Chapter 399: Retribution

The men who had long been prepared shouted in unison, leveled their long spears, and thrust straight at the Qimei Stronghold men. Before the Qimei Stronghold men could react, many were run clean through.

Some cried out in shock, some cursed in fury, and the "merchant guards" who had been waiting outside all charged in. They moved in squads of ten, arrayed front and back in coordinated formations, wielding full-length, full-weight long spears — truly unstoppable. In that brief clash, the Qimei Stronghold men began to rout, but this sudden attacking force had no intention of letting a single one escape and kept up the pursuit relentlessly.

The men of Qimei Stronghold ate better than the refugees, had more strength, and carried weapons, yet compared to the Zhao Battalion household troops — who trained daily without pause, were well-fed, and possessed superb combat skills — they were far, far inferior. They could not even outrun them. Worse, when passing the refugee pens, they would carelessly trip or even be dragged inside, a fate far more terrible than death.

Some refugees were resisting, but most still stood among the crowd staring blankly. They did not even react.

Zhao Jin bent down and picked up a podao. Hefting it briefly, he swung it two-handed, parried an oncoming slash, and thrust forward in one motion — the podao ran the man clean through. Wang Zhaojing had already drawn his sword, sliding forward in a lunge; another charging man was pierced and fell.

But Qimei Stronghold's courage amounted to nothing more than those two men's instinctive attacks. When the men behind saw three of their own killed in the blink of an eye, they immediately turned and fled. They had never possessed any real fighting spirit or courage to begin with — they only knew how to bully the weak.

Once they realized their side had absolutely no ability to resist, and that they could not even outrun these sudden attackers, the Qimei Stronghold men on this side immediately dropped to their knees and begged for mercy, wailing and pleading for their lives.

The Zhao Battalion personal guard troops handled it simply: all who surrendered were herded toward an open space to one side. Seeing that no killing blow fell on them, the others began to think that surrender might offer a way to live, and one after another threw down their weapons.

Afterward, over a hundred more household troops in similar attire arrived, along with many manor guards and local militia from the powerful families of Suzhou. These men kept pouring into the camp. With even their numerical advantage gone, Qimei Stronghold had even less courage to resist.

Once everyone had been gathered in that open space, a rough headcount was taken, and they were made to check among themselves for anyone missing. Once confirmed, the Suzhou militia, bearing greatswords, walked in and, without a word or care, began hacking away. In an instant, blood flowed across the ground.

"This is called a pledge of allegiance," Zhao Jin said. Beside him, Wang Zhaojing could not help but laugh.

After laughing, Zhao Jin stretched out a hand, pointed at the refugees inside the pens, and said, "Do you see? This is what becomes of those who stay in Fengyang. Even if someone is lucky enough to be bought back, do you think it's much better than here?"

Wang Zhaojing sighed, visibly moved, and said, "Big Brother, I never imagined the common people's lives were so wretched. And this is supposed to be an age of peace."

"Indeed. The Great Ming has so many prefectures and counties — a single place's troubles don't affect the greater picture. But from the look of things now, only our Zhao Battalion can give them food, warmth, and peace!" Zhao Jin declared in a ringing voice.

Hearing these words from Zhao Jin, Wang Zhaojing jolted. He turned his head to look, but found that Zhao Jin was only speaking of the refugees inside these pens, and only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.

"Remember, give each person only half a flatcake. If anyone starts fighting over them, kill them on the spot!" Zhao Jin gave this specific order before he left.

The large carts they had brought were piled high with flatcakes made from sorghum mixed with wild greens and bran. These were being distributed one by one into the refugees' hands. Inside these pens, the refugees at most had a mouthful of filthy water to drink. They might have hidden a little food on their persons, but once that was eaten, they could only starve. Many were already at death's door. As the flatcakes were handed out, many immediately began brawling.

Though the Zhao Battalion had come to save people, they showed no mercy whatsoever when maintaining order. The shafts of their long spears came lashing down on heads and faces; those who still refused to obey were simply speared to death.

The Wang and Yang families of Suzhou had both organized a fair number of hands to come today. They had assumed the refugees would be treated gently and never expected the Zhao Battalion's methods to be so ruthless. Each of them watched in stunned disbelief, and when it was their turn to act, they too held nothing back. It was largely thanks to this that order was maintained.

