Chapter 190: Seal Langju Mountain! The Yuan Emperor: Capture Zhu Ying Alive!

At Zhu Ying’s command!

This bloody massacre unfolded before the eyes of the Ming soldiers like demons unleashed—gruesome and terrifying.

The north wind howled like wailing ghosts, sweeping across the grassland; blood rained down, extinguishing countless lives.

The Ming soldiers, all hardened veterans who had fought alongside Zhu Ying through countless southern campaigns and northern battles, emerging from mountains of corpses and seas of blood, showed no flicker of emotion in their eyes as their long blades mercilessly cut down Tartar men taller than a cartwheel.

In but a moment, the Northern Yuan tribe Zhu Ying had shattered had become a hell on earth.

Thousands more heads fell, blood gushed forth, pooling into rivers that snaked outward, staining the surrounding land a horrifying crimson, the stench of blood rising to the heavens, nauseating all who breathed it.

This scene was, of course, brutally bloody.

The Northern Yuan women kneeling on the ground were pale as death, yet their eyes burned with hatred as they glared at the Ming troops, as if craving to devour them alive.

Their young children, faces flushed red with fear and rage, stared back with their mothers, their tiny bodies trembling with fury, desperate to rush forward and fight the Ming soldiers to the death.

Yet!

The children were held tightly by the adults beside them, clasped in their mothers’ trembling but firm arms.

In this instant,

the seeds of hatred sank deep into these young hearts—perhaps this hatred would grow like wild grass, enduring through the years.

This, perhaps, is the unerasable enmity between nations.

In the past, when they slaughtered the Han Chinese heartland, now the roles had reversed, and it was the same.

Hatred arose from this.

But Zhu Ying cared nothing for it; the Han people of today would not dwell on it either.

Throughout history, countless wars and invasions by foreign tribes have proven one truth: mercy toward the enemy is cruelty toward oneself.

If the roles were reversed now—if these Northern Yuan men breached Han cities and villages—they would be a hundred, a thousand times more brutal than the Ming.

At that time,

they would not follow any “kill all men taller than a cartwheel” rule—they would slaughter every man, woman, and child without exception.

Even more,

the women would be raped, their dignity trampled without mercy.

This is the battlefield—a cruel, despairing battlefield where no mercy is allowed in this slaughterhouse.

“General!”

Chen Heng spurred his horse forward, galloping to Zhu Ying’s side, reining in sharply, bowing respectfully, and reporting loudly: “All Tartar men taller than a cartwheel have been slain!”

Zhu Ying nodded slightly, his cold gaze sweeping over the bloody scene before turning to Chen Heng and asking: “Did we take the grain?”

“Everything portable has been loaded onto carts.”

Chen Heng smirked, his voice dripping with cruelty: “We’ve poisoned all the tribe’s water sources—they’ll be vomiting and diarrhea-ridden, crippled by the time they drink.”

Hearing this,

“Then press north!” Zhu Ying gave no hesitation, waving his hand decisively.

“General!”

Zhang Wu rode up swiftly, his expression grave: “We’ve encountered almost no Yuan troops along the way—where have they hidden? Could they be setting ambushes along our route?”

Zhu Ying, upon hearing this, curled his lips into a sneer: “Our army is entirely cavalry—no foot soldiers.”

“This grassland and desert is boundless—if they want to ambush us, I welcome it!”

Of course,

Zhu Ying knew well that though the ground offered limited visibility, high above he had an invisible eye—the golden eagle.

It scanned the terrain for miles around the marching route at all times.

Any rustle, any movement, escaped its sight; should the Yuan troops mobilize to ambush, Zhu Ying could, like a general viewing a chessboard from above, see their movements with perfect clarity.

In this age of cold weapons, the golden eagle was his ultimate cheat—turning enemy ambushes into a joke.

“Go!”

Zhu Ying roared, kicking his horse hard; the black blade beneath him neighed sharply, reared its front hooves, then shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, racing northward.

“Follow the General!”

The officers shouted in unison, their voices echoing across the northern grasslands, reverberating for long after.

Led by the officers, the army surged forward like an iron dragon, trampling the northern grasslands, hooves thundering, menacing and fierce, carrying an endless tide of slaughter as they pressed further north.

Now!

Nearly a month had passed since the fall of the Yuan capital.

Zhu Ying led fifty thousand cavalrymen northward, demonstrating the full fury of cavalry warfare.

Whenever they encountered a Northern Yuan tribe, they slaughtered without mercy—but they still followed the steppe tribes’ custom: killing all men taller than a cartwheel.

In this month, over seventy, if not a hundred, Northern Yuan tribes had been crushed under Zhu Ying’s army.

Wherever they went, blood and wind raged, countless enemies slain.

In this northern frontier, unlike the Central Plains, there was no clear distinction between soldier and civilian.

Every man on the steppe was a warrior—pick up a weapon, and he could charge into battle; thus arose the rule: “Kill all men taller than a cartwheel.”

