Chapter Twelve

A thunderous boom shook the tent, sending a shroud of dust cascading from the roof, settling thickly on the heads and faces of those inside. Smoke billowed across the distant hills, obscuring the figures laboring around the red-uniformed cannons, their sweat-soaked bodies glistening as they maneuvered amid the haze, advancing and retreating. Below the walls of Liaoyang, the massive army surged and clashed, tens of thousands shouting themselves hoarse. Dust and smoke blotted out the sun both near and far, and even the howling wind could not clear the air.

The world blurred before his eyes. Lin Feng, tense, raised his monocular, straining to search the indistinct city walls. Moments ago, under the cover of fierce artillery fire, a tide of red-and-mottled uniforms had surged toward the breach in the wall, but unexpectedly, the defenders had already set up numerous grapeshot cannons. Archers and musketeers fired from every vantage point, and the Han troops, after abandoning over a hundred bodies, were forced to retreat. Now, shadows gathered at the breach; Lin Feng knew the defenders were hauling bricks and stones to repair the wall. Disappointment welled within him as he lowered his telescope.

The siege had begun yesterday afternoon. The army had launched wave after wave of attacks, fighting without rest for nearly ten hours. Mu Tianyan had drawn officers from every unit, scouring for manpower, and hastily organized a militia of over twenty thousand, forming forty infantry battalions assigned to General Rick of the Imperial Guard. Beyond these cooperative militia units, the core regular force consisted of just two infantry brigades and a reinforced artillery brigade, bringing the total attacking force to about twenty-eight thousand.

Under Rick’s command, the infantry assaults began at the east gate, then spread to the north, south, and finally the west. The