Chapter 269: Monster

The mountain mist had not yet fully dispersed, mingling with the early morning cold wind that struck the weathered faces of the plateau warriors.

The barding on their mounts' chests swayed with each stride, rhythmically knocking against the strong chests of the Hequ horses, the continuous clatter like a battle-hymn.

Before him at Danba Manor, over a thousand turncoat slaves who had been shattered by the cavalry charge on both flanks were now routing, trampling each other like headless flies among the scattered tents.

Close at hand, only a human wall leaping out of the gunpowder smoke remained.

That narrow human wall formed a dense battle line, a mantis trying to stop a chariot, cutting off the only path they could take to assault the manor.

The cavalry did not slow down. On horseback, he shouted something to his comrades to the left and right; his companions understood and began to veer off to flank. Then he rose slightly in the saddle, tore off his wolf-skin cape caught by the wind, and draped it over his horse's swaying head.

He dropped the reins and lowered his face, letting the curved brim of his helmet cover half of it. He lifted his hips from the saddle, leaning his body forward and down. With one hand he gripped the horse's mane through the wolf skin, and with the other he tightened his grasp on the long spear decorated with spiral patterns. Assuming the full posture of a desperate, death-defying collision, he launched his charge against the horizontal formation.

This was a contest of courage between cavalry and infantry. In such a contest, he who flinches dies, and he was always the one who won.

Thirty paces. The infantry with their backs to the trench did not move.

The scenery on both sides flew backward.

Twenty paces. No movement.

Ten paces. Still no movement!

There was no time to turn the horse around. The cavalryman suddenly wrenched the horse's mane and threw himself backward. The pain forced the horse's head up, its front hooves rearing high, while its hind hooves still plowed forward through the grass. In that frantic moment, all he saw was the close-quarters army formation finally move.

A smile surfaced on the cavalryman's tense face. No cavalryman initiates a charge without assuming the posture of a collision, but no cavalryman truly wants to collide with an infantry line.

But before the smile could fully form, it froze.

The infantry facing the cavalry charge had moved, but they were not routing. Instead, the front rank suddenly burst forward two steps, bracing their long spears at an angle.

In that lightning flash, the cavalryman on horseback had no time to react. His mind could only process a single thought: How dare they?

With that question, he watched his mount slide onto the razor-sharp spearheads. The heavy warhorse easily drove the spear butts, which the soldiers had been stepping on, deep into the earth, snapping several shafts before crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar, taking the rider with it.

More cavalrymen had originally planned to abandon a direct collision, veering to the flanks to skirt the spearheads, but they never expected the enemy's horizontal formation to suddenly surge forward, changing the distance between them.

One after another, infantry spears thrust out. Some pierced the warhorses; others missed and swept horizontally before the riders, knocking those who could not dodge in time from their mounts. Amid the sound of snapping shafts, the warriors in cotton armor discarded their broken spears, drew their short weapons, and leaped from the formation to attack the Do-Kham cavalrymen thrown to the ground.

They were like a pack of monsters, holding the distance between the two sides firmly in their grasp, as if they knew exactly at what distance the Do-Kham cavalry would try to turn their horses. No aiming was needed; they simply extended their spears to that spot, and the decelerating warhorses would collide with the spearheads on their own.

In the blink of an eye, a charge devolved into a collision. Shafts shattered, horses died, and the riders thrown from their mounts could not survive either. One after another, they were cut down or bludgeoned by the Lion Soldiers with their short weapons, meeting violent ends.

Only two riders, relying on their mounts and courage, slammed fiercely into the battle line. Even though their horses were speared to death, the massive bodies still charged forward several paces on sheer inertia, forcing the infantry on both sides to dodge.

The two cavalrymen who broke through were highly skilled. They dodged the thrusting spears and, without prior agreement, both chose to leap from their horses, hoping to land behind the formation and throw the Lion Army into disarray.

But behind the Lion Soldiers was not flat ground; it was the trench they had dug.

The two cavalrymen were like heavy sacks, crashing hard into the trench. They only managed a single, abruptly cut-off scream before being impaled through by the wooden spikes at the bottom.

As the cavalry from all directions withdrew to regroup, Wai Liangzi planted his banner beside him and sneered at the corpses left before the battle line: "They actually dared to collide with us?"

To Wai Liangzi, the enemy had no idea what kind of men they were dealing with.

Their luck was bad; they had run into the Lion Army at its peak.

Wai Liangzi had only transferred from scout cavalry to the training camp this spring and had missed most of the camp's drills. At that time, the officers were debating whether soldiers should be allowed to have families and whether they should transition to a normal governing power.

The Lion Army at this moment was a monster focused solely on war.

Over a thousand low-ranking officers and tens of thousands of soldiers had no personal lives, no elderly or young, no wives or daughters. They were free of all attachments and still accustomed to the mindset from the drought years, where a single full meal was worth more than anything.

They lived in the barracks every day, with ample dry rations and enough meat, pondering only the wars to come. Their hypothetical enemies included every army from Ü-Tsang to Nurgan.