The reason for this specific instruction was experience gained during famine relief in Xuzhou. Refugees who had starved for too long, if they suddenly ate their fill, were very prone to sudden death. At first it was thought they had overeaten, but later it was found to be unrelated. So at the start, they were only given a little to eat — just enough to put something in their bellies so they could walk. Once they reached the estate, there would be hot soup and thick congee waiting.

After arrangements here were made, Ji Xiang was left behind with one company. Zhao Jin and Wang Zhaojing both mounted up. A rider from the Wang family also hurried over on horseback to lead the way as they galloped toward another location. On Zhao Battalion's side, there were twenty-some riders in total.

They had not ridden long before reaching the day's destination: a small village of a hundred or so households. It was already surrounded by over a hundred cavalry. Inside, a few relatively intact compounds could be seen, and heads kept popping up over the walls to peer out.

As Zhao Jin and Wang Zhaojing rode closer, they saw Dong Bingfeng directing operations from outside the cavalry cordon. Drawing nearer, they could hear someone inside shouting: "Friends, wherever you've come from, everything can be discussed! We've got silver here, women too — take whatever you want, help yourselves!"

"Big Brother, a few ringleaders and a dozen or so guards are all pinned inside. Not a single one got away. How do we deal with them?" Dong Bingfeng asked.

Zhao Jin dismounted. Someone immediately brought over a full set of armor and helped him put it on. As he donned the armor, he said, "No dealing with them at all. Charge in and kill them all. Be quick about it — this isn't the only one today!"

Dong Bingfeng nodded in acknowledgment, turned, and shouted the order. Aside from two squads who remained mounted, everyone else dismounted. Zhao Jin, Wang Zhaojing, and Dong Bingfeng were all clad in full suits of armor. Another dozen or so cavalrymen wore complete coats of chainmail. This display of arms and armor made the Wang family manor guard who had guided them twitch uncontrollably at the eyelids — not even the regular army had equipment this fine.

Surrounding a village with cavalry was simple enough, but a real assault required dismounting. There were not even any trees worth cutting down in the vicinity. They could only break into an abandoned house and wrestle out a reasonably thick wooden beam. Some men nocked arrows and followed alongside as they shouted and charged toward one of the compounds.

When a head appeared over the wall, an arrow was loosed straight at it, and no one dared show themselves again.

"Good fellows outside—" The shout from within was only half-finished when the men, carrying the beam together, rammed it into the gate. It was an ordinary residence to begin with; the Qimei Stronghold men had never given any thought to defense. At most, they had temporarily braced the door, but how could that withstand a concerted battering? The entire doorframe came crashing down in that single impact.

Zhao Jin and Wang Zhaojing, right at the front, were the first to charge in. Zhao Jin had switched to a podao forged by the Zhao Battalion itself. Wang Zhaojing still wielded his sword, while Dong Bingfeng carried a short spear.

It was not a case of commanders recklessly courting danger. Rather, the three of them had the best protection and the highest martial skill. Charging at the front actually posed the least risk to them, while yielding the greatest effect.

In the courtyard stood four men. They did hold podao or goose-quill sabers, and one of them was even wearing half a suit of chainmail. Pity that every face was ashen pale, with dark rings around the eyes — who knew to what depths of debauchery and excess they had sunk these past days.

The moment they saw three men, armored like iron barrels, force their way in, and thought of the hundred-plus elite cavalry outside, whatever will to fight they might have had evaporated. As soon as they entered, the one in armor opened his mouth to shout: "Is this a misunderstanding? There's—"

Zhao Jin paid no attention to what he was saying. Holding his podao as if it were a spear, he strode forward in a straight thrust. The man barely managed to retreat a step, but his body was weak and unsteady; he could not even keep his footing. Before he could make any further move, Zhao Jin's podao had already stabbed into his lower abdomen. With a twist and an upward wrench, the man's belly was ripped open. The chainmail had done nothing at all.

The man beside him did not even have the courage to seize the moment and strike. Instead, he tried to turn and flee. Zhao Jin gave him no such chance — a backhand slash of the blade cut straight into his neck.

Wang Zhaojing had already drawn his narrow-bladed sword from a corpse, while Dong Bingfeng's short spear was still lodged in another man's throat. In a single brief exchange, the four men in the courtyard were finished. The cavalry behind them had already surged in. Zhao Jin glanced back and gave the order: "Tell the people inside the house to come out. If they don't, set it on fire."

The men behind loudly acknowledged the order. Entering a house was different from being in a courtyard; indoors, it was easy to hide. Zhao Battalion soldiers, caught off guard, could very easily suffer casualties. It was not worth risking so much for this scum — burning it clean was the efficient way.

