Chapter 196: Sharp Blades Open the Way, the Royal Envoy Follows

The sun had climbed higher, but it carried little warmth, merely spreading its cold, clear light uselessly across the earth.

This valley mouth leading east from Qingcheng narrowed abruptly, the tightest point spanning no more than five hundred paces across.

(Image attached — a modern satellite screenshot; it would have been narrower in the Ming dynasty. People tend to imagine the Mongol steppe as endlessly flat, and in most places it is, but Qingcheng backs onto the Yin Mountains, so it certainly isn't entirely so.)

By now, it had become a field of carnage.

Corpses — of men and horses — lay piled layer upon layer at the valley mouth, like a dam built of flesh and blood.

The blood had long since congealed to a dark red, freezing the grass and soil into ugly, scarred clumps.

Beyond the valley mouth, the bodies gradually thinned out.

The Chahar cavalry rode with two horses per man, sometimes three or four; once they had thrown off their armor and left a "slow stretch" like this valley mouth behind for the open plain, the Ming cavalry simply could not catch them.

This was precisely why Ma Shilong and the others had taken such pains to choose this place as the battlefield.

Without the terrain's help, it was extremely difficult to strike a major blow against Mongol cavalry.

Had they chosen to fight at the flat, open Jining Lake, even if they routed the enemy for a time, given Ligdan Khan's resilience, he would only need a brief respite to come sweeping back.

Moreover, these six thousand elite Ming cavalry were crack troops drawn from the various garrisons of the Nine Frontiers. Concentrating them for a short campaign was one thing, but if they stayed away too long, the frontiers themselves could run into trouble — they simply could not remain long on this steppe.

If it really came to that, the Ming army would be in an awkward spot: they would have made an enemy of the Tiger Chieftain without achieving their strategic objective.

"Shhk."

Jiang Mingwu first jabbed hard with his long spear; seeing that the corpse showed no reaction, he then drew his waist saber and pressed it down with force against the corpse's neck.

The blade bit into flesh and skin, but jammed fast against the neck bone.

He let out a "tch," had to adjust the angle, probe for the gap between the bones, and throw his whole weight into one fierce push.

Crack! A head tumbled to the ground.

Jiang Mingwu bent to pick it up. It was cold and heavy in his hand.

He glanced at it but could not tell the man's age; the entire face was a mess of torn flesh, crisscrossed with scratches from gravel — it looked as though the face had hit the ground first when he fell from his horse.

In the past, no one would have wanted a head like this.

The Ministry of War's inspection required the features to be clear; any head with scratches, blurring, or that was unidentifiable was rejected outright.

A single head was worth twenty taels of silver — a genuinely high-grade commodity.

The rigor and meticulousness of the inspection could rival that of luxury-goods authentication in later ages.

This time, however, His Majesty had decreed that merit would not be recorded by head count, so the quality of the heads no longer mattered.

Chop a few more, and the numbers reported would look better, giving His Majesty more face as well.

Jiang Mingwu shook his head, took the head in hand, and with a mighty heave tossed it toward a cart not far off that was specially used for collecting heads.

The head traced a graceful arc through the air but failed to land inside the cart; it hit the ground with a thud, rolled twice, and became covered in dust.

A young household retainer nearby saw this and came over with a cheeky grin: "Chief Jiang, why so weak in the wrists? In the old days you could lift a stone lock without even breathing hard — can't manage the chopping today?"

"Chop your mother's head!" Jiang Mingwu cursed in irritation and landed a kick on the retainer's backside. "Cut the crap and get to work! Finish the chopping so we can get back to camp!"

The retainer gave a chuckle, not the least bit offended, and nimbly ran off to deal with the next corpse.

Jiang Mingwu straightened up and rubbed his still-aching lower back.

Looking out across the narrow battlefield, he saw Ming soldiers busy everywhere.

In groups of three or five, some were chopping heads, some were rounding up riderless warhorses, and some were searching the bodies, stripping off anything of value — armor, weapons, bows and arrows, leather coats.

In the distance, two more cavalry units were driving along a dark mass of captives and herds of cattle and sheep, slowly approaching.

Jiang Mingwu let out a long breath of white vapor, kicked the headless corpse at his feet aside with force, bent down again, and resumed his grisly "trade."

In this battle, to ensure a decisive victory in a single strike, the household retainers of each cavalry unit had been slightly reshuffled and mixed together.

Many of the bravest warriors, the biggest horses, and the best armor had been concentrated into the first few assault waves.

As a result, his own cavalry unit had also been intermixed with soldiers from other places.

