Chapter 433: Chaotic Battle

At the bottom of the valley, where jagged rocks stood like a forest and scrub trees covered the ground, two groups of scouts who had stumbled upon each other stared for three seconds.

Unlike the other two widely-traveled guards beside him, Mei Fuxi, who had always stayed in Jinwei, was seeing a living, breathing real Tartar for the first time today.

The three Tartar Soldiers, also positioned in a triangle formation, were led by a short, stocky man with a face full of brutal flesh and a fierce, capable look; on his bluish-shaven scalp hung the Tartars' signature pigtail.

This man wore a gray, front-opening leather jacket on top and baggy red cotton trousers below; a bow case hung behind his horse, a long sword was at his waist, and an iron thumb ring was on his thumb — his whole body was written all over with the two words "crack troops."

Following behind the blue-scalped Tartar were two cavalrymen wearing felt hats and leather robes, their skin dark and rough, likewise stringing bows and carrying blades.

The moment Mei Fuxi's group of three confirmed the strangers' identity, the three riders opposite also began to act at once: amid shouts and yells, all three simultaneously urged their horses forward and began walking slowly this way.

The reason for the slow pace was that the valley floor between the two mountains was everywhere full of jumbled rocks and tangled trees; the horses had to find sure footing before they could advance.

"Vice-leader, shoot!"

Just then, Mei Fuxi, who had all along issued no action or order, felt his arm slapped by the squad member beside him.

"Ah, right, shoot." Jolted awake in a flash, the young man hurriedly pulled the Type 38 Rifle off his back and began taking out bullets, preparing to load.

Battlefield experience is something a soldier must personally taste before he can undergo metamorphosis.

Someone like Mei Fuxi, even if raised from childhood on the path of a general's seed, with peerless skills, unmatched military strategy, and a body wreathed in sparks and lightning, still — without truly experiencing the brutal atmosphere of life and death on the battlefield — that will always be a young man's weak spot.

So just now, the moment he saw three real Tartars, the young man froze.

In that moment, the Tartars' illustrious and awe-inspiring reputation on the battlefield since the Tianqi era, their vicious notoriety for slaughtering Ming People everywhere, and that dark chicken soup of "ten thousand Tartars cannot be withstood" — all of it began fermenting in the young man's mind.

Mei Fuxi was like a rookie who had prepared thoroughly in the preseason but went blank when the real match started: everything he had learned in normal times vanished, replaced by a pile of jumbled, chaotic, wild thoughts.

Only when the squad member beside him reminded him did Mei Fuxi jolt awake from his dazed state and hurriedly prepare to shoot.

Technology changes tactics.

For the three Tartar Soldiers, their farthest attack range was no more than fifty meters. In fact, for arrows to have any effect on a fully alert enemy, it was best to close the distance to within twenty meters.

So the three Tartar Soldiers began urging their horses forward at once.

On this side, however, because of the single gun in Mei Fuxi's hands, the three did not need to advance; the two squad members drew their long swords and quietly waited for Mei Fuxi to fire.

With a "Bang!", a plume of white smoke rose from the gun barrel — a miss...

His face flushed bright red, Mei Fuxi hurriedly chambered another round, and at the same time bit the tip of his tongue hard with his teeth, forcing himself to calm down and focus.

When the three Tartar Soldiers had charged to within two hundred meters, Mei Fuxi's second shot hit the blue-scalped Tartar's... warhorse.

Shoot the horse before the rider — Mei Fuxi had not, after all, forgotten his instructor's words. For a firearm soldier like him with little training time, at two hundred meters, shooting the horse was the best choice.

As for hitting a bobbing human head, that was just from watching too many movies. In this situation, unless a professional soldier fired bursts from an assault rifle fitted with a scope, hitting a head was extremely difficult.

The Mongol horse struck by the lead bullet reared up on the spot, throwing the rider from its back.

The two felt-hatted Tartars following behind were shocked at the sight. Yet the next moment, these battle-hardened Tartar Soldiers reacted swiftly; the two men yelled loudly, bypassed the dead horse, and without the slightest hesitation urged their horses to accelerate into a charge.

Tartar Soldiers who had been through many battles were rich in experience. Though they had not expected the opponent's firearm to have such long range, the two men immediately chose the most correct response: accelerate the charge and close the distance while the enemy was reloading.

After hitting the enemy mount with one shot, Mei Fuxi's spirits lifted, and much of his earlier tension vanished. Now his legs no longer trembled, his complexion returned to normal, and with one hand he took a lead bullet and percussion cap from the ammunition pouch at his waist, loaded the rifle, and began his next aim.

But the best window had already passed.

The two felt-hatted Tartars had now learned their lesson. Not only did they huddle their whole bodies behind their horses, they deliberately used large rocks and trees for cover, precisely steering their mounts as they closed in.

At this point, Mei Fuxi's marksmanship began to fall short. After all, he was just a greenhorn who had undergone only short-term shooting training; both his training hours and the number of bullets expended fell far short of the standard for an ordinary Recruit.

So his next two shots both missed their mark. Against enemy riders who were no longer advancing at a steady pace but weaving left and right, both shots struck tree trunks and rocks. And after each dodged shot, the Tartar riders opposite could charge fifty or sixty meters closer.