A few women's wails rang out from inside the house. The tightly shut door was flung open, and another man came scrambling and crawling out. The moment he crossed the threshold, he fell to his knees and kowtowed, weeping and begging for his life: "This humble one had no idea—"

Zhao Jin gave him no chance to speak. Gripping the podao in one hand, he swung his arm and brought it straight down. The man, still kneeling, had no time to react before his body was cleaved open.

"I have no wish to speak with scum!" Zhao Jin's voice was icy cold.

In gathering refugees, Zhao Jin had his own objectives. In a certain sense, it was highly utilitarian. But at its root, it was about saving lives — rescuing these pitiful common folk who were at the end of their rope and on the verge of death. These jianghu toughs, however, treated the refugees as pigs and sheep, exploiting and fleecing them without a shred of humanity left.

This small village was quickly cleared out. The dozen or so Qimei Stronghold bandits who had stayed behind were all beheaded. Another thirty-some women were rescued. Compared to the refugees in their utter misery, these women, though violated and abused, had at least been fed.

The severed heads were tossed into the pens where the refugees were confined. Every member of Qimei Stronghold met the same fate: their heads were chopped off and piled into a heap. The bodies, together with the accumulated corpses of refugees, were gathered and burned, to prevent the outbreak of pestilence when spring came the following year.

A few li from the Qimei Stronghold slave market, several dozen riders waited by the side of the official road. They kept looking around restlessly from horseback. These men wore leather coats and carried blades and spears; every one of them had a fierce, vicious look. One glance was enough to tell they were of mounted-bandit or outlaw stock.

With this gang of fiends halted by the roadside, passing merchants and travelers were all terrified. One group of several dozen with horses passed in front of them, every head bowed and body hunched, desperately afraid of being noticed. This delighted the mounted bandits immensely. Normally, everyone loathed and shunned them, but now they could openly seize people. Watching these law-abiding commoners frightened out of their wits excited them greatly.

"Is your Yang family's information reliable or not? You had us brothers come out at the crack of dawn, and now there's not even a rabbit in sight anywhere," one man snarled viciously.

The middle-aged man riding a donkey ahead of them had gone pale in the face. He forced out a smile and said, "The information is accurate. They'll definitely come, definitely co—"

Mid-sentence, someone suddenly stood up taller in the saddle, pointed into the distance, and said excitedly, "They're coming! Looks like several hundred of them."

"Why so few!"

"Enough blathering. Grab the people and sell them straight off — that's still a dozen or so taels of silver. Better than standing here drinking the wind. Move!"

With a few shouts, the men spurred their horses and charged forward. The middle-aged man on the donkey, of course, could not keep up. Nor was he in any hurry to. He simply turned with all his might and fled in the opposite direction. Once the donkey broke into a run, he pressed his palms together on its back and kept muttering prayers to Buddha under his breath.

The riders who had spotted their target paid no attention whatsoever to the guide behind them. Each one whipped his horse into a wild gallop. The refugees not far ahead were moving very slowly. Seeing the riders bearing down on them, they did not flee. Starved and strengthless, they could not escape even if they tried. They might as well resign themselves to fate — angering their pursuers would only bring more suffering later.

"All of you, stay the hell put! Do as your grandpas say and you'll get a mouthful of food later. Otherwise, we'll butcher you on the spot and feed you to the wolves!" This work had become routine. As these mounted bandits shouted, they brandished their weapons. Sure enough, the refugees stopped moving and huddled together in cowering clusters.

"Haha! Livestock for the taking! See if there are any women — if there are, we'll have some fun first, then sell them off separately!" Seeing that the situation was firmly in hand, the leader laughed heartily.

The mounted bandits all slowed their horses to an easy pace and sauntered closer. Riders were faster than walkers, after all. Even if a few tried to run, they could be chased down.

"Are they dragging sticks? How come they don't have any bundles at all?"

"Their clothes are too neat. Something's wrong!"

The closer they got, the more things seemed off. Though they wore tattered garments, no skin showed through underneath — those were clearly padded winter coats. And while refugees were desperately poor, they usually carried a fair amount of odds and ends on them. But this group before them only dragged something in their hands. At less than twenty paces away, they now saw figures in the "refugee" ranks nocking arrows to bows.