For half a year, the three training camps drilled like madmen. The staff officer of the artillery battalion infiltrated the cavalry battalion to gather intelligence; the cavalry battalion's staff officer repeatedly charged the infantry battalion in camp drills; the officers in the central army camp summarized every tactic, picked out the flaws, strengthened them, and fed them into the next drill.

On the surface, they had an extremely high level of technical skill, but in reality, even the slave-aristocracy system was more advanced and stable than theirs politically, capable of producing ten or a hundred times more grain.

All they could produce were guns, cannons, and armor.

On this planet, at this very moment, they possessed the highest technological level among all barbaric conquerors, and the purest barbarian bloodline among all civilized peoples.

This state was a sickly, deformed product of a specific environment.

The army of the Béri King had just collided with this monster's extended feeler.

The wounded soldiers pinned under warhorses were carried behind the trench. Two hundred and thirty-nine Lion Soldiers had withstood the enemy's first charge.

Wai Liangzi calmly reformed the ranks, withdrew to the inner side of the trench, and once again used their firearms to form an impenetrable wall of bronze and iron.

The Demba Dapön watched the battle line, only twenty paces wide in the distance, his face full of confusion.

To the Demba Dapön, it was common for infantry with firm resolve to block a cavalry charge, just as it was common for an infantry formation lacking firm resolve to rout under one.

Charging and colliding were two different tactics. Relying on the enemy's fear to rout them before the cavalry was a successful charge; collision was a different, costly tactic. In his long military career, he had only seen a cavalry collision three times.

What truly puzzled him was why this army, composed of Han soldiers, was still on the battlefield.

He knew that the Han army, like the Mongol army, were helpers that Gama had found from the north.

But ultimately, this was not their war. When Gama's slaves and the Mongol army had both been routed, this Han army, with a mere two hundred-plus men, had formed a horizontal formation no more than twenty paces wide, attempting to block the advance of over a thousand troops.

Could the monk Gama really afford such a price?

Or was the cost of hiring Han troops to fight simply very low?

"Dapön, that banner, the character on it is Liu."

"Liu?"

The pronunciation of this word was very strange, yet it felt inexplicably familiar to the Demba Dapön. Then he thought of the Mu Heavenly King of Lijiang, and of a place as far away as the edge of the sky, where a man with this surname had driven the Emperor to frantic exhaustion.

He asked a monk, brought by the nobles, who understood Chinese: "Do you know Shaanxi?"

The monk shook his head. His knowledge of the Han language was learned in Ü-Tsang from Han monks who had entered Tibet; he had never been to the Han lands.

The Béri nobles' understanding of the Han lands was limited, confined to Sichuan and Yunnan. They knew there was a Mu Heavenly King in Yunnan who blocked the Béri King's path of southern expansion, and that Sichuan once had a Songpan, which taught them they could not advance an inch eastward.

"Go meet their leader. Tell them to withdraw, and I will not pursue. If they want wealth, that can also be discussed. Remember to ask clearly where they come from."

The monk wanted nothing more than to slap himself twice. Why did he have to run his mouth? Let them fight it out. Now look, he had to face the sharp edge of the blade himself.

But Béri was not like other places; monks were not held in such high reverence there.

Trembling, the monk walked toward the front line, his mind filled with the Han eminent monk who had taught him to read Han characters. That eminent monk was kind, refined, and amiable. Surely these Han soldiers would not make things difficult for him.

Watching the monk's retreating figure, Demba once again organized his troops.

Best if we can bribe them off — this is a war between nobles and slaves, nothing to do with these Han people.

If bribery fails, he planned to press forward head-on with infantry, send the horse troops around the trenches from the flanks, and strike this Han force from the rear.

Crooked Beam was setting up a firearms defense line. Earlier, the two hundred forty Han soldiers had split up, each squad reinforcing the slave soldiers' firepower against the noble estates, but scattered firearms couldn't threaten a regular army.

Now over two hundred Han soldiers were massed together. Counting captured weapons, they had over a hundred muskets — very strong firepower.

Forty firearms handlers each loaded three muskets, light and heavy, all set up and braced in position.

He figured the enemy cavalry probably wouldn't dare charge the front again. Next they'd likely try to outflank them from both wings, so he left the frontal defense to the muskets and had the pikemen mainly guard the rear.

They had bought Basang time to rally a small number of slaves who had scattered in all directions.

Suddenly, a foreign monk who could speak Han Chinese appeared before the lines, loudly relaying a message for the enemy commander. Crooked Beam… you can't imagine how delighted he was!

He was so happy he nearly jumped for joy, waving frantically: "Monk, come! Monk, come! Get over here, quick!"

The monk had never been treated like this. A group of armor-clad Han soldiers crowded around him, peering left and right, as if they'd laid eyes on some rare treasure.

Crooked Beam asked: "What's your name?"

"This humble monk serves the Baili King…"

He hadn't even finished when Crooked Beam raised a hand and cut him off: "Fine, your name is Monk Wang."

The moment he heard that name, he knew this was an old friend of the Lion Army.

Crooked Beam got straight to the point: "Monk Wang, now that you're here, you've only got two roads ahead of you, lad. I need an interpreter. You stay here, and I guarantee you'll eat your fill and dress warm."