The upshot was that the matter of leading troops in pursuit of the Tiger Chieftain and the Rabbit Simpleton simply could not be kept secret.

When Commissioner-in-Chief Ma heard of it, without a second word he first awarded Jiang ten strokes of the army rod, then simply dispatched him and his whole squad of household retainers out here to do the filthiest, most grueling work of chopping heads.

Dressing it up in fine words: to temper his temperament.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...

Jiang Mingwu swung his waist saber mechanically, keeping a silent count in his head.

Looking out, he saw countless soldiers in the Ming mandarin-duck battle jackets, bent over and busy across this land where the blood had set.

They were efficient and professional, exactly like old farmers harvesting crops in the fields at autumn harvest time.

Qingcheng.

That city gate, after being shut tight for less than a single two-hour period, finally swung slowly open with a tooth-grating creak.

The Mongol nobles, after repeated discussions, had concluded:

that given the Ming army's siege capability and their own defensive capability, keeping the gate shut seemed rather pointless.

After all, that little wagon-fort left guarding the Black River bank had no shortage of crouching-tiger cannons — they simply had not been used in the earlier charge-breaking.

Besides, the Ming army had ultimately come at their invitation, and from the Datong frontier trade markets in the past, everyone had a certain degree of acquaintance; presumably they would not sweep them up along with the rest.

Of course, most importantly, it was not only the east gate that had opened — the west gate... had opened too.

If it really came to a fight, they could simply slip out through the west gate.

Wang Shide sat his horse at a bowshot's distance before the city gate, behind him several dozen tall, powerfully built elite cavalrymen in full armor, every face set in a murderous expression.

"You came here to deliver an edict — can that victory dispatch still be sent out normally once it's delivered?"

Ma Shilong urged his horse up beside him, his brow slightly furrowed.

Wang Shide was staring tensely at the city gate, his palms slick with sweat, and for a moment did not catch what was said.

"Assistant Commissioner Wang?"

"Assistant Commissioner Wang?"

Ma Shilong had to raise his voice, asking twice.

Only then did Wang Shide snap out of it as if waking from a dream, a flicker of panic crossing his face:

"Ah? Ah!"

"Commissioner-in-Chief Ma, rest assured — after receiving this dispatch appointment, Embroidered Uniform Guard Official Tian personally ordered that the station chiefs all along the line advance forward in sequence. There will be no delay."

He steadied himself and added: "The man handling the transmission now should be Zou Zhiyou, Assistant Guard Commander Zou — another old hand in our radio system. Utterly reliable."

Yes, old hands — these Embroidered Uniform Guard men in the radio system, barely two months since its founding, were already calling themselves old hands, flaunting at every turn how different they were from the rest of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

Only then did Ma Shilong nod, his mind at ease.

From awaiting the moment of opportunity to settling the outcome in a single decisive stroke, this campaign had taken no more than a few days.

But the Eternal Prosperity Sovereign in the capital was clearly not the sort to issue only one command.

Encouragement to the officers, the promulgation of reward scales, authorization to act at discretion on the field, authorization over Datong military affairs, even furious rebukes to the local Governor and Regional Commander for failing to cooperate — some long, some short, he had sent out dozens of telegrams.

Short of ordering the cavalry position shifted ten centimeters to the left, he had weighed in on every conceivable aspect.

The entire capital–Datong line, once laid out, had never seen such a flurry of activity.

Only then did the various watchmen understand that the eight-mace monthly pay was not so easily earned after all.

The day before yesterday, the Eternal Prosperity Sovereign had even sent ahead by telegram an edict detailing how to negotiate with the various princes of the Mongol Right Wing depending on whether this battle ended in victory, stalemate, or defeat.

As for the silk-brocade version of the edict, that would have to wait a few more days — men and objects, after all, could not travel through the radio station.

It was just that the battle had unfolded far too quickly.

Ligdan Khan had rested and reorganized for only a single day; without even sweeping the surrounding tribes, he had directly pressed his forces forward.

And then, with great fanfare beneath the walls of Qingcheng, he had typed out GG.

Now, there was no choice but to first promulgate the verbal decree.

And the man charged with conveying the Son of Heaven's verbal decree, with transforming this great military victory into political fruit, was this very nineteen-year-old Embroidered Uniform Guard Assistant Guard Commander before them — Wang Shide.

As for why it was him, and not a civil official like the Governor of Datong, Ma Shilong himself did not know.

But His Majesty, he supposed, must have his considerations.

Ma Shilong looked at the young man beside him, unable to suppress a surge of emotion.