"Something's wrong!" That shout was like a signal. The bows in the "refugee" ranks loosed in a sudden volley. The sharp shriek of arrows tearing through the air instantly drowned out every other sound.

Within twenty paces, a man on horseback was no small target — it was harder to miss than to hit. Immediately, a dozen or so men screamed and took arrows, and the several dozen mounted bandits fell into chaos.

The arrows flew! At once, those cringing, hunched "refugees" straightened their bodies. The staves they had been dragging reversed — they were spears, only they had been trailing along the ground the whole time. With a roar, every one of them raised a spear and charged the mounted bandits.

The horses had already slowed. Though the bandits on their backs lashed and shouted frantically, in the sudden panic they simply could not pick up speed. Worse, the dozen or so horses whose masters had lost control were running wild. In that brief moment, there was no way for them to get clear.

But at that moment, the "refugees" with spears leveled arrived!

The spears stabbed straight at the men on horseback. They tried to parry, but one man facing two spears or more — how could he block them all? They were skewered with several bloody holes right there on their horses and fell screaming.

"It's the Yang family!"

"The damned Yangs!"

The mounted bandits had caught on by now. From horseback they cursed furiously, but at this moment they had not a shred of courage to fight — all they could think of was fleeing.

As comrades were run through by spears and toppled screaming, their riderless horses ran loose, providing a brief obstruction and screen. By the time the spearmen drove off the blocking horses and attacked again, it was too late. Some of the more impatient ones hurled their spears outright, and more mounted bandits tumbled down with shrieks — but those on the outer edge still managed to get their mounts running and escape.

That band of "refugees" were all on foot and could not possibly catch those fleeing on horseback. Only a dozen or so archers came running out shouting and loosed another volley. This time it could not be called every shot a hit — only five or six were shot dead.

The mounted bandits had already been scared out of their wits. In that single clash, with arrows and spear thrusts, half their number had been left behind here. They shouted about exterminating the Yang family, but every one of them was thinking of running far away and never coming back. Heaven only knew where the Yangs had found these killing fiends — to be so ferociously formidable.

They spurred their mounts and fled onto the official road in a panic. They had not galloped more than a few paces when several dozen riders came charging straight at them head-on!

The sharp-eyed among them recognized them at once — it was that group of "traveling merchants" who had just passed by with heads bowed and backs bent. But now there was not a trace of fear on their faces. Every one of them held a blade or spear and was bearing down with murderous ferocity.

An ambush — an ambush planned from the very start. The mounted bandits all realized it now, but what use was knowing? On one side, the disguised refugees were charging over; in the direction of escape, superior cavalry blocked the way. No one thought of fighting to the death. They plied a trade of licking blood from the blade for pleasure and enjoyment, not for desperate, bloody battle.

Keep running. Some wheeled their mounts, trying to flee into the fields, but the horses were already at a gallop and turning was not so easy. Some horses turned too abruptly and crashed straight to the ground, pinning their riders beneath them. Others reined in their horses, dismounted, clasped their heads, and knelt, weeping and begging for their lives — surely this was some big boss come to swallow the small fry.

More still tried to flee, but whether they turned back or swerved, their speed dropped. Already the whistle of arrows tearing through the air rang in their ears, and the war cries of the spear-wielding "refugees" could be heard with perfect clarity.

"Master, only two of these mounted brigands got away. The masters are truly divinely valiant and mighty!" A mounted Yang family retainer said with a face full of fawning flattery.

The area around the official road was awash in blood. The uninjured horses were gathered together. Every mounted bandit — wounded or begging for mercy alike — was finished off with a spear thrust, given a thorough chill through the heart.

Dong Bingfeng did his best to keep his expression indifferent. In truth, he was somewhat regretful. According to the prior arrangement, not a single one of this mounted bandit crew that preyed on refugees should have escaped. Yet two had slipped through the net. Though they certainly would not dare return and there would be no future trouble, failing to achieve total annihilation and complete victory left him dissatisfied.

Moreover, these mounted bandits held no value. The forty-some horses seized were all on the older side. This was actually normal — a horse fit for riding was expensive. Brigands and outlaws sought wealth and pleasure; having a horse to ride already counted as "coming and going like the wind." Facing mostly foot-bound militia, constables, and fellow men of the greenwood, they could bully in a gang fight and outrun trouble when outmatched. Naturally, they never cared about their mounts' condition, riding them until they died of old age.

"Are there any more of this sort preying on refugees nearby?" Dong Bingfeng asked coolly.