Chapter 430: White Pole Veterans, Fierce White Armor

After enduring the volleys of crossbows and arrows from the Ming army, the Qing troops launched their assault.

Facing the white-armored soldiers charging head-on, the stocky Deng Xianshi widened his eyes, gripping the thick, hard white-ash spear shaft with both hands one before the other, his body leaning slightly forward while sinking a little lower, his toes curling to grip the ground, every ounce of strength coiled within him like a beast crouched in the grass spotting its prey, ready to step forward and thrust his spear.

Twenty-three-year-old Deng Xianshi, originally named Deng Er, had earned a great reputation in the army for his fierce fighting and outstanding record—always charging in the front ranks in every battle—and was deeply beloved by Qin Liangyu and Ma Xianglin.

Qin Liangyu had deliberately taken the meaning of "leading by example" and changed his original name to the current Deng Xianshi.

The lean, wiry Plain White Banner white-armored soldier Hutubao gripped a tiger-fang spear nine chi in length, its triangular blade bearing two barbs below the point, and charged low and hunched toward an armored soldier in the Ming front line, his triangular eyes gleaming with coldness and bloodlust.

Just past thirty years of age, Hutubao had taken part in several raids into Ming territory, and no fewer than several hundred Ming officers and soldiers had died beneath his spear.

In Hutubao's eyes, the Ming people were all lambs awaiting slaughter.

They were weak and cowardly, unworthy of the smooth silks, the fine meals, the splendid dwellings, and the beautiful women—those things only the warriors of the Eight Banners deserved to possess.

Ever since being selected as an armored soldier upon reaching adulthood, Hutubao, through his ferocity and cold-bloodedness, had risen from a poor man whose household held only a few lambs, a bow and arrows, and a battered saber, to a master now owning five booi bondservants, three Han women, gold, silver, and jewels worth tens of thousands, and countless cattle, sheep, mules, and horses.

These possessions were all earned by him one blade-stroke and one spear-thrust at a time.

Sometimes, drunk, he would smugly think that this fine life now was something he couldn't have dreamed of as a child—and truth be told, he really ought to thank those utterly weak Han people.

Though the Eight Banners people didn't know how to produce, the Han seemed capable of everything.

Since that was so, all they had to do was wait for the Han to finish making everything, and then the sons of the Eight Banners could simply take it with sword and spear.

These damned Nikan seemed impossible to kill off—cut down one crop and another grew in its place.

In the blink of an eye, Hutubao was barely over a zhang from the white-pole armored soldier he had fixed his eyes upon. He drove his waist and legs forward in a great stride, and with the momentum thrust the tiger-fang spear in his hand toward that soldier's lower abdomen.

The human belly was the softest part—once the sharp tiger-fang spear pierced into the body, the two barbs beneath the point could smoothly drag the opponent's guts out.

Hutubao very much enjoyed hearing the agonized screams of enemies in their death throes, especially those eyes full of terror and despair—they made his heart feel incomparably pleased.

The one Hutubao's spear thrust toward was none other than Deng Xianshi.

In the crowded, jostling chaos of the battle line, dodging an enemy's blade required keen battlefield instincts and extremely rapid reactions.

Deng Xianshi, rich in combat experience, kept his eyes fixed on the enemy's. The instant Hutubao lunged forward with his thrust, Deng Xianshi twisted his body, turning from facing the enemy directly to presenting his side, and at the same moment his spear shot out like lightning toward Hutubao's face.

The tiger-fang spear and the white-pole spear struck their targets almost simultaneously.

The difference was that Hutubao's tiger-fang spear struck Deng Xianshi in the ribs—though it pierced through the iron armor, the two barbs beneath the point were blocked by the armor—while Deng Xianshi's white-pole spear drove straight in through the bridge of Hutubao's nose and out through the back of his skull.

Hutubao released the tiger-fang spear, a spear embedded in the middle of his forehead as he slowly sank to his knees, his eyes holding that very terror and despair he had so often seen in others.

A veteran of countless battles, he had never dreamed he would be struck down by an ordinary Ming soldier—and with a single, fatal blow.

In his impression, not to mention skilled warriors among the Ming troops, even those brightly armored commanding generals were utterly useless in a fight.

On the walls of his residence in Shengjing hung several long sabers used by Ming officers—all his trophies, kept in his home with the prince's permission.

