Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Mightiest Army

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Before the Ming army's formation, the fierce Khorchin cavalry retreated like a tide, repelled without a single casualty by the Ming musketeers. Victory came so effortlessly that the musketeers, arranged before the camp, erupted in cheers that echoed through the night sky, stirring endlessly.

All one thousand musketeers were veterans from the Datong garrison. Before this, these seasoned brutes had lost too many battles—they had been defeated by bandits, by the Jianzhou Jurchens, and by the Mongols. They had lost every fight imaginable, even those they shouldn’t have. They had been so beaten down that they had grown numb to defeat, lost all confidence, and came to believe that losing was their fate, that they were meant to fail rather than triumph.

But now, these veterans’ thoughts were shifting little by little; their confidence was gradually restoring because they had begun winning again. Since following Wang Pu beyond the frontier, they had fought several battles against the Mongols—and won them all, and won decisively!

A faint smile appeared on Wang Pu’s face.

There were no torches lit on the front lines, so Wang Pu could not see his soldiers’ excited expressions, but he could hear their voices.

This was exactly the effect Wang Pu desired. He sought to rebuild the confidence of these veteran ruffians and bandits through continuous victories. He wanted them to believe that they were the strongest army in the world, capable of defeating any enemy as long as they willed it.

At some point, Bearded Man approached Wang Pu, laughing heartily. “General, the Khorchin are so damn fragile. Our brothers haven’t even had their fill of fighting before they faltered. Ha ha ha…”

Wang Pu smiled but said nothing.

Perhaps the Khorchin cavalry were not as formidable as their ancestors, but they were by no means as weak as Bearded Man imagined. If not for Wang Pu’s prior preparations—having Tang Sheng dig horse traps before the camp—and considering the exhaustion from the Khorchin’s long march, this battle would not have been so easily won by the Ming.

“Don’t get too happy too soon,” Wang Pu said calmly. “The Khorchin will attack again soon.”

“Let them come,” Bearded Man’s eyes gleamed with murderous intent as he growled, “Come a thousand, we kill a thousand; come ten thousand, we kill ten thousand. Heh heh heh, I guarantee none will return!”

A satisfied smile spread across Wang Pu’s face. Suddenly, he turned and called out, “Lv Liu.”

Lv Liu hurried to Wang Pu’s side and replied, “At your command.”

Wang Pu said, “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Lv Liu was stunned. “Where to?”

No wonder Lv Liu felt confused—just as the Khorchin’s second assault was about to begin, why would Wang Pu leave the frontline?

“Where to?” Wang Pu said indifferently, “Back to camp to sleep!”

“Wh-what? Sleep… sleep!?”

Lv Liu thought the general must have misspoken or that he misheard. How could the general possibly want to sleep at such a critical moment? Moreover, the general shouldn’t be sleeping now.

But Lv Liu was not mistaken, and Wang Pu had not misspoken—he was indeed going back to his tent to sleep.

The battle had reached a point where there was little suspense left. Though the Khorchin cavalry had the advantage in numbers, they were exhausted, their combat effectiveness greatly diminished. Moreover, clinging superstitiously to ancestral guerrilla tactics, they refused to commit their full strength to a decisive strike. Bearded Man’s thousand musketeers were more than enough to hold them off.

As for Zhang the Monk's side, there was even less trouble: over five hundred fierce bandits attacking the lightly defended Han Ting was a mere trifle.

Wang Pu walked a few steps forward, then suddenly turned and said to Lv Liu, “Go notify Scarface and Tang Sheng. Tell their men to get some rest as well; tomorrow they’ll lead the breakout.”

“Yes, sir.”

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At the mountain summit, the Khorchin Khan’s camp.

Besides the grand tent of Khan Ukhusan, there were dozens of tents belonging to the Khorchin nobility, arranged like stars surrounding the moon, encircling Ukhusan’s main tent. Beyond the noble tents lay scattered over a hundred low Mongolian yurts—the encampment for two hundred guards and three thousand ironclad troops.

In addition, there were many warehouses for storing grain and weapons. The whole camp was essentially a heavily fortified military stronghold. Had it not been for the need to dispatch three thousand ironclad troops to aid the Tumote tribe, Wang Pu’s force of fewer than four thousand cavalry might not have been able to breach the Khorchin camp.

But such speculation was irrelevant now, because the camp was about to fall!

“Kill!”

Black Tiger roared, his waist sword flashing like lightning as it slashed upward. A Khorchin guard stationed on a cart was caught off guard; with a sickening “pop,” his abdomen was sliced open, the gaping wound revealing pale raw flesh and dripping intestines before blood could even flow out.

The guard screamed miserably, hastily dropping his curved sword, fumbling to shove his spilling entrails back inside. But before he could, an endless darkness swallowed him whole, and his head lolled forward, falling stiffly from the cart.

“Well done!”

Zhang the Monk shouted, leaping onto the cart.

Before he could steady himself, two Khorchin guards swung their curved swords, rushing him.

Blades gleamed coldly as they crossed toward Zhang’s neck; he ducked swiftly, the sharp edges brushing his forehead. Seizing the moment, Zhang’s waist sword spun in a deadly arc, slicing the two attackers into four pieces.

At the next moment, Hei Pi, Cheng Xian, and several other leaders leapt onto the cart wall. The Khorchin guards stationed there could not withstand the assault and soon were pushed back in retreat. These guards were among the finest warriors in the Khorchin ranks, but compared to Zhang, Black Tiger, and Cheng Xian—these bandit leaders—their skills were far inferior.