At this moment,

Zhu Ying’s army had penetrated deep into Northern Yuan territory, completely cut off from the main force, with no way to send or receive messages.

This northern frontier was vast beyond measure; any ordinary general would long since have lost his way, lost in an endless sea, unaware of north or south, unaware of his own location.

But for Zhu Ying, this was no difficulty.

Besides the golden eagle, his “cheat” for reconnaissance and avoiding ambushes, he possessed another vital tool—the compass.

This small object played a crucial role in this desert—it unerringly pointed east, south, west, and north, allowing Zhu Ying to maintain his bearing amid the boundless sands and endless grasslands, never losing his way in this vast expanse.

The Northern Yuan court lay no more than a few miles from Langju Mountain; indeed, the court stood nestled within the mountains’ embrace.

Behind the court, a towering peak pierced the clouds like a slumbering beast, standing firm upon the northern desert—it was the famed Langju Mountain.

“Your Majesty!”

Shilie Men, his face grim, stepped into the center of the tent, knelt on one knee, his voice tense with urgency: “The Ming army has no intention of sparing us.”

“They have already invaded our northern frontier, slaughtering our people without mercy.”

“Reports say nearly a hundred tribes have been destroyed by the Ming—our losses are catastrophic!”

Hearing this,

“The Ming—they’re like a curse we can’t shake!”

The Yuan Emperor slammed his fist on the table, rising to his feet, face flushed with rage yet shadowed by fear: “I’ve been driven to our ancestral land—what more do they want?”

“Do they truly intend to exterminate us, take my life?”

The Yuan Emperor had long lost the confidence he held when the Ming first launched their northern campaign.

Back then, he had dreamed of annihilating the Ming army; now, after one defeat after another, he was a dog without a home, consumed by fear and despair.

“Your Majesty, the Ming’s intent to destroy our Yuan is plain as day.”

Shilie Men raised his head slightly, his gaze serious: “The Ming have sent all their cavalry deep into our territory—they clearly aim to crush our Yuan with cavalry alone.”

“Our only option now is to scatter the tribes completely, forcing each to migrate further into hiding, evading the Ming’s advance.”

“Meanwhile, Your Majesty must issue an edict ordering every tribal leader to prepare for battle against the Ming.”

To this,

“Not only must the tribes migrate—I must move north as well,” the Yuan Emperor said, face heavy with dread: “Secret reports say that the Ming demon Zhu Ying is targeting Langju Mountain—and me.”

“If I do not move north, disaster is inevitable. Our Yuan cavalry cannot stand against him!”

The moment the Yuan Emperor finished speaking,

“Your Majesty, the secret report confirms it—the Ming’s target is you and Langju Mountain.”

At that moment, Ma Er Ke Er, son of Guili Chi, stepped forward, his expression cold and stern, voice laced with ruthlessness: “These Han people claim that sealing Langju Mountain is the supreme honor of a general.”

“Now that we know their goal and their strength, defeating them is no longer difficult.”

“Minister, what is your plan?”

The Yuan Emperor looked at Ma Er Ke Er, his expression holding a flicker of hope, mixed with hesitation.

Since fleeing the Yuan capital, the Emperor’s power had drastically diminished.

Ma Er Ke Er, as leader of the largest Northern Yuan tribe, had grown increasingly vital.

Now, in court, the barbarian chief was dead; few could challenge Ma Er Ke Er.

Even the Chancellor, Shilie Men, a civil official, could not match Ma Er Ke Er’s real authority.

Thus, even if the Emperor disliked Ma Er Ke Er’s words, he could not ignore them.

“The Ming have not only revealed their troop strength but also their objective to us.”

“There must be a trick—someone in the Ming court does not want this deep-penetrating army to return alive.”

Ma Er Ke Er sneered, his eyes thoughtful, as if already holding a meticulous plan: “If so, what do we have to fear?”

“Minister, do you mean to fight the Ming?” the Yuan Emperor asked, his face paling with alarm.

“The secret report clearly states the Ming’s strength.”

Ma Er Ke Er lifted his head, eyes blazing: “Ten thousand cavalry, pieced together, split into two forces.”

“That means each Ming force is no more than fifty thousand—and they’ve marched long distances, exhausted.”

“Meanwhile, Your Majesty still has ten thousand troops at your side, and with the twenty thousand more gathering as we retreat, our forces are overwhelming.”

“Why should we fear them, fresh and waiting?”

To this,

“But… but… Minister, are you truly certain you can defeat the Ming?”

The Emperor remained hesitant, his voice trembling slightly.

He had been terrified by the Ming army, especially by Zhu Ying; those painful defeats haunted him like a nightmare, never fading from his mind.

Ma’erke’er stepped forward, suddenly knelt, clasped his fists, and shouted loudly: “Your Majesty!”

That cry rang through the imperial court tent like a great bell, jolting every Northern Yuan minister—once listless and filled with dread—into stunned silence as they turned to stare at him.

