Chapter 321: Pre‑War Preparations

The sixteenth year of Hongwu, July twelfth.

Outside the city of Samarkand, the sky was just brightening.

The morning mist had not yet cleared, and on the distant Gobi plain, the hundred‑thousand‑strong army had already pitched camps stretching for dozens of li.

The tents were dense and countless, like a sea of gray‑white.

Thin cooking smoke rose, mingling with the morning mist, making the distant scene vague and indistinct.

On the city walls, the Longxiang Army soldiers had been standing all night.

No one complained.

Three thousand against a hundred thousand—any army would have its legs give out in such a battle.

But the Longxiang Army would not; they had fought countless battles under King Wu and had witnessed too many unbelievable victories.

Zhu Yong stood on the city tower, hands braced on the parapet, squinting at the distant camps.

The wind blew in, carrying the Gobi's characteristic dry scent, along with faint odors of horse dung and cooking smoke.

"Prince, you haven't slept all night," Zhang Wu said as he walked over, handing a Water Bag.

Zhu Yong took it, took a sip, and said lightly, "Can't sleep, just thinking about things!"

Zhang Wu glanced at the distant camps, lowered his voice, and said, "Prince, this subordinate has already followed your orders, letting the brothers take turns to rest.

One thousand remain on the wall, the remaining two thousand have returned to the city to recuperate, and the engineer camp has not been idle, digging traps and burying explosives outside the city through the night."

Zhu Yong nodded.

Last night he ordered the engineer camp to leave the city and dig countless traps within a three‑li radius outside the walls.

The traps were small but deep, with sharpened Wooden Stakes driven into the bottom.

A person falling in would die, a horse would have its legs broken.

There were also explosives.

The cement‑making method has existed for three years, and the Ministry of Works had long ago developed explosives, whose power far exceeds that of black powder.

Before departing, Zhu Yong deliberately took a batch and had the engineer camp bury them outside the city.

When the hundred‑thousand army charges over, they'll first taste the explosives.

"Prince, how shall we arrange those Timur Empire conscripts?" Zhang Wu asked again.

Zhu Yong thought for a moment and said, "Select five thousand who look honest, return their weapons, and have them help defend the city; the remaining seven thousand will be sent to the quarry north of the city to work, so they won't be idle."

"Understood."

Zhang Wu took the order and left.

Zhu Yong continued standing on the tower, gazing at the distant camps.

A hundred‑thousand army—it's not too many, nor is it too few.

A frontal clash, three thousand against a hundred thousand, even with Flintlock Guns and explosives, would demand a heavy price.

But Zhu Yong does not intend a frontal clash.

What he seeks is total annihilation.

He wants these Timur Empire men to see with their own eyes what true war is.

To make them, from the bone, fear Great Ming.

Only then, when Great Ming's people take over this land, will it run smoothly.

…

At the city gate, a group of Timur Empire conscripts were being escorted outward.

They wore tattered leather armor, bore no weapons, and shuffled down the road in several long, dejected columns.

At the head was a middle‑aged man, full‑bearded, dark‑skinned, clearly a veteran who had spent years in the army.

His name was A Qizi, a centurion of the Timur Empire, who three days earlier had guarded the city gate with fifty brothers.

He will never forget that battle three days ago.

Those Great Ming troops clad in iron armor appeared at the gate as if they had fallen from the sky.

He had not yet ordered the arrows to be released when the iron‑armored soldiers' weapons rang out.

"Bang!"

His aide beside him fell instantly, a blood‑filled wound gaping in his chest, eyes bulging, dead beyond death.

A Qizi was stunned at that moment.

He had fought for twenty years, seen countless weapons, but had never seen a fire‑spitting staff like this.

It could kill from dozens of steps away, far faster and more accurate than a bow.

Before he could react, a second blast sounded.

Another brother fell.

Then came the third, the fourth…

In less than the time it takes to brew a cup of tea, out of his fifty brothers, more than twenty were dead, and the rest all knelt.

A Qizi also knelt.

It wasn't fear of death; they truly couldn't win.

When those iron‑armored soldiers charged, he tried desperately, swinging his curved blade to strike.

The blade struck the iron armor, leaving only a white mark.

The iron‑armored soldier turned, glanced at him through his visor, and raised his hand to deliver a gunstock strike.

A Qizi fainted on the spot.

When he came to, he was bound, packed together with hundreds of other captives.

Later he learned that those iron‑clad men were the Longxiang Army of Great Ming.

The leading young man was the Wu King of Great Ming.

Three thousand Longxiang Army troops captured Samaerhan in half an hour.

Thirty thousand garrison troops lost over a thousand men, and the rest all surrendered.

A Qizi only had one thought then: what exactly is Great Ming as a country?

Now, he has been selected to guard the city together with those ironclad soldiers.

Guard the city together.

Just thinking of that makes A Qizi feel absurd.

Three days ago he was a soldier of the Timur Empire, and three days later he will help Great Ming fight its own people?

But there's no way around it.

If he doesn't work, he'll die.

The ironclad soldiers said: work well and you'll have food; work poorly and you'll starve.

If you work especially well, you can even receive a reward.

