Chapter 427: Burn to Death

Zhu Yong's mouth corner twitched slightly.

Fear of death… these European nobles aren't afraid when they exploit the common folk, aren't afraid in war, but when death comes they're more scared than anyone.

"Send them to mine, together with those before."

Zhu Qiong answered, ran back to keep supervising.

Zhu Yong stood at the camp gate and watched for a while.

The prisoners that had been scrubbed clean changed into coarse cloth garments and lined up to receive food.

Each got a bowl of thin porridge and a piece of black bread.

The bread was Great Ming's military ration; though not as good as Yingtian Prefecture's, it was far better than the moldy stuff these Europeans used to eat.

A young prisoner took the bread, crouched on the ground, bit it gingerly, then froze.

He chewed twice, then twice more, and his eyes suddenly reddened.

Wang Gui walked over, asked a few questions, and returned to Zhu Yong saying: "Prince, he said he's never eaten bread this soft; before he ate only dark hard biscuits that had been stored for months, hard as Stone."

Zhu Yong said nothing, turned and left.

These Europeans are also human.

It's just that they live too painfully.

At dusk, Zhu Yong sat in the palace study, with a freshly delivered military report spread before him.

Zhu Shuang sent it from the eastern front, saying they had already taken Quinca, the largest city in eastern Castile.

The garrison fled, the civilians stayed, and were being settled.

The report ended with a line: "Second Prince, the Aragonese are still gathering at the border, unmoved."

Zhu Yong set the report down and leaned against the chair back.

The Aragonese are unmoved because they are waiting for French reinforcements.

France is now preoccupied, having fought England for nearly a hundred years; its national strength has long been drained, leaving no capacity to meddle in Spain's affairs.

Alfonso V cannot wait for reinforcements; either retreat or fight.

If they retreat, the Aragonese will flee.

If they fight, it's a perfect chance to deal with them.

Wang Gui walked in from outside, holding a freshly translated document.

"Prince, this is copied from the Castile Church, the Pope's decree."

Zhu Yong took it and glanced over.

The parchment had yellowed, stamped with the Pope's seal. Its content urged the King of Castile to intensify the hunt for heretics, to burn those who do not believe in Catholicism.

"Burn…," Zhu Yong placed the decree on the table.

"Prince, the Pope's jurisdiction is too lax; those who don't follow his faith are burned, which is harsher than our White Lotus Sect." Wang Gui shook his head.

Zhu Yong said nothing.

He recalled reading in a book in his previous life about medieval European history: the Inquisition, the stake, witch hunts, and how hundreds of thousands were burned over centuries.

Those so-called "heretics" were merely people who refused to live by the Church's rules.

"Prince, what will be done with the Pope later?" Wang Gui asked.

Zhu Yong thought for a moment, then said lightly: "Later, when we reach Rome, capture him, keep him in Yingtian Prefecture, and have him listen to a Daoist recite scriptures every day."

Wang Gui's mouth twitched; he wanted to laugh but held it back.

Zhu Yong stood up and walked to the window.

Toledo's night was very quiet.

The distant church spires glowed with a pale blue light under Moonlight, but the church bells had already stopped; Zhu Yong ordered them to dismantle the bells, saying they were "annoying to hear."

He stood for a while, then turned and walked back to the bedside, lying down.

The mattress board was a bit hard, but far more comfortable than on the ship.

He closed his eyes, thinking of Zhu Di's fleet.

By now they should have reached the Tajo River mouth; setting sail early tomorrow, with a fair wind, they'd arrive in Barcelona in three or four days.

He turned over and fell into a deep sleep.

Four days later, Barcelona.

At dawn, the sea's mist had not yet cleared; Zhu Di stood at the bow, gazing at the faintly visible coastline ahead.

Barcelona, the largest port city of the Kingdom of Aragon, a pearl of the Mediterranean—at least in the eyes of the Aragonese.

Sixty steamships formed an attack formation: twenty at the vanguard, ten on each wing, and twenty in the center.

The roar of the steam engines echoed over the sea, and black smoke from the funnels drifted in the morning breeze.

"Prince, ahead is Barcelona Harbor," the Vice General climbed down from the mast, pointing forward.

Zhu Di squinted and watched for a while.

About twenty merchant ships were moored in the harbor, their masts standing like a forest.

On the shore stood several stone-built structures that looked like warehouses.