The sharp blade clears the path, the royal envoy follows behind — so it has been since ancient times.

It was just that this "royal envoy" was far too young.

"Let's go — enter the city!"

Wang Shide drew a deep breath, forcing down all the tension and unease in his chest.

He yanked the reins, clamped his legs against the horse's flanks, and his mount let out a long neigh, heading first toward the wide-open city gate.

The several dozen riders behind him surged into motion at once, following close behind.

And the temporary commander of these several dozen riders was none other than the man who had broken through three battle lines today, his killing aura still unspent — Cao Wenzhao!

As the horses' hooves crossed the gate, the clamor of the grassland's cold wind seemed instantly cut off.

Qingcheng, this city built by Altan Khan, was less a city than a town.

The streets could hardly be called broad, and the houses on either side were mostly of rammed earth and timber — quite reminiscent of a county seat in Han territory.

Only within that resemblance, everywhere there oozed a sense of grotesque presumption.

Wang Shide's gaze swept across them: on the eaves and door lintels of many common dwellings, dragon and phoenix motifs had actually been carved. It was just that the dragons looked like snakes with legs, the phoenixes like plucked chickens — crude and laughable.

A faint, barely perceptible sneer tugged at the corner of his mouth.

A land of barbarians, monkeys wearing caps — in the end, they had learned the form but never grasped the spirit.

In the houses lining both sides of the street, behind doors and windows, pairs of eyes were secretly spying on their procession.

Wang Shide could clearly feel the emotions in those gazes: awe, curiosity, unease.

Inadvertently, his eyes met those of a Mongol man behind a window. The man recoiled as if stung by a serpent, jerking his head back and vanishing into the darkness.

"Asura... it's the Asura..."

Suppressed whispers drifted over from nearby.

Wang Shide did not need to turn his head to know they were speaking of the man riding abreast with him — Cao Wenzhao.

The ferocious might this general had displayed on the battlefield today had long since turned into a nightmare, taking root in the hearts of these Mongols.

His gaze continued forward, and he caught sight of a few Han faces.

They tended to wear sumptuous silks, standing out conspicuously among the Mongols in their leather coats.

These, presumably, were the Han landlords of Baisheng City.

Suddenly, Wang Shide's eyes met those of a small child sprawled on a windowsill.

It was a sturdy, bright-faced Han boy, about four or five years old. He seemed not to understand what fear was, and seeing Wang Shide look his way, he actually broke into a grin, revealing a gap-toothed smile, and waved his little hand at him vigorously.

Wang Shide was momentarily taken aback, unsure what expression to make.

In the end, he simply maintained his blank expression and silently shifted his gaze away.

Qingcheng was not large. In a short while, a palace slightly more imposing than the surrounding buildings appeared before them.

The architectural form of the hall was, as ever, presumptuous and laughable.

Wang Shide dismounted, tossed the reins to a personal guard, straightened his flying-fish robe, and ascended the steps.

Inside the great hall, several dozen Mongol nobles were already arrayed on either side by rank, hands lowered, standing in respectful attendance.

At their head were none other than the Tumed Prince of Shunyi, Boshetu, and the Khan of the Kharchin, A Hai.

Directly before the hall, a tall incense table had been fully arranged, blue smoke curling from the censer — it all looked quite proper and dignified.

Wang Shide cleared his throat and wasted no words.

"His Majesty has issued a decree. Kneel and receive the command."

There was no resistance, and no resentment.

Years of the tributary system had long since worn away any defiance among these grassland nobles.

Raiding was raiding, and nominal allegiance was nominal allegiance — when it came to kneeling, they felt no great resistance.

With a rustling flurry of movement, the Mongol nobles in the hall dropped to their knees one after another.

But since this ritual had never been rehearsed, it could hardly match the uniform precision of the capital's long-drilled Ming court officials.

Some knocked their heads three times, some five — a scene of utter chaos.

After all the disorder, they finally finished performing the rites.

Wang Shide's eye twitched; he pretended not to notice, gave another cough, and spoke up in a clear voice.

"His Majesty has an oral decree to convey!"

At these words, a stir immediately rippled through the crowd below.

Cao Wenzhao frowned, took one step forward, and barked with a voice like spring thunder: "Silence!"

The murderous aura of one who had charged through mountains of corpses and seas of blood swept over them, and the entire hall fell instantly dead quiet.

Only then did Wang Shide unhurriedly begin:

"We rule over all within the four quarters, making no distinction between Mongol and Han — all are Our subjects. When Our subjects make war upon one another, how can We sit idly by?"

