Section Thirty

The sky was overcast with thick, heavy clouds. The vibrant red battle flags emblazoned with the character "Han" hung listlessly from their poles. Swarms of dragonflies and bats darted through the torchlight, ignoring the frantic efforts of the guards to shoo them away. The Bo Ming encampment felt as stifling as a furnace. The elite Imperial Guards, dressed in heavy armor, were already gasping for air; sweat soaked through their undergarments and uniforms, streaming down their faces to pool in shallow puddles at their feet. Yet, at this moment, not a soul dared to slacken, nor did any soldier dare to move a muscle.

Amidst the overlapping blasts of horns, a lone rider galloped in like a streak of lightning. After tearing through several security cordons, he finally leapt from his horse at the last barricade. Wiping away the sweat, he knelt on one knee and raised a brass military tally, shouting, "A report from the Sixth Army!"

Several guards immediately rushed out, took the dispatch, and sprinted toward the royal tent.

Inside Lin Feng’s command tent, chairs and stools were packed tight. High stacks of military reports covered the tables, where dozens of staff officers were busy reviewing documents. Messengers bustled in and out. With a great battle imminent, alerts from the front and supply requisitions from the rear poured in, only to be processed and dispatched to the responsible officers. The entire camp was a hive of frantic activity.

"Disaster!" Wang Shirong was the second to react. Before Lin Feng could issue an order, he leapt up, dashed out of the tent, and screamed like a madman, "Someone! Get over here! Quickly, prepare tarpaulins and cover the gunpowder! Now, hurry, hurry!" Disheveled, his face and hair drenched by the sudden downpour, he abandoned his usual scholarly elegance. He kicked a guard in the backside, roaring hoarsely, "Move! If you're too slow, I'll have your head!"

Through the torrential rain, a cavalry unit charged up to the gate. Without waiting for the guards to clear them, they rode straight to the royal tent before kneeling. "An urgent report from the Imperial Guard Artillery Brigade! Reporting to the King of Han: the heavy rain has flooded our batteries, soaking all the gunpowder. The cannons are useless! Please, your Majesty, what are your orders?"

Before his voice had even faded, another rider flew in, knelt, and shouted, "Reporting to the King of Han! General Rick of the First Imperial Guard Army reports that the rain is too fierce; the frontline musketeers' weapons are failing to fire! Please, your Majesty, what are your orders?"

A long silence followed before a grim voice emanated from the royal tent. "I know!" Lin Feng emerged, fully armored, letting the downpour drench him to the bone. He cast a cold glance at the messengers and said frostily, "If the firearms won't fire, fight with cold steel! Are your bayonets just for show?!"

"Yes..." the artillery messenger hesitated. "But... reporting to the King of Han, our brigade has never been trained for hand-to-hand combat. Do you think..."

Lin Feng’s rage flared. He delivered a ferocious kick to the messenger’s chest. A series of crisp cracks echoed as the man’s ribs shattered. He curled up in the mud like a boiled shrimp. Lin Feng strode forward, grabbed him by the collar, and snarled, "I never trained you how to eat either, yet you know how to do that, don't you?!"

"Yes!" The messenger, enduring agonizing pain, pulled himself up on his knees with the strength of Lin Feng’s grip, clasped his hands together, and screamed, "This subordinate understands! Forgive me, King of Han, please let me die on the front lines!"

"Good! You are my soldier," Lin Feng released him, praising, "Still a man, damn it. Go!"

He drew his long saber, looked left and right, and issued the order, "Imperial Guard! Assemble the men! Follow me to meet Galdan in battle!"