Chapter 637: Section 640: A Foothold

The booming electric-megaphone voice had barely faded when a chaotic burst of muzzle flashes lit up across the beachhead position.

Though not very uniform, lead bullets were still lead bullets. The natives who met the bullets head-on were as if smashed by a steam hammer — amid the roar of firearms, the front row of men were all sent sprawling onto their backs.

Under normal circumstances, a sudden long-range strike would certainly shock the natives. Even if they didn't turn and flee, at the very least their momentum would plummet before firearms, and hesitant, terrified postures would show.

This scenario had played out over many years of practical experience and had become common knowledge among every unit.

But today was different. The natives under attack only faltered for a brief instant, then immediately let out continuous strange howls, raised their weapons high, and charged toward the beachhead position even faster.

As the distance between the two sides closed, the island's masters, originally shrouded in rain mist and firelight, grew from shadowy blurs into sharp clarity in the eyes of the guests.

The warm and hospitable masters numbered roughly three times the guests — as many as two to three hundred men.

These native warriors were all male without exception, generally not tall. They moved nimbly with well-proportioned builds, their faces smeared with white clay patterns, wearing capes and waist-skirts woven from banana leaves, with knotted cords of pearl and shell around their necks and arms.

One point that surprised the squad members was that the weapons the natives held included not only the commonly seen rattan spears, but also quite a few iron knives reflecting a metallic sheen — yes, actual metal blades.

Immediately, the second round of gunfire rang out.

This time the shooting was even less effective, the reason being a failure to achieve mass effect, and the rain. The first hasty volley had already disrupted the volley-fire rhythm; the second round, under the rain's influence, had a lower ignition rate and an even more chaotic rhythm, turning into scattered, disorderly fire.

Though the scattered fire still brought down some natives, it lost the shock effect that a volley delivered. Facing their companions falling one after another, the natives did not lose heart — the howls they loosed in unintelligible syllables grew ever more forceful.

The natives used howls to bolster their courage; the defenders also had a voice-operated device.

That field-steadying voice came through the loudspeaker again. This time, the Third Lord was no longer calm and collected, but let out a rousing roar: "Second line, fire slow! First line, grab your steel and get shoulder to shoulder with me!"

A mere few dozen meters of sandy beach — the natives needed less than a minute to charge into melee range. That much time, in the dark of night, was only enough for the defenders to fire two volleys.

And even then, the first round the squad members fired was with bullets pre-loaded beforehand; otherwise, they could manage one volley at most.

So when the Third Lord realized the native vanguard was only a dozen-odd meters from the defense line, he had no choice but to order his men to stop loading ammunition, switch entirely to cold weapons, and prepare for hand-to-hand combat.

This preparation time was extremely brief. The enemy could cover a dozen meters in the blink of an eye. The defenders not only had to switch to cold weapons in that short instant, advance beyond the line to adjust formation, but also needed a brief forward-charging motion to gain impact momentum.

At the Third Lord's command, a continuous string of muffled booms sounded first.

The pre-assigned second-line personnel pulled their triggers in the general direction of the enemy assault. This time it was slow guns loaded with shot — the final round of hot-weapon firepower.

The black-powder iron-sand guns had decent short-range effect, bringing down quite a few enemies in one volley.

Yet for the attackers, having already paid such a price to stand face to face with the enemy, any casualties were now acceptable.

Moreover, the iron-sand guns' penetration was too low. Aside from those blinded and rolling wildly on the ground, quite a few of the wounded enemies actually got back up and continued fighting.

At last, roars of "Kill-kill-kill!" rang out. The outer ring of fifty first-line squad members, pre-assigned to fixed posts, clashed at close quarters with native warriors three times their number.

The instant they met, both sides paid a heavy price. Accompanied by tooth-grating metallic screeches and the sound of slicing flesh, the natives struck by all manner of cold weapons would have no chance to rise again this time.

The pioneer squad members paid a price as well. As the natives fell, just as many squad members had their chests pierced by spearpoints, their necks slashed by iron knives, their heads and faces struck by blow-darts.

In a single short minute, the brutal hand-to-hand combat had sent the casualty figures for both warring sides soaring.

As mentioned before, the Pioneer Army's loose structure was rather relaxed when it came to daily training. The Pioneer Army allowed squad members to appear as teams and use the cold weapons they personally favored.

This model of army-building had its merits: units formed quickly, team configurations were flexible, and it could rapidly adapt to low-intensity combat in all kinds of environments.

Yet every matter has its pros and cons. The Pioneer Army being configured this way meant it was impossible to form tight military formations to oppose the enemy.

In a hand-to-hand battle like today's, if it were a cold-weapon unit — even regular troops of the Great Ming Dynasty — they could achieve total victory. A proper army deploying shield walls and long-spear formations could wipe out the attacking natives cleanly at extremely low cost.

But the Pioneer Army could not. Having lost their range advantage and hot-weapon superiority, the pioneer squad members could now only engage the natives in mutual slaughter at an extremely high exchange ratio — neither side wore armor, both sides' formations were roughly the same, and the cold weapons in both sides' hands could deliver a single fatal strike.

At this stage, Wu Sanye, stationed in the rear to hold the line, could in truth do very little. Standing atop a sandbag now, facing the brutal battlefield, he instead fell into thought for a moment: How could there be so many native elites?

