Chapter 314: A Show of Force

Hongwu Year 16, the ninth day of the seventh month.

Shen Hour, three ke, Samarchan City.

Zhu Yong rode a warhorse, slowly passing through the city gate.

Three thousand Longxiang Army cavalry followed closely behind, the sound of hooves echoed in the gate passage, shaking the eardrums of the defending troops on both sides.

Those Timur Empire soldiers, their hands gripping spears, were trembling.

They watched helplessly as this iron torrent passed before them, and not a single one dared to move.

Iron armor, warhorse, flintlock gun, saber.

Each glimmered with a cold, icy sheen.

Each reminded them that this was an invincible army.

Zhu Yong's expression was calm, his gaze swept across the streets on both sides.

Samarchan's main Street was wide enough for four carriages to travel side by side.

On either side were mud‑brick houses, some coated with white lime, some tiled with Colorful porcelain.

The Street was empty.

All the civilians had been driven back home, the Shop's doors and windows were tightly shut, and occasionally one could see eyes behind curtains peeking out.

Timur did not want the civilians to see Great Ming's army entering the city.

But those soldiers could not block them at all, and they did not want to deal with it either; they also cherished their lives.

Timur might not know that Great Ming's three thousand Longxiang Army had already entered his capital.

Where the three thousand Longxiang Army passed, that aura of grim lethality could be felt even through the walls.

Zhang Wu spurred his horse forward, lowered his voice and said: "Prince, Timur told us to go straight to the palace."

Zhu Yong nodded, calmly saying: "Understood."

He did not ask Timur why he did not come to receive them.

He had already guessed it in his heart.

That cripple, over these years has swept across Central Asia, subjugated Persia, the Khanate, India; his ambition has long swelled without limit.

Not coming to pay tribute for three years—doesn't that just mean his wings have grown hard?

Now that Great Ming's envoy has arrived, he does not go out personally to greet, but lets his subordinates arrange it.

What does that mean?

What a display!

He wants to give Great Ming a warning.

Zhu Yong's mouth corner lifted slightly.

Fine, since you want to show off, I'll let you show off enough.

When we reach the palace, we'll see who gives whom a warning.

………

The procession continued forward.

After passing through several streets, the view suddenly opened up.

We arrived at the palace.

Samarchan's palace was built on a high platform in the city center, covering a vast area; its outer walls were made of blue bricks, about Three Zhang high, with tall watchtowers at each of the four corners.

The main gate was a massive archway, its lintel inlaid with Colorful porcelain tiles forming exquisite patterns.

In front of the gate stood two squads of soldiers, dressed in splendid brocade robes, wielding gold‑inlaid battle axes.

These were Timur's personal guards.

Zhu Yong halted his warhorse, his gaze sweeping over those soldiers.

Those soldiers also stared at him, their eyes showing curiosity, scrutiny, and a hint of well‑concealed fear.

From the archway, an official in a brocade robe hurried out.

He was about forty years old, sporting a carefully trimmed beard, his face wearing an eager smile.

"Honored Great Ming envoy, I am the Prime Minister of His Majesty Timur, named Shahri, His Majesty is waiting in the palace; please, Prince, follow me."

He bowed and saluted, his Mandarin spoken fairly fluently.

Zhu Yong looked at him, calmly saying: "My personal guards must go in with me."

Shahri's smile stiffened, he said awkwardly: "Prince, this is against protocol; the palace only allows no more than ten attendants…"

Zhu Yong said nothing, only stared at him.

That gaze, calm as water, made Shahri's spine shiver.

He looked at the army before him, at the pairs of cold, murderous eyes, and his gaze fell upon the two hammers larger than a human head.

He swallowed, and with difficulty nodded.

"Yes, I will report to His Majesty at once."

………

A quarter hour later, the main hall of the palace.

Zhu Yong, accompanied by Zhang Wu, Chen Heng, and Wang Gui, strode into the hall.

Behind them, five hundred Longxiang Army cavalry were already prepared to take over the palace gates, and the scouts arranged by Zhang Wu were covertly observing the palace's layout and troop deployments.

Zhu Yong paid no attention to those.

He knew Zhang Wu would arrange everything.

The main hall was vast, its floor covered with exquisite Persian carpets, the walls hung with splendid tapestries, and the pillars were inlaid with gold and gems.

The hall was already filled with people.

On both sides are the Civil and Military Officials of the Timur Empire, dressed in various brocade robes and wearing head scarves of many colors.

On the high platform directly ahead sits a massive throne.

A man sits upon the throne.

He is tall and stout, sports a thick, large beard, and wears a Gold Crown set with a huge ruby on his head.

His right leg is noticeably atrophied, resting on a low stool.

The crippled Tie Mu Er.

Founder of the Timur Empire, the conqueror who swept across Central Asia.

Zhu Yong's gaze sweeps over his face, then turns to the sides.

Below the platform, on both the left and right, several chairs are placed.

On the left sit a few splendidly dressed foreigners: a Persian with a long moustache, a Turk wearing a tall hat, and several people in European‑style attire.

All their gazes fall upon Zhu Yong, their eyes complex.

Curiosity, awe, scrutiny...

Great Ming—a nation they have never heard of—could it be stronger than Tie Mu Er, even stronger than the Ottoman Empire?

Zhu Yong's gaze pauses on those Europeans.

The Portuguese.

In this era, the Portuguese have already begun exploring the world, their ships now appearing in the Indian Ocean.

Unexpectedly, they have also sent envoys to meet Tie Mu Er.

On the right are several empty chairs, clearly prepared for foreign envoys.

But at the farthest edge, nearest the door, a single chair is placed.

That is the seat reserved for the Great Ming envoy.

Zhu Yong's gaze lands on that chair, then shifts to Tie Mu Er on the throne.

Tie Mu Er looks down from his height, a hint of smug smile on his face.

The smile clearly says, "So, on my turf, you must sit in the worst seat."

Zhang Wu's complexion changes.

Chen Heng clenches his fists.

Wang Gui's hand is already on the hilt of his sword.

Zhu Yong, however, smiles.

He smiles in a simple, harmless way.

He steps forward, neither hurried nor slow.

He walks past the seats of those foreign envoys, past the ranks of the Timur Empire officials.

He continues all the way to the base of the platform.

Then, he stops.

He lifts his head, looking at Tie Mu Er on the throne.

"His Majesty Tie Mu Er, I, the king, have traveled thousands of li from Great Ming; you make me sit there?" His voice is not loud, yet everyone in the hall hears it clearly.

He points to the solitary chair by the doorway.

The hall falls silent for a moment.

No one expected that this so‑called Great Ming's Prince Wu would, upon arrival, immediately issue a challenge; could this so‑called Great Ming truly not fear Tie Mu Er attacking them?

This is the Timur Empire that swept across East Asia...

Tie Mu Er's smile stiffens.

He sets down the Wine cup in his hand and, in halting Chinese, says, "Prince from Great Ming, this is my palace, my rule—

—where you sit, I decide."

Tie Mu Er's expression turns somewhat ferocious.