Chapter 451: This Time Is a Warning

"By the way, it's already the twenty‑first year of Hongwu, and I still don't know what white‑bearded old man your second brother received last month, or when it can be sent back."

Zhu Yuanzhang suddenly thought of something and said with a hint of anticipation.

"It should be some high‑tech good thing again…" Zhu Biao replied with a smile.

"Biao, go back and write to your second brother, tell him the family is fine, let him fight the war with peace of mind; Europe is finished, there's Africa, and America as well. Great Ming's territory will expand to the horizon. Also ask what good things this year has brought."

Zhu Biao smiled and said, "Imperial Father, the second brother knows."

"He knows it's his business; we say it's our business." Zhu Yuanzhang stood up, walked to the window, and gazed at the western sky.

Outside the window, the setting sun sank in the west, dyeing the entire Imperial City golden.

From Yingtian Prefecture westward to Lanzhou, to the Western Regions, to Samarkand, to Constantinople, and then to Paris.

Thousands of miles, he never set foot on it, but his son did.

"Biao, who does Yong Er resemble?" Zhu Yuanzhang suddenly asked.

Zhu Biao thought for a moment and said, "Like Imperial Father."

Zhu Yuanzhang shook his head, "He's not like us; when we were young we weren't as ruthless. He fights recklessly, we still have to."

Zhu Biao said nothing further.

"He resembles your grandfather…"

Zhu Yuanzhang paused, then continued, "Your grandfather back then in Fengyang was the same temperament; once he set his mind on something, even nine‑headed cattle couldn't pull it back."

Zhu Biao didn't know what his grandfather was like; his grandfather had died before he was born.

But he knew what his second brother's temperament was.

Once he set his mind on something, even nine‑headed cattle couldn't pull it back.

If Europe isn't finished, he won't return.

"Biao, you go back!" Zhu Yuanzhang waved his hand, "We'll stand a while longer."

Zhu Biao rose, bowed, and took his leave.

At the doorway he turned back for a glance.

Zhu Yuanzhang still stood by the window, hands behind his back, looking at the western sky.

The sunset fell on him, stretching his upright silhouette long.

The road east from Marseille was easier than imagined.

The coastal highway along the Mediterranean was built in the ancient Roman era; though long neglected, its foundation remained.

The crushed‑stone surface let the carriage run steadily, far better than the pothole‑filled inland French roads.

Zhu Yong rode his horse at the front of the column.

Behind him, an eighty‑thousand‑strong army, iron armor like a forest, Flintlock Guns swished in unison toward the sky.

The warhorses snorted, their front hooves digging the ground, War Flags fluttering with a rustling sound in the morning wind.

After three days, the army crossed the Rhone River and entered the domain of the Count of Provence.

The Count of Provence, Louis II, had already surrendered; the land was confiscated, assets recorded, and people were being prepared for transport to Yingtian Prefecture.

Officials across the regions, seeing the army pass, opened their cities to welcome them, daring not to show any slack.

Two more days on, the outline of the Alps appeared ahead.

The mountains were high; the snow atop glimmered silver‑white in the sun.

Beyond this mountain lay Italy.

But their target was not Italy; it was Germany.

The western shield of the Holy Roman Empire, the Rhine River.

Mainz, Worms, Speyer—those imperial cities still waited on the far side of the Rhine.

"Send word: the whole army accelerate, cross the mountain before nightfall."

Zhu Yong squeezed the horse's flank, and the warhorse surged forward.

The eighty‑thousand troops followed closely, hooves sounding like muffled thunder.

The wind on the mountain roared, making the flags rustle.

The road was narrow, only two carriages could pass side by side; left was a cliff, right a sheer wall, a slight misstep would send one falling.

Yet not a single person hesitated.

Having fought alongside King Wu for so long, what perilous road have we not traversed?

At mid‑mountain, a scout rode back, dismounted, and knelt on one knee.