Zhang suddenly looked up and saw two stone mortars placed about ten paces away. Each mortar was mounted with a short, thick cannon. Two Khorchin guards were holding torches, preparing to ignite the fuses. Zhang was shocked and shouted back, “Old Cheng, take out those two gunners! Quickly!”

“Yes!”

Cheng Xian responded, throwing two darts. Unfortunately, he was half a step too slow. Before his darts pierced the throats of the two gunners, the fuses of the mortars had already been lit. Sparks flew from the fuses, hissing as they burned into the barrels, which then roared with two tremendous blasts.

Two blazing fireballs shot out from the huge cannon muzzles, streaking like lightning through the dense Ming ranks. Every soldier caught before the fireballs was instantly torn limb from limb. Those blazing orbs were like sharp blood plows, carving two bloody paths through the Ming formation.

A piercing scream erupted from behind. Zhang turned in alarm to see his good comrade Black Tiger howling in agony, his upper body “standing” on the cart, hands still gripping his sword in a striking pose—but his lower half was completely gone.

Behind Black Tiger, a brother gripped the cart wall, preparing to climb aboard, but his head was missing from his neck. More brothers, missing limbs, lay sprawled in pools of blood; one was pierced with a massive wound in his chest, clearly beyond help.

Because of the crowding, the two mortars inflicted heavy casualties on the Ming side. Seventeen comrades, including Black Tiger, were killed outright; over thirty were maimed, missing arms or legs. Two brothers were blinded by the flames, one was deafened by the blast. The losses were severe.

“Black Tiger!” Zhang rushed forward, supporting Black Tiger’s upper body, weeping bitterly. “Black Tiger, damn it, don’t die! You still owe me a drink!”

Black Tiger had grown up with Zhang; their bond was closer than brothers.

“Big… boss,” Black Tiger struggled to turn his head, blood foaming at his lips, a faint smile on his face as he mumbled, “Bro… brothers… go first… don’t… don’t forget to take me home…”

He sighed softly, his raised head drooping gently.

Zhang gently laid Black Tiger’s half-body on the ground. When he stood again, his eyes were bloodshot, and he turned fiercely toward the long Suluting spear atop the Khorchin Khan’s tent, shouting hoarsely, “Brothers, listen up! Kill every one of these damn Mongols! Leave none alive!”

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“Kill!”

“Slaughter these sons of bitches!”

“I’m going all out with you! Kill!”

The death of their brothers ignited the wild fury of these bandit fighters. Led by Zhang the Monk, they launched a frenzied assault on the Khorchin’s wagon formation. The Khorchin struggled to hold their lines, but the bandits’ ferocious charge shattered their defense. In no time, Bat and his two hundred guards were slaughtered to the last man.

Fueled by bloodlust, Zhang led over four hundred brothers like wolves charging into the Khorchin Khan’s camp. They killed all they encountered, smashed everything in sight, and set the yurts ablaze. Soon, this pack of savage beasts reached Khan Ukhusan’s main tent. As Ukhusan attempted to surrender, Zhang mercilessly beheaded him with a single stroke.

The remaining Khorchin nobles and Ukhusan’s dozen or so concubines fled in panic but were hunted down and butchered. The Khorchin’s Sanbula River Khanate, nurtured for years, was utterly destroyed. The camp’s many treasures—rare antiques and prized paintings seized from the Central Plains—were all reduced to ashes.

The next day, when Wang Pu finally awoke, the sun was already high in the sky.

Clad and prepared, Wang Pu stepped out of his tent to find Lv Liu arguing with Scarface and Tang Sheng. Scarface and Tang Sheng insisted on seeing Wang Pu, but Lv Liu blocked them, saying the general had issued orders not to be disturbed, even if the sky fell, and letting them through would be disobedience.

“What’s all this noise about?” Wang Pu stretched and grumbled, “You’ve woken me from a good dream.”

“General, you’re finally awake,” Scarface and Tang Sheng hurried over, speaking quickly, “If you sleep any longer, something terrible will happen.”

“Something terrible?” Wang Pu flexed his waist and asked calmly, “What terrible thing? Has the sky fallen?”

Scarface said, “The sky hasn’t fallen, but the Monk has.”

“What about the Monk?”

“He took his men and went to fight the Khorchin to the death!”

“To the death?” Wang Pu turned sharply. “Why?”

Scarface lowered his head, eyes dark with sorrow. “Seventeen brothers died from cannon fire during last night’s assault, including the Monk’s good brother Black Tiger. Over thirty others were wounded or maimed. The Monk’s eyes were bloodshot. Not a single Khorchin soldier was left alive on the mountain. They even burned the bodies of Black Tiger and the others. By dawn, when everyone thought it was over, the Monk took his men down the mountain to seek a fight with the Khorchin.”

Wang Pu’s fury flared. “I understand the Monk wants to avenge his brothers, but why didn’t you stop him?”

“We tried,” Scarface protested, “but he wouldn’t be held back. If we tried harder, he’d have fought us too.”

“Then why didn’t you report this sooner?”

“We wanted to, but that bastard Lv Liu wouldn’t let us,” Scarface said bitterly.

“Enough,” Wang Pu said sternly. “How long has the Monk been gone?”

“Not long,” Scarface pointed ahead. “General, look. They’ve just started fighting.”

Wang Pu turned quickly and saw a force of over seven hundred cavalry charging like a whirlwind into the Khorchin main cavalry force. The Khorchin were caught off guard by this early morning counterattack, unprepared. The few thousand cavalry hastily assembled were already thrown into disarray by the seven hundred cavalrymen.