Relying on his rich life experience, and even his past work in the similar environment of the Taipei Savage Zone, the Third Lord had a fairly deep understanding of native tribes.

Contrary to what ordinary people think, for primitive tribal peoples with extremely backward productivity, a large-scale night surprise attack like today's was actually very rare.

Under normal circumstances, an ordinary mid-sized primitive tribe being able to routinely organize fifty warriors was already quite good.

And among those fifty warriors, the core elites capable of a night surprise attack and fighting to the death numbered not even ten.

So in the Third Lord's view, either there was a super-large native tribe or kingdom near the landing point, or the surrounding native tribes had joined forces to organize an allied army.

The Third Lord himself inclined toward the latter theory: he had seen several differently styled white-clay facial patterns on the enemies' faces.

Yet this was precisely the Third Lord's puzzlement: the landing point had been decided on the spur of the moment — how had the natives completed communication and coordination in such a short time?

One must know that, compared to outsiders, the relationships among most native tribes were actually ones of regional competition, with generational blood feuds between them.

The Third Lord, having spent time in the Savage Zone, knew very well that getting several native tribes to rapidly communicate and unite their forces was truly an extremely difficult matter.

"Ah—!" A miserable scream — the Third Lord jolted alert.

That instant of contemplation just now had been only a few dozen seconds in reality.

The scream that woke the Third Lord was familiar — it came from a squad leader he usually knew well.

Yet when the Third Lord turned his gaze over, amid the firelight and interweaving human shadows, he could no longer find that old comrade. In just these few short dozen seconds, the rough semi-circular defense line the squad members had barely formed was already on the verge of collapse, men falling at any moment.

"Ah, this trip's a huge loss!"

The Third Lord inwardly anguished: ever since Zhang Sutan had become the boss, he'd finally managed to have so many brothers under his command again. Who'd have thought, in one night, so many would be lost again.

Wu Meng knew the moment of decisive battle had come.

Wiping his face — and along with it, wiping away all negative emotions — the Third Lord raised the megaphone again and issued the third order since tonight's ambush: "Second line, get up there and hold!"

Immediately after, another roar came through the megaphone: "All of you listen well — there's no retreat today! Fight to the death with everything you've got! Wipe out these turtle-spawn savages if you want to live! Anyone who dares fall back — military law won't spare you, you'll all be thrown into the sea to feed the fish!"

At the Third Lord's words, the twenty-plus second-line squad members originally holding the fortifications also howled and rushed up with all manner of cold weapons to reinforce the line.

By this point, on the entire beachhead position, only the Third Lord's inner circle of seven or eight men remained around him.

Glancing at the brothers who had followed him for years, the Third Lord sighed, threw down the megaphone, and picked up the Ghost Head Steel Saber at his side: there were no more orders left to give. As the final general reserve, the Third Lord could only lead his own sworn brothers into the fray.

Just at that moment, the center of the defense line was breached. Natives shouting wildly had killed the last defender and were surging through the gap.

"Fire!"

Before the natives could rejoice for three seconds, three volleys of firearm fire blanketed the breach in gunpowder smoke — Yusheng Shaoye, having rushed over with four men, each carrying two pre-loaded quick guns on their backs, had without the slightest regard for nearby allies, blasted three volleys totaling fifteen lead bullets into the breach at close range.

The next moment, within the roiling gunpowder smoke, three Ironclad Warriors, like demon gods, charged out brandishing long swords and heavy axes.

Towering, terrifying retro styling, ox-horned ferocious helmets, cold-forged steel armor with a matte black finish, and fine-steel weapons hinge-locked to both hands —

The sudden appearance of these steel warriors brought the natives not just shock. The next moment, long swords began drinking blood greedily, cleaving through native spears and limbs alike.

The natives who had risen up to fight back very quickly let out panicked cries: whether it was long spears or iron knives, whether it was poison arrows or daggers, none of them could inflict any injury on these three Samurai. Every attack was deflected the moment it touched the opponents' bodies. What followed, filling their vision, was an axe blade flashing with white light, growing larger and larger.

The Song Criminal Code: "One unit of Grade A armor and three crossbows — exile two thousand li; three units of Grade A armor and five crossbows — death by hanging."

The Han People understood the power of armor all too well, hence the rule: anyone hiding one unit of armor shall be put in a cangue and paraded through Hainan; anyone hiding three units shall be broadcast live being hanged.

The bumpkins who had lived for generations on the South Asian Islands did not understand this principle, and so today they were educated. As the three armored warriors unleashed their might, the previous breach was brutally hacked back by Long Swords and heavy axes, and for a time the natives were reduced to a bloody mess of mangled flesh, suffering heavy Death and Injury.

Thus the situation reversed in an instant. The defenders, outnumbered, actually managed, led by the three Samurai, to forcefully push the native formation back in return.

What neither side locked in bitter combat on the Beach knew was that, even as they fought desperately to kill the enemy, a silent "strange bird" hovered and spied from directly overhead.

And at that very moment, on a certain high-definition screen, images had already appeared of the mentally shattered natives beginning to wail and Turn Around to flee in rout.

The next moment, inside the cabin, Wang Bo switched off the screen and said to his colleagues with a smile, "It seems we shall have a place to set foot after all."