Chapter 397: Complete Victory

The gate of the Qin army camp was wide enough. When the gunfire rang out, dozens of Qing soldiers clad in double-layered heavy armor surged into the camp, heads lowered as they charged desperately toward the Ming troops behind the low wall dozens of paces away, intending to rely on the protection of their heavy armor to withstand the impact of the fire lances.

Over a hundred Qing archers followed close behind, attempting to close within fifty paces—the range of their heavy arrows—to begin shooting down the Qin soldiers.

But in reality, this notion was nothing short of wishful thinking.

The front ranks of Qing soldiers could not gain a foothold at all, let alone carve out a space where the archers could stand.

Within a distance of less than fifty paces, high-velocity bullets reached their maximum speed. Never mind double-layered mail—even if one wore a sheet of iron plate, the sheer kinetic energy of the shot would punch right through it.

Blood splattered amid the screams of the front-rank Qing soldiers as over twenty of them were struck down. But the remaining Qing troops, long accustomed to watching countless lives perish before their eyes, were utterly unmoved—instead they accelerated their charge, while those in the rear, ignoring the wails of their fallen kinsmen on the ground, pressed close behind the front ranks.

They knew the Ming fire lances were deadly, and they knew more shots would come, but their mission was to break into the Ming gunners' camp at the cost of their own lives.

Once it came to close combat, those fire lances were nothing more than iron clubs.

This Ming force before them was indeed an elite army.

That was the instinctive thought flashing through the minds of many charging Qing soldiers—and it became the last thought they ever had.

In countless past engagements with Ming troops, although the Ming also deployed fire lances in the front line, for various reasons they would often fire before the Qing even came within range, then toss aside their weapons and flee for their lives.

The Qing would then pursue and slaughter with virtually no losses—a few dozen Qing soldiers could send a thousand or even several thousand Ming troops scattering across the hills.

But this Ming force before them was clearly a well-drilled, strictly disciplined strong army. Such Ming troops had to be utterly annihilated.

Only a dead enemy was a good enemy.

After the first rank of one hundred gunners finished firing, they swiftly crouched down to clear their barrels, load powder and shot. A shrill trumpet blast sounded, and the second rank fired in turn—another hundred bullets streaked out, forming a curtain of shot before the Qing. The charging Qing soldiers tumbled to the ground like wild bulls at full gallop smashing into hard rock.

Two hundred bullets swept away the Qing soldiers at the very front. Their double-layered heavy armor had not saved their lives.

Pools of crimson blood snaked across the ground. The severely wounded Qing soldiers who had not yet died clutched their wounds, screaming and writhing—but the rapid, massive blood loss would soon claim their lives.

Though inwardly shocked by the Ming's formidable firepower, large numbers of Qing soldiers still pressed forward.

Their kinsmen's lives could not be sacrificed in vain.

Charge through!

Smash the skulls of those Nikan bastards with hammers, hack off their heads with axes, run them through belly and flank with iron spears.

We are the invincible soldiers of the Eight Banners—no one can stop our charge.

This was the thought shared by every Qing soldier's mind.

No one shouted a war cry, for that would only waste their strength.

They would only exhale and cry out when they had burst into the Nikan formation and were swinging their blades.

But the Ming's unrelenting volleys utterly shattered the Qing's illusions.

Though thick gunsmoke obscured their vision, at this point the fire lances were not aimed shots but concentrated fire upon a single zone—the gunners simply fired straight ahead.

Before the sixth rank had finished firing, the first rank had already finished reloading. Their match cords were blown alight again, waiting only for the trumpet call to rise and fire.

Behind Liu Baimin's gunners, one hundred spearmen and one hundred sword-and-shield men were hurrying up. The two Company Commanders leading them, seeing the red flag waving atop the gun platform, immediately quickened their pace with their men.

Apart from a few misfires, the Qin army's first volley of nearly six hundred bullets struck down over a hundred Qing soldiers.