"The Tiger Chieftain and the Rabbit Simpleton harbor the ambitions of wolves. Though routed this time, they may yet rally and return. But the six divisions of the Ming army cannot remain garrisoned here indefinitely."

"You of the Tumed and Kharchin tribes, together with the Ordos and Yongshao tribes, shall each select envoys to enter the capital. Each tribe is limited to three men, to deliberate together on the regulations going forward."

"Thus decreed."

The hall fell so silent one could hear a pin drop.

Only after a moment did ragged responses ring out: "Your subjects… your subjects receive the decree."

They kowtowed a few more times in utter disarray, then, at Wang Shide's gesture, rose to their feet.

Wang Shide and the assembled nobles stared at one another, and for a moment an awkward atmosphere rippled through the hall.

What? That's it?

After a pause, it was the Prince of Shunyi, Boshetu, who steeled himself and spoke first: "My lord, may I ask… where is the imperial edict?"

Wang Shide's eyes flared wide, and he rebuked him sternly: "Is an oral decree not enough? Must you see the written edict before you deign to obey? What are your intentions!"

Cao Wenzhao played his part perfectly — frowning, he stepped forward another pace, his hand already resting on his saber hilt.

That crushing pressure drained the color from Boshetu's face in an instant.

Seeing this, Aha, Khan of the Kharchin, hurriedly stepped in to smooth things over. Bowing, he said, "May the Angel calm his wrath — the Prince of Shunyi meant not the slightest disrespect. It is only that in the past, whenever the court issued a decree, a yellow-silk edict always served as proof. This time, with only an oral decree, we… we are indeed somewhat puzzled."

Noting his respectful manner, Wang Shide's expression eased slightly. He gave a cold snort and said:

"The dynasty now has the Thousand-Li Lightning-Flash Tower for transmitting messages. A command from the capital can reach Datong in an instant."

"Thus this oral decree arrived first. The imperial edict bearing the same content is still on the road and will naturally arrive in two or three days."

"The Thousand-Li Lightning-Flash Tower? Arrives in an instant?"

At these words, the crowd erupted in an even greater uproar, heads turning to whisper among themselves, every face full of disbelief.

What sort of immortal sorcery was this? Why did it sound so much like the tales of the White Lotus sect?

Khan Aha and the Prince of Shunyi exchanged a glance and gave a slight shake of their heads.

Judging by the young Angel's expression and the intimidating presence of the god of death behind him, this was certainly not the moment to press for details.

Suppressing the shock and doubt in his heart, Khan Aha asked further: "Might I ask the Angel, when is the date set for entering the capital? Could we be permitted to consult with the Ordos tribe and then enter the capital together for the tribute audience in time for His Majesty's Longevity Festival?"

Wang Shide replied, "You may discuss that among yourselves. His Majesty has only one requirement: it must be done within this year."

"Yes, yes." Khan Aha nodded repeatedly.

The hall once again sank into awkward silence.

In truth, countless questions still filled everyone's minds.

What did "the six divisions cannot remain long" mean — exactly when would they leave?

The two thousand warhorses and ten thousand head of cattle and sheep previously promised to the Ming — when, and by what method, were they to be handed over?

Moreover, in past tribute missions, the Tumed tribe alone had a quota of one hundred and fifty men, allowing them to carry large quantities of private goods to sell and purchase along the way.

Now, with the limit set at "three men per tribe," did "tribe" mean the entire Tumed, or the many small tribes under the various taijis?

If it was the former, then this trip to the capital would be a colossal loss.

But no matter what, these were not questions suited to be raised on such an occasion.

In the end, it was the Prince of Shunyi, Boshetu, who stepped forward, forcing a stiff smile: "To celebrate the great victory of the royal army, we have prepared a humble banquet. We earnestly hope the Angel and General Cao will honor us with your presence."

Wang Shide, however, shook his head: "That will not be necessary. This official must still deliver a message to the Ordos tribe and cannot linger."

"The Angel has endured a long and weary journey and is unfamiliar with the roads," a Mongol noble hastily urged. "Why not rest here for a day? Tomorrow we can select guides who know the paths to escort the Angel onward — would that not be far more prudent?"

At these words, a trace of hesitation appeared on Wang Shide's face.

He truly did not know the way to the Ordos tribe.

More crucially, by taking part in this banquet, he might also glean a bit more about the internal situation among these barbarians.

The histories all said so! A lone general rides into the enemy camp, maneuvering freely, blunting their edge.

After pondering for a moment, he finally nodded.

"…Very well. Lead the way, then."