Eating your fill and dressing warm — to Crooked Beam, that was the greatest blessing in the world, and the best promise he could offer.

Back in the day, when their Grand Commander made someone an offer, the best he could guarantee was that they'd die a violent death. Now even a common soldier like him could guarantee a full belly and warm clothes.

He was immensely proud.

But to Monk Wang, this offer… it wasn't exactly shabby, just so down-to-earth it was downright strange.

Was there anyone else in the world who made promises like that?

Monk Wang felt these Han soldiers weren't bad. Though the terms weren't great, they seemed very simple and honest, easy enough to talk to.

"No, General, I came to negotiate peace. The Danbei Depön sent me to ask you — what would it take for you to withdraw? He guarantees he won't pursue. If you want some money and goods, that can be discussed too. He also wants to know, where did you Han troops come from?"

"Where we came from is none of his damn business!"

Crooked Beam cursed with a laugh, paying no mind at all to the peace talks.

Peace wasn't the problem. The problem was, to talk peace, he'd have to send this monk back.

This was a man who understood Chinese!

The biggest headache at Danba Estate these days was the language barrier. Now that they'd been sent a foreign monk who understood Chinese, how could there be any reason to send him back?

"Listen up, lad, you're not going back, so put those thoughts out of your head."

He pointed a finger at Monk Wang, gesturing as he spoke: "If you try to run, see that musket over there? A one-ounce lead ball will blow your skull to bits, lad."

Monk Wang looked at Crooked Beam, then at the heavy musket propped on the earthen wall, and finally swept his gaze around at the grinning Han soldiers surrounding him. He slowly swallowed.

Slap. Slap.

A big-bearded Han soldier came over, yanking on a leather strap. This fellow had an accent from somewhere else. He leaned in close and said: "Don't you move, you little bastard. Gonna tie up your hands and your kneecaps. Even if we lose, they won't give you a hard time."

Monk Wang had still been thinking of struggling, but the big-bearded man shoved him to the ground and he was flat on his back, pinned down and unable to rise. He could only let himself be trussed up tight. A heavy set of Dokham cavalry lamellar armor was draped over him, and finally an iron helmet was clapped onto his head. He couldn't see a thing.

Crooked Beam was thoroughly satisfied with Monk Wang's getup — it guaranteed he wouldn't be killed by a stray arrow.

In the distance, the Danbei Depön on horseback watched Monk Wang get taken down right before his eyes, furious and exasperated.

Who detains an envoy? Damn it, have you no martial honor!

Just as he gave the order for an all-out assault and two Rupön units advanced with infantry and cavalry combined, the nobles holding the rear looked south and let out cries of alarm.

A plume of black smoke was rising in the distance — the direction of their main grain depot.

The infantry formed dense square formations, shield-bearers in front, armored soldiers behind, advancing steadily under the cover of cavalry on both wings, clearing the way with pikes and crossbows.

The muskets fired.

A lone gunshot rang out abruptly before the lines.

At the far left of the Han line, a bird musket puffed smoke. The shot struck a shield raised by the advancing frontline infantry far ahead.

The Rupön leading the advance glanced toward the flank of his formation, somewhat puzzled. After a brief moment of shock, the infantry pressed on — no one had fallen.

In less than the span of a breath, just as the infantry were taking their next step, another shot rang out beside that bird musket. This time it was a heavy musket. The lead ball punched through the shield, killed the shield-bearer behind it, and wounded the infantryman behind him.

Two wounded soldiers hit the ground, throwing the formation's flank into disorder.

Then the third musket, the fourth… lead balls flew in an unbroken stream, soldiers dropping one after another. In those first brief moments, the startled infantry faltered, unwilling to press forward.

But from left to right, forty muskets light and heavy fired in sequence. By the time the last musket had fired, the first was reloaded and firing again. This ceaseless cycle of fire turned the battlefield front into a scene of wild chaos.

The infantry Rupön could no longer hold a stable formation. The unit collapsed under the sustained gunfire. Some soldiers fled toward the flanks, but more scattered in reverse, charging toward the trenches and falling on the path of their own advance.

The horse troops on both wings crossed the trenches, only to find themselves met by the same hedgehog of Han pikes. Every cavalryman, as if by unspoken agreement, chose to flee toward the distant trenches to escape the hail of bullets and arrows.

But soon the Mongol horse troops, now free of restraint, circled around the estate and swept back in on the far flanks, skirting the Dokham cavalry pinned down by gunfire and bearing straight down on the routing infantry.

The routing infantry — at first, they were simply running out of control, trying to escape the firing zone.

But once the rout was underway, they also had to escape the pursuit and punishment of their noble officers. Which meant they had to flee the battlefield entirely.

The moment for counterattack had come.

Crooked Beam rolled up his flag-pike and called for his warhorse.

One by one, the Han soldiers mounted their steeds, forming several mounted squads of a dozen or so riders each, and hurled themselves at the disordered Dokham cavalry on both flanks.

This time, the tables turned — the Dokham cavalry who had been chasing the Mongol horse troops all over the field were now the ones running for their lives.