Further away, the city walls were grayish, faintly visible in the morning mist.

Shadows of people flickered on the walls, along with the outlines of a few bronze cannons.

"Command, the vanguard, dock, prepare the artillery."

The Command was sent down, and the twenty vanguard ships accelerated toward the harbor.

The Aragonese on the shore clearly noticed the massive fleet.

Horn Sound wailed, and the soldiers scrambled up the walls.

The merchant ships in the harbor hastily cut anchor and raised sails to flee, but it was too late.

"Fire the cannons..."

Three hundred rear-mounted breech-loading cannons fire simultaneously.

Flowering shells slash through the morning mist, trailing long tails, striking the harbor.

In the first volley, several merchant ships are blown apart, wood splinters flying, hulls cracking, seawater flooding in, and the hulls tilting.

The sailors jump into the sea, scrambling to swim toward the shore.

The second volley shatters the warehouses on the shore, bricks and stones breaking, smoke and dust billowing skyward.

A few Aragon merchants moving cargo are blown skyward, their screams drowned in the explosions.

The third volley sends the bronze cannons on the city wall soaring into the sky.

"Landing..." Zhu Di leads the charge, stepping down from the gangplank.

Both feet sink into the soft, spongy sand, half a footpad disappearing.

He looks up at Barcelona's walls, a slight smile curling his lips.

Ten thousand Longxiang Army troops rush from the ships, forming ranks on the beach.

Zhu Di hoists his sword and strides toward the city gate.

On the wall, the Aragon defenders are in complete chaos.

Several officers ride their horses back and forth, brandishing swords and shouting, but no one listens.

Some soldiers fire arrows, some hurl stones downward, others rush toward the city.

Zhu Di reaches the gate and raises his sword.

"Fire."

The artillerymen behind adjust the barrels, aiming at the gate.

"Boom..."

The gate collapses with a thunderous crash under the impact of the flower shells.

Zhu Di waves, and the Longxiang Army surges into the city.

The street fighting lasts less than an hour.

Three thousand Aragon defenders: the dead die, the surrendered surrender, a few officers flee, the rest kneel.

Zhu Di stands on the central square of Barcelona, gazing at this Mediterranean port city.

The Street is slightly wider than Toledo's, but the filth and disorder are comparable.

Garbage and excrement litter the ground, and a rotting stench hangs in the air.

A few Longxiang Army soldiers clear a pile of trash at a street corner, shoveling it with iron spades onto a cart.

"Prince, the city's garrison has been counted: 2,100 prisoners, over 400 killed, fewer than 500 fled," the Vice General steps forward.

Zhu Di nods and asks, "What about the ships?"

"In the harbor, twelve merchant ships were blown up, the remaining few surrendered; they carried wool, olive oil, and several crates of Gold and Silver."

"Move the Gold and Silver, keep the wool and olive oil for future use; the prisoners are sent for a wash, then drafted as auxiliary troops."

The Vice General replies, turns, and leaves.

Zhu Di stands on the square, looking at Barcelona's largest cathedral.

Built of Stone, its spire soars into the clouds; at the entrance stand two stone pillars topped with crosses.

"Prince, what shall we do with the cathedral?" an Imperial Troops soldier asks.

Zhu Di thinks briefly and says, "Clear it out, melt the Gold and Silver vessels to cast silver ingots, burn the Bibles and crosses together, convert the cathedral into a school, send someone to inform Second Prince that Barcelona has been taken."

"Yes..."

By the time the news of Barcelona's capture reaches Toledo, five days have already passed.

Zhu Yong finishes reading the letter, folds the paper neatly, and puts it into the drawer.

He stands up and walks to the window.

On Toledo's Street, Longxiang Army soldiers distribute food to the townsfolk.

Several soldiers carry large baskets filled with bread and jerky; the people line up, receiving one by one.

No one rushes, no one causes a scene; order is orderly.

A young woman cradling a child takes a loaf, walks to the roadside, squats, breaks off a piece and stuffs it into the child's mouth.

The child, famished, chews ravenously.

The woman looks up, sees Zhu Yong standing at the palace window, freezes briefly, then bows deeply.

Zhu Yong watches the scene, a faint smile curling his lips.

Barcelona has been taken.

Aragon's back gate has been forced open.

Alfonso V, aren't you retreating yet?