"Prince, beyond the mountain is the Italian border; the Duchy of Milan's troops are gathering there, about five thousand, moving toward the pass."

Zhu Yong halted his horse, squinting for a moment.

Five thousand.

The Duchy of Milan, the Visconti family's domain.

In this era the Italian peninsula was fragmented: the north comprised several city‑state republics and duchies—Milan, Venice, Florence, Genoa; the center the Papal States; the south the Kingdom of Naples.

Pope Martin V was organizing a crusade; the Milanese were coming to lead the charge.

"Five thousand, not enough to fill a gap…" Zhu Di rode up, standing beside Zhu Yong.

Zhu Yong said nothing.

He took the Double Hammers off the horse and held them in his hands.

"Send word: the whole army accelerate, cross the mountain before nightfall; if the Milanese block the way, strike through."

The army pressed on.

When they crossed the summit, the sun had already shifted west.

Beyond the mountain, the Italian plain shimmered faintly in the dusk.

On the plain a mass of dark, oppressive troops was advancing toward the mountain pass.

The banner of the Duchy of Milan fluttered in the evening breeze, white field with a blue serpent, the emblem of the Visconti family.

Five thousand men formed several square Formations, infantry in front, cavalry on both flanks, and behind them archers and crossbowmen.

Much like the French, but their equipment was finer.

Milan is one of Italy's most prosperous regions, its armor and weapons all of the finest quality.

"Form up..."

Eighty thousand troops began to form up on the hillside.

Five hundred rear-mounted line cannons were arrayed in a single line, their muzzles aimed at the Milanese army below the mountain.

The iron armor glimmered with a dull sheen in the sunset, Flintlock Guns brushed upward toward the sky, like a forest of steel.

The Milanese at the foot of the mountain clearly spotted the Ming army on the hill.

Horn Sound wailed, and the soldiers hurriedly formed up.

Several nobles on horseback ran back and forth before the Formation, brandishing swords and shouting something.

Zhu Yong raised the hammer in his right hand.

"Fire the cannons."

The five hundred rear-mounted line cannons fired simultaneously.

The bursting shells tore through the dusk, trailing long tails, striking the plain below the mountain.

"Boom—boom—boom…"

The explosions echoed through the valley, shaking people's ears numb.

"Longxiang Army, charge with me."

Zhu Yong clutched the horse's belly, and the warhorse surged forward.

Eighty thousand troops followed closely, diving down the hillside, like a tide of iron‑black water, surging toward the already shattered Milanese army.

Zhu Yong charged at the front, Double Hammers sweeping left and right.

A Milanese knight charged forward, his spear thrust at Zhu Yong's chest. He smashed the spear shaft with one hammer and struck the horse's head with the other.

The warhorse whinnied and fell, the knight was flung off, his neck broken.

Another infantryman raised a shield in front, and Zhu Yong hammered down with one hammer, shattering the shield and snapping the man's arm.

Behind him, the eighty thousand troops surged into the Milanese Formation following his path.

Flintlock Guns fired in unison, sabers slashed.

The five thousand Milanese troops completely broke apart in less than half an hour.

Those who died died, those who surrendered surrendered; a few mounted nobles fled, the rest all knelt.

Zhu Yong steadied the horse and slung the hammer back onto its back.

He wiped the blood from his face; it was all someone else's.

"Send word: gather the captives, clear the battlefield, at first light tomorrow continue eastward."

Wan replied with a voice and led the men away.

Zhu Di rode over, dismounted, and walked to Zhu Yong's side.

"Second Prince, with the Milanese's defeat, Italy should calm down now."

Zhu Yong nodded, took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

"Send someone to Milan to tell Duke Visconti this is a warning; next time, it won't be just five thousand people."

Zhu Di responded with a nod and turned away.

Zhu Yong stood on the plain, looking at the eastern sky.

There lay the direction of the Rhine River, the direction of the Holy Roman Empire, the heart of the European continent.