The Emperor himself was startled by this sudden shout, his body trembling slightly.

“My father died at Zhu Ying’s hands; Your Majesty’s son, too, fell to this man.”

Ma’erke’er’s face was twisted with grief and rage, his eyes blazing with hatred: “Countless loyal and brave sons of our Great Yuan have fallen beneath his blade.”

“In past city defenses, our Yuan warriors may have been unskilled.”

“But now, the Ming army has plunged deep into our heartland—if we continue to avoid battle and retreat, we shall become a laughingstock to the world.”

“Your Majesty, do you wish to see our Yuan sons mocked by all under heaven?”

“Do you no longer wish to avenge your son’s death?”

At this moment, Ma’erke’er might truly have been blinded by vengeance, consumed only by the desire to avenge his father and cleanse the shame of the Great Yuan.

Hearing Ma’erke’er’s impassioned words, the Emperor’s expression instantly grew complex—fury, resentment, and a flicker of doubt all mingled within him.

At that moment, many ministers in the court rose to their feet.

“The General speaks truly; I second his words!”

“Your Majesty, for the sake of the Great Yuan, annihilate this invading Ming force!”

“A mere fifty thousand Ming troops—what do we have to fear?”

“Exactly! Even if we must sacrifice our sons’ lives, we must wipe them out entirely!”

“Your Majesty currently has one hundred thousand troops at your side; with reinforcements from the tribes, we can easily muster three hundred thousand.”

“Then, we shall lay a heavenly net around the royal court and utterly exterminate this Ming force!”

“I second this!”

“Though we have lost the Central Plains, if this battle destroys the invading Ming army and cripples their cavalry, our Great Yuan shall rise again!”

…

In the imperial court—the royal court tent—over a dozen ministers rose to support Ma’erke’er.

Clearly, Ma’erke’er’s words were highly stirring, swaying many.

Of course.

Some among them shared his motives, seeking to exploit this moment for their own schemes.

Seeing that most ministers now favored battle, the Emperor struggled inwardly.

Though victory seemed likely, his fear clung to him like a shadow.

He knew well: if the Ming army, especially Zhu Ying, breached the royal court, he would have nowhere left to flee, no sanctuary remaining.

“Since all my loyal ministers say so,”

the Emperor clenched his teeth, his expression grave: “then I shall follow your counsel.”

“This Ming force must be annihilated!”

“I demand the head of the Ming general Zhu Ying! I shall use his blood to honor the sons slaughtered by the Ming!”

The instant the Emperor finished speaking, a faint, almost imperceptible gleam of triumph flashed in Ma’erke’er’s eyes, then he immediately knelt and bowed deeply: “Your Majesty is wise!”

“Your Majesty is wise!” The entire court followed suit, kneeling and shouting in unison, their voices echoing through the tent.

“But!”

the Emperor frowned slightly, a flicker of caution in his eyes: “For prudence’s sake, the royal court shall serve as bait to lure the Ming army.”

“After setting the ambush, I shall lead the ministers to Bishier Sea for temporary refuge, returning only after the battle ends.”

“What do you all think?”

Though phrased as a question, all understood: the Emperor had already decided—he would not place himself in danger, no matter how great the odds, his past defeats having made him excessively cautious.

“Your Majesty,” Ma’erke’er asked at once, sounding concerned: “If Your Majesty relocates, who shall command the ten thousand royal troops?”

The Emperor slowly scanned the court, his gaze finally settling on a military minister.

“Dali Ma!” the Emperor called out.

“Your servant is here!”

The Northern Yuan general immediately stepped forward, clad in fur, towering and massive—he was a prince of the realm, titled Prince Dai.

“I entrust you with six thousand royal troops to join Ma’erke’er in annihilating the invaders. Will you accept?”

The Emperor’s expression was solemn, his tone carrying a hint of hope.

“Your servant pledges his life!”

Prince Dai, Dali Ma, answered without hesitation, his voice resolute.

As a descendant of Kublai Khan, he understood the Emperor’s thoughts perfectly.

To hand over full command would only empower the tribal chieftains further—something the Emperor could never allow.

The current Emperor’s strength had already been greatly diminished; this Ming northern campaign had shattered his remaining power.

Seeing Dali Ma’s agreement, the Emperor showed clear satisfaction.

“Ma’erke’er!” the Emperor turned to him, his voice deep: “Since you are determined to avenge your father, I shall grant you this chance.”

“You shall have full command of this campaign, and authority over all tribal chieftains.”

“I demand only victory!”

“Bring me Zhu Ying’s head—and if possible, capture him alive. I do not wish to let him die too easily!”

Ma’erke’er, overcome with emotion, knelt again and bowed his head hard to the ground: “Your servant receives the imperial decree!”

“Enough, my ministers.”

The Emperor waved his hand: “It is settled. I shall immediately lead the ministers to Bishier Sea.”

Saying this,

the Emperor turned and hurriedly left the tent, as if he could not bear to stay another moment.

…

(End of Chapter)