As the first rank rose and fired another round, the Qing soldiers who had closed to within forty paces lost nearly thirty more men to the shots.

Faced with what seemed like an endless stream of Ming bullets, able only to take hits and never to strike back, the Qing soldiers finally broke. Those at the front began turning to flee back the way they came.

As panic spread, the front-rank Qing soldiers—some deliberately, some hesitating—began to turn and fall back.

Huilibu, the janggin leading the charge, was brave beyond measure, but before he could even display his prowess he was cut down by a bullet. Unable to withstand the Ming's fire lances and having lost their commander, the Qing troops were routed.

The Qing archers, who had not yet entered effective range within the camp gate, were likewise forced to halt their advance.

Wudabu, the janggin commanding three hundred Qing soldiers in the rear formation, had not yet led his men into the Ming camp. Blocked by the line of sight, he could only hear the ceaseless crack of gunfire, and unease began to creep into his heart.

In the span of barely a hundred breaths, the front force that had charged into the Ming camp fell into chaos—Qing soldiers advancing and retreating became tangled together.

Wudabu, a veteran of many battles, saw the situation turning sour and immediately ordered the horns of retreat to be sounded. But before the horn even rang out, the Ming spearmen and sword-and-shield men were already upon them in pursuit.

The Qing soldiers, who had always fought the enemy face-to-face, finally tasted what it was like to be cut down from behind by Ming troops.

Under the thrusting of two ranks of Qin spearmen arrayed like a hedgehog, and the blocking and slashing of the sword-and-shield men guarding the spearmen's flanks, many Qing soldiers who had lost their composure turned to fight back—but the Qin spears, over a zhang in length, gave them no chance at all.

These spearheads, shaped like armor-piercing awls, simply ignored the Qing's heavy armor. Every thrust and withdrawal of those gleaming, razor-sharp points drew a spray of crimson blood, and in the blink of an eye dozens of Qing soldiers were killed or wounded.

It was fortunate that the Qing were in loose skirmish formation—otherwise the casualties would have been far heavier.

The Company Commander leading the Qing archers reacted swiftly, immediately ordering his archers to fall back a dozen paces and loose several volleys of arcing shots at the Qin spearmen.

As a black flag waved from the gun platform, Li Sanwa led three hundred gunners around the low wall to meet them. The spearmen and sword-and-shield men, after having several dozen men shot down, withdrew to either side of the camp gate.

Over a hundred Qing soldiers charged into the camp once more, hoping to pursue the retreating Ming troops—but they were met by three hundred Qin soldiers arrayed in three ranks—the first kneeling on one knee, the second bent low, the third standing—who struck them hard again with volley fire.

As dozens more Qing soldiers were shot down, the remnants of the first Qing force finally collapsed and scattered in all directions.

At Li Sanwa's loud orders, the several dozen Qin casualties were swiftly carried away by the sword-and-shield men, while the gunners likewise withdrew from both flanks back behind the low wall. The open ground inside and outside the camp gate was left strewn with the dead and wounded of the Qing.

This small-scale fierce engagement lasted less than a quarter of an hour before concluding in a complete victory for the Qin army.

Watching the retreating Qing soldiers file past him with heads bowed, Wudabu's heart grew heavy beyond measure.

Yoto, observing from the earthen platform behind the Qing artillery position, wore an expression of utter gloom, and beside him Kong Youde, Geng Zhongming, Shang Kexi and the others looked equally grim.

Though they had not clearly seen how the Qing soldiers who charged into the camp had been defeated, the unbroken crackle of gunfire and the smoke drifting across the sky had already told the whole story.

It was very much like the ordeal Yoto had suffered last year beneath the walls of Songshan, Daxing Fort, Xingping Fort and other strongholds—beaten helpless by the Ming's formidable firearms.

"Someone! Summon Wudabu back. Leave a thousand cavalry to keep watch on the Ming troops, and gather all officers of janggin rank and above to my tent for council!"