sleeve.

She looked up and nodded slightly toward the Beiwei Death Guards on the wall.

Gao Jiong's figure emerged from the shadows of the workshop's side door; he lowered his head to scan the corpses littering the ground, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Miss Hongye has fine skills; these twelve dog lives weren't even enough for you to warm up, were they?"

Hongye did not reply; she turned and walked back to the pillar by the workshop door and stood still.

Gao Jiong squatted down, searched the suicide warrior leader's corpse, and fished a palm-sized bronze plaque from the lining of their belt; the back of the plaque was engraved with the character "Jing" in seal script.

"The insignia of the Jingnan Guard of the Qi State Shadow Department."

He gripped the plaque in his hand, stood up, and walked into the workshop.

The old master craftsman was squatting on the ground checking the seal of the third pipe section; hearing footsteps behind him, he turned around and, seeing Gao Jiong's blood-stained hands, shrank back a step in fright.

"L-Lord Gao, what happened outside?"

Gao Jiong tossed the bronze plaque in his hand twice and jerked his chin toward the outside of the workshop.

"Nothing major. A few flies wanted to fly in, so they were swatted."

He walked up to the old master and looked down at the pipe sections that had already taken shape.

"How is the progress?"

The old master gripped his hammer tightly, his voice trembling but his speech rapid.

"Reporting to my Lord, the first batch of twelve pipe sections is complete. We've tested the seals three times; not a drop leaks."

He pointed with his hammer handle to the pipes stacked neatly in the corner of the workshop.

"According to the Zhuguo's requirements, each section is one zhang and two chi; twelve sections make over fourteen zhang. We are still far from the total length of five li, but as long as the iron and wood keep coming, my men will work in three shifts without stopping, and we will definitely finish within ten days."

Gao Jiong patted him on the shoulder.

"If you can't finish, you know the consequences."

The old master's knees shook, and he gritted his teeth and nodded.

"Even if I die by the furnace, I will build these pipes for the Zhuguo."

Gao Jiong turned and walked out of the workshop, stopping at the door.

"Cut off those twelve heads and hang them on the flagpole outside the workshop."

He walked into the darkness without looking back.

"Let those rats who haven't given up yet see: in my Duke's workshop, not even a fly can get in."

The next morning, Chen Yan personally led a transport convoy consisting of fifty ox carts, carrying the first batch of giant siphons from Tongwan City to the Heaven Pool Precipice.

The dark, heavy iron-wood pipes on the ox carts shimmered with a cold metallic luster in the morning light; both ends of every pipe section were stuffed tightly with animal hide and straw to prevent the seals from being damaged by bumps during transport.

The commoners along the way stood by the roadside, watching these behemoths they had never seen before roll slowly past, whispering among themselves.

An old farmer carrying a dung bucket squatted by the road and took a puff of his dry tobacco.

"What are these iron lumps for? Fixing the city wall?"

A young man beside him shook his head.

"The yamen runners said they're for diverting water, to bring the water from the Heaven Pool over that sheer cliff to our side."

The old farmer pulled the pipe from his mouth and scoffed.

"Over the sheer cliff? That cliff is at least four or five zhang high; can water flow up into the sky?"

The young man scratched his head.

"Who knows? Anyway, it's the Zhuguo's order."

The old farmer's scoff vanished, and his mouth closed.

He tapped his pipe against his shoe, put it back in his mouth, and watched the departing convoy for a long time.

Zhang Wenqian stood on the ramparts of Tongwan City, watching the convoy disappear into the dust at the end of the main road, clutching a newly drafted proclamation for the people.

Nine characters were written on the proclamation.

Within ten days, water shall surely descend.

He rolled up the proclamation and handed it to the runner waiting beside him.

"Send this to every county; every city wall, every village entrance, post them all."

The runner took the proclamation and flew off.

Zhang Wenqian stood on the ramparts, looking toward the Heaven Pool Precipice, his lips moving slightly.

"Zhuguo, that sheer cliff—can you really cross it?"

The wind blew over the ramparts, scattering his words into the air.