Deng Xianshi extended his right foot and kicked hard, sending Hutubao toppling to the ground, then smoothly withdrew his white-pole spear, its tip carrying brain matter and blood streaked with red and white.

Though it takes long to tell, the exchange between the two had actually lasted only a few breaths. At the same time, his comrades beside him were also constantly being struck down.

Before Deng Xianshi could pull the tiger-fang spear from his body, a red-bannered guardsman behind Hutubao's corpse stepped over it, bellowed once, and swung his wolf-tooth mace down at Deng Xianshi's head with a whistling wind.

Caught off guard, Deng Xianshi had no time to dodge and could only desperately flick his white-pole spear upward, trying to parry the enemy's mace.

But the force of the iron mace weighing over ten jin crashing down was simply too immense. Deng Xianshi, straining with all his might, could only deflect the mace slightly off course. With a sharp crack, the iron mace struck his left shoulder, smashing half of it into a sunken ruin.

That flick of the white pole had not only diverted the mace's downward path but also lessened its force; combined with the protection of his iron armor, it was only thanks to this that Deng Xianshi was wounded rather than killed on the spot.

Enduring the searing pain, Deng Xianshi seized the moment before the enemy could recover his mace, thrust forward with a single-handed spear strike, and hit the red-bannered guardsman square in the throat.

Though his strength was greatly diminished by his severe wounds, the sharp spearpoint still sank deep into that guardsman's neck. The enemy released his mace, grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, made gurgling sounds as great gouts of blood poured from his mouth, and slowly crumpled to the ground.

Carrying two severe wounds on his body, Deng Xianshi was too spent to continue fighting. A white-pole soldier behind him stepped forward to take his place.

Enduring the pain, Deng Xianshi pulled the tiger-fang spear from his ribs and cast it away, then pressed his right hand tightly over his wound to stem the flow of blood, turned, and slowly retreated. The white-pole soldiers behind him moved around him to fill the gaps in the front line.

The white-pole soldiers stood close together side by side in a single rank, but space was left between front and back ranks—precisely so that wounded soldiers could withdraw. To remain in place could only mean death.

Deng Xianshi was certainly fierce, but men as brave as him were few, while the combat power of the Eight Banners' white-armored soldiers was truly astonishing.

Especially the heavy weapons they wielded—wolf-tooth maces, flails, long-handled great axes, tiger-fang spears, and chopping sabers—their killing effect on the white-pole soldiers was terrifying.

Of Deng Xianshi's contingent of over six hundred and fifty men, the first two ranks had already suffered grievous losses under the white-armored soldiers' ferocious assault, while the twenty white-armored soldiers had only just lost more than half their number.

This was chiefly thanks to the white-armored soldiers' extraordinarily powerful protection.

Though three layers of heavy armor could still be pierced by a sharp spear, the wounds were not life-threatening, which made the white-armored soldiers fight with fewer misgivings and greater courage.

Watching so many of their kin fall dead on the spot, the white-pole soldiers' ferocity was thoroughly ignited.

A white-armored soldier had just smashed a white-pole soldier to the ground with his iron mace when another white-pole soldier hurled his spear away and threw himself forward, locking his arms tightly around the enemy's arms at the waist.

Seizing the moment while that white-armored soldier was momentarily unable to move, another white-pole soldier reversed his spear and savagely whipped the hard iron ring at the butt end across the enemy's helmet. The blow caved the iron helm in deeply, nearly crushing half his skull, blood and brain matter bursting forth.

A red-bannered guardsman seized the opportunity to swing his chopping saber and cut off the head of the white-pole soldier who had lost his weapon.

The battle had barely been underway for a few hundred breaths, yet both sides had already suffered enormous losses, with several hundred soldiers each fallen wounded or dead.

Though the two sides' combat power was roughly comparable, the Qing forces held the advantage in numbers, and the white-pole soldiers soon found themselves locked in a bitter struggle—the situation turning increasingly unfavorable for the Ming army.

The Folangji cannons on the artillery platform had fallen silent.

Because both sides had closed into melee combat, the gunners dared not depress their barrels too low—that would only cause indiscriminate casualties.

At this critical juncture, the Qin army's grenadiers were ordered to rush to the aid of the imperiled right flank.