Under the thin winter sun, the two Tartar Soldiers pressed their warhorses hard like this, trampling the leftover snow as they drew closer step by step. The seemingly monotonous hoofbeats grew more and more suffocating, the brutal atmosphere of slaughter making it hard to breathe.

And the squad members on this side could now see the newcomers' faces with perfect clarity: low skulls, broad faces, narrow, slanted eyes — Mongols.

When the two felt-hatted Mongol Eight Banners men had charged to forty meters ahead, Mei Fuxi's second hit of the day finally arrived belatedly: a Mongol soldier's right shoulder was grazed by a lead bullet, instantly gushing blood, and he dropped the saber already raised in his hand.

Because of this Type 38 Rifle, the two Mongol soldiers were forced to alter their usual tactics. Normally, after charging within fifty meters, both sides would halt their horses and first trade a few rounds of archery. Only then, depending on the situation, would they enter hand-to-hand combat — the side with weaker archery would initiate the attack.

Yet before this fearsome bird blunderbuss, the two Mongols could not halt their horses, so their bows and arrows became useless.

As for so-called mounted archery, that was when large troops carried out blanket fire, with all cavalry loosing arrows in a general direction. For a single soldier in this situation to shoot accurately from the back of a jolting, galloping horse — that was a joke; only movies show it that way.

This was why the wounded Mongol dropped his saber: after confirming the terrible power of the opponent's bird blunderbuss, the two men had drawn their blades early, preparing for hand-to-hand combat — then wounded, then dropped the blade... This was the story of the nail and the horseshoe; details snowball and decide victory or defeat.

Just as the wounded Mongol soldier used his left hand to draw the short knife at his waist and continued his charge, gritting his teeth, the two squad members beside Mei Fuxi let out a shout in unison and charged forward to meet them.

These two had for years guarded merchant caravans traveling beyond Kouwai and had fought and killed all manner of Mongol horse bandits; they had long since taken lives, and so were highly adept at cavalry combat.

Now the distance between the two sides had closed to within thirty meters; the Mongol soldiers would be upon them in a few seconds. At this moment, if they did not counter-charge and engage in hand-to-hand combat, their own side would lose the impact momentum of their horses — Mei Fuxi clearly could not be relied upon, and the two squad members could not gamble on him killing the opponents within seconds.

Once the two squad members charged out brandishing their blades, the firearm in Mei Fuxi's hands became useless.

Slinging his gun and cursing himself fiercely with a "Blockhead!", Mei Fuxi gritted his teeth, drew his saber, and likewise urged his horse to charge over.

The speed of a head-on charge was extremely fast. The two squad members had just gotten their horses up to speed when the four riders began to cross stirrups.

In that instant, four blades "slashed" down simultaneously.

When cavalrymen slash at each other while crossing, they actually need not exert much force; it is more about setting the saber at the right angle and waiting for the opponent to crash into it: relying on the horse's charging momentum, one can easily sever an opponent's neck or arm.

After the four horses crossed stirrups, the two sides swiftly separated.

The result was very clear: the Mongol soldier who had been holding a short knife in his left hand — his arm had flown off, blood spraying in a dancing arc through the air, tracing a trajectory just like that "fresh flower spun sugar" dish of Stephen Chow's.

The other pair of combatants had fought to a draw; the two had clashed blades in midair, neither gaining an advantage.

At this moment, the Mongol soldier was in a real predicament: just after clashing blades with an opponent, his body not yet recovered its balance on the horse, Mei Fuxi had already arrived, following through with another slash.

The Mongol soldier's superb riding skill and exquisite technique saved his life. At this critical, hair-trigger moment, he simply slipped his right foot from the stirrup, used the swing of his thigh to throw his body backward, and swung his arm up with precision, narrowly clashing blades with Mei Fuxi once more.

The first round was over: the Ming side had a great advantage, the situation now three against one.

The armless Mongol was now useless: the jolting warhorse made his wound gush large amounts of blood, and the one-armed hero, having lost his weapon, was already swaying unsteadily on his horse, about to topple at any moment.

After giving their horses less than ten meters of buffer distance, the two squad members reined in, whooped and turned around, raised their bloodstained long swords, and charged at the healthy Mongol soldier, one from the left and one from the right.

The Mongol soldier at this moment likewise turned his horse around, let out a wild roar, and urged his horse forward to meet them.

Mei Fuxi, a beat slower, was now reining in and turning around. He had already thought it through: after both sides crossed stirrups once more, even if the Mongol soldier did not die, he would have a shooting angle; he intended to turn his horse around, then take his gun and aim.

The next moment, Mei Fuxi froze.

Over millions of years of evolutionary history, mankind has, through countless lessons of experience, engraved one instinct into its genes: when facing a wild beast, an enemy, or a crisis where life and death hang in a split second — not moving, or freezing in terror, is the best choice.

If he turned and fled now, the beast would surely pounce from behind — ambushing prey from the back is also a beast's instinct.

If he charged forward to fight, it would still be a certain death.

Only by staying still, creating a standoff between both sides, might he still await a single thread of survival.

This is why most people freeze in terror before a life-or-death crisis: it's carved into their genes.

Mei Fuxi was frozen in terror right now — just ten meters to his left beside a large boulder, that thuggish, squat and stocky Tartar, his body all bulging muscle, had already drawn his bow to the full. The gray-black refined iron arrowhead glinted coldly, exactly like the Tartar's indifferent gaze, the look of one regarding a dead man.

The next moment, the bowstring was released.