A Qizi doesn't want the reward; he only wants to stay alive.

He still has a wife and children, living in a slum inside Samaerhan City.

He doesn't know what happened to them in the battle three days ago—whether they were accidentally injured or bullied by those ironclad soldiers.

Later he learned that after the ironclad soldiers entered the city, they left not a single hair disturbed.

They didn't loot, didn't kill, not even a woman's fingertip was touched.

Later his wife sneaked in to see him, saying the house was fine; the ironclad soldiers passed the doorway without even glancing.

A Qizi was stunned at that moment.

He had fought for twenty years and seen countless armies.

The Mongol armies, after taking a city, would burn, kill, and loot for three days and three nights.

The Persian armies were a bit better than the Mongols, but not by much.

He himself had done the same.

Robbing goods, taking women, killing without blinking.

But these ironclad soldiers from Great Ming robbed nothing.

They only fight, and leave once the battle is over.

What is the reasoning behind this?

A Qizi couldn't figure it out.

But he knew that no one could defeat such an army.

……

Outside the city, the engineer camp's men were still digging traps.

The leader, named Zhou Da Niu, is an old engineer of the Longxiang Army, who has fought alongside King Wu for over a decade.

He crouched at the edge of a freshly dug trap and peered inside.

The trap was a fathom deep, its bottom studded with a dozen sharpened Wooden Stakes, their points upward and polished to a shine.

A person falling in would die without doubt.

A horse falling in would break its legs.

Zhou Da Niu nodded approvingly and shouted to the men beside him, "Next one, ten steps forward, dig!"

The engineers kept working.

Zhou Da Niu stood up, looked toward the distant camp tents, and curled his mouth in a grin.

One hundred thousand troops—impressive, huh?

When you charge forward, you'll first taste the flavor of this trap.

And explosives, too.

The explosives the Prince brought are extremely powerful.

Zhou Da Niu has seen with his own eyes a fist-sized charge that can blow a wall down.

They have buried hundreds of explosive caches, each containing several charges linked by fuses.

When those cavalry charge in, pull the fuse…

Zhou Da Niu laughed.

This battle doesn't even need to be fought.

The explosives will blast you all dead.

……

Inside the city, Tie Mu Er was confined in a side hall of the palace.

The hall was small, its furnishings simple: a bed, a table, and a few chairs.

The windows were sealed with wooden slats, and two Longxiang Army soldiers stood at the doorway.

Tie Mu Er sat at the table, with a pot of tea before him that he had ordered to be delivered.

The tea leaves were from Great Ming; he had drunk them before, brought by merchant caravans, absurdly expensive.

Now, these tea leaves can be drunk casually.

Tie Mu Er lifted the cup and took a sip.

The tea was fragrant, but he couldn't discern its flavor.

His mind was filled with the events of the past few days.

Three days ago, he was still seated on the throne, receiving envoys from various nations.

The Ottomans', the Portuguese', the Egyptians', the Khanate's…

Those people were utterly deferential to him, kneeling on the ground to kiss his boots and presenting the most precious gifts.

He thought he was already the ruler of the world.

Then, that young man arrived.

Three thousand men captured his capital.

Three thousand men…

He had fought for forty years and never imagined something like this would happen.

That young man was named Zhu Yong, the Wu King of Great Ming.

Tie Mu Er recorded the name.

He set down his teacup and sighed.

The door opened.

Shahara walked in, his complexion grim.

He was Tie Mu Er's fourth son, and also Tie Mu Er's favorite son.

Three days ago in that battle, he led his personal guards in a desperate resistance, was captured by men of the Longxiang Army, and was locked up.

"Father." Shahara walked to the table and sat down.

Tie Mu Er looked at him and said, "How are things on your side?"

Shahara shook his head and whispered, "Not good, Jiahanjil sent a letter saying he is bringing troops to rescue us out."

Tie Mu Er's eyes brightened, but then dimmed again.

"How many did he bring?"

"One hundred thousand, all the men and horses from Persia were brought."

Tie Mu Er fell silent.

One hundred thousand troops sound like a lot.

But that young man captured his capital with just three thousand men.

One hundred thousand—really enough?

Shahara saw his father's worry and whispered, "Father, is that Wu King really that formidable?"

Tie Mu Er looked at him and gave a wry smile, "Didn't you see?"

"But elder brother has a hundred thousand troops…"

He saw it.

When those iron‑armored soldiers rushed in, his personal guards couldn't hold them at all.

Those fire‑spitting weapons, one per spear, sliced through like cutting wheat.

He himself was also captured, pressed to the ground, his face glued to the earth, unable to move.

At that moment he had only one thought: It's over, completely over.

"Father, what shall we do?" Shahara asked.

Tie Mu Er remained silent for a long time, then finally said, "Wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for Jiahanjil to come, wait for him to defeat that Wu King, wait for us to get out."

Shahara looked at his father, saying nothing.

But he knew in his heart that he didn't believe any of his father's words.

Could Jiahanjil really defeat that Wu King?

One hundred thousand troops—really enough?

He didn't know.

But he knew that the Wu King's gaze frightened him.

Those eyes were too calm.

So calm they seemed not to be looking at people, but at ants.