Chapter 354: The Campaign Starts Again

Hongwu Nineteenth Year, the third day of the fourth month.

Tie Mu Er Prefecture, Samarhan City.

The thin mist of early morning had not yet dispersed, and the city walls were already filled with people.

Zhu Yong stood with his hands behind his back at the highest point of the watchtower, looking west.

In the horizon a faint dark‑yellow plume of dust lingered, the trace of the marching army.

Zhang Wu strode up the watchtower, clasped his fists and said, "Prince, the scouts have returned: the Ottoman, the Mamluk, and the Jinzhang remnants—three‑way allied forces of 150,000—have their vanguard at Hamadan, less than two hundred li from the border."

Zhu Yong nodded.

Half a month ago, he had rejected the Ottoman envoy's ultimatum, and those fellows indeed could not hold back.

The 150,000‑strong army was five ten‑thousand more than the previously reported 100,000, apparently they had taken out all their reserves.

"Have they split their forces?" Zhu Yong asked.

Zhang Wu replied, "No, the 150,000 are gathered in one place, moving east from Hamadan along the trade route, not fast—only forty to fifty li per day."

A faint smile curled at the corner of Zhu Yong's mouth.

Gathering in one place is indeed cautious.

But 150,000 people jammed onto a single road, the supply line stretched longer than the army itself, daily, people eating horse feed amounted to astronomical numbers, and the drag would kill them.

"Prince, what shall we do? Forty thousand against 150,000, a frontal attack…" Chen Heng also stepped onto the watchtower.

"Who said we must attack head‑on? Send the order, gather the whole army." Zhu Yong cut him off, turned and walked down toward the city.

Chen Heng was startled, "Prince, you intend to lead the expedition yourself…"

Zhu Yong did not look back, "Don't they want to see me? I'll go meet them."

On the Training Ground of Samarhan City, three thousand Longxiang Army troops were already in battle array.

The iron armor glimmered with a cold sheen in the morning light, the Flintlock Guns shone brightly, and the ammunition sacks were bulging.

Warhorses snorted, their front hooves pawed the ground, eager to spring.

Zhu Yong rode his horse, clad in a dark princely uniform, a short sword at his waist, and on the neighboring horse's back hung two drum‑pot golden hammers.

He wore no armor.

Those iron lumps on the body would be cumbersome.

Zhang Wu spurred his horse forward, "Prince, I still think it's too risky—three thousand against 150,000…"

"Back then my three thousand faced the Tie Mu Er army of 100,000 and we won, and now we have more than three thousand—we have fifty thousand…" Zhu Yong said calmly.

"But that was a siege; now it's open field battle."

Zhu Yong glanced at him and asked, "Zhang Wu, how many years have you followed me?"

Zhang Wu was startled and said, "Since Hongwu Third Year I have followed the Prince, fourteen years now."

"Fourteen years—have you ever seen me lose?"

Zhang Wu opened his mouth, then fell silent.

Zhu Yong turned his horse's head, looking at those three thousand familiar faces and the other over forty thousand new ones.

Among them, three thousand had followed him for over a decade, fighting from Northern Yuan to Nüzhen, from Goryeo to Wa Country, from South Sea to Tie Mu Er Prefecture.

Which battle was not a victory of the few over the many?

Which battle was not a clean retreat?

He believed that these over forty thousand new soldiers would follow him and soon become elite troops.

"Longxiang Army…"

Fifty thousand men stood together, their waists straightened.

"Follow me into battle!"

A roar shook the heavens: "Kill! Kill! Kill!"

The troops left Samarhan through Xi Men, marching west along the trade route.

They carried no Grain and Fodder or baggage; each only took three days of Dry Rations and a water jar, light cavalry in simple gear, covering a hundred li per day.

Zhu Yong rode at the front.

The wind blew from the west, carrying the Gobi's characteristic dry scent.

On the distant horizon a faint plume of dust could be seen.

It was the 150,000‑strong army.

Chen Heng spurred his horse to keep up, "Prince, at this pace we can meet the enemy by tomorrow evening."

Zhu Yong nodded, "Tonight we camp at the border, let the brothers eat well and rest; tomorrow, a hard battle awaits."

The main army continued westward.

The sun rose higher, the heat wave over the Gobi plain warping the distant scenery.

No one spoke, only the clatter of hooves and the clang of iron armor echoed across the barren wasteland.

When night fell, the troops reached a small town at the border.

It was called a city, but really just a mud‑walled settlement of a hundred households and a few hundred people.

Zhu Yong did not enter the town, instead found an open spot outside to set up camp.

A campfire was lit, the soldiers sat in a circle, gnawing Dry Rations and drinking water.

No one spoke, yet no one was afraid.

Having fought alongside King Wu for so many years, what formation have we not seen?

Zhu Yong sat on a large stone, a piece of Dry Rations clenched in his hand, uneaten.

He was thinking about tomorrow's battle.

One hundred and fifty thousand men is no small number.

A head‑on charge definitely won't work; we need to think of a way.

In his mind flash the battle strategies he read in his past life—things like "feint east, strike west," "lure the enemy in," "divide and conquer"...

Useless.

In this life he's fought wars without ever using those fancy tricks.

He has only one method: charge forward and crush them.

Simple, brutal, but effective.

But this time, a hundred‑and‑fifty thousand men.

How many could he kill alone?

One hundred?

Two hundred?

Three hundred?

Could he finish them all?

Zhang Wu walked over, handed him a jug of water and said, "Prince, are you thinking about tomorrow's battle?"

Zhu Yong took the water, took a sip, and replied, "I'm thinking how to fight."

Zhang Wu sat beside him and said, "Prince, I have an idea; I'm not sure whether I should speak it."

"Speak."

"I think tomorrow we can't charge head‑on; a hundred‑and‑fifty thousand men—each one's spit could drown us—so we must find a way to draw them off and divide and conquer."

Zhu Yong glanced at him and asked, "How to draw them?"

Zhang Wu thought for a moment and said, "I'll send men to provoke them, luring them into the ambush we've prepared."

"An ambush? This Gobi plain is flat as a horse‑track; where would an ambush come from?"

Zhang Wu fell silent.

Zhu Yong stood, patted his shoulder and said, "Don't worry, I have a way."

Zhang Wu wanted to ask what method, but seeing Zhu Yong's expression, he didn't dare.

He had followed the Prince for fourteen years and knew his temper.

What he doesn't want to say, no one can draw out.

Night grew deep.

The campfire gradually died out, and the soldiers, wrapped in blankets, fell into a heavy sleep.

Zhu Yong sat on the Stone, gazing at the western sky.

There, a hundred‑and‑fifty thousand army was setting up camp.

The campfires merged into a sea of flame, reddening half the sky.

He suddenly recalled a line he had read in a book in his past life: "War is courage. One drumbeat gives momentum; a second wanes, a third exhausts."

Tomorrow, what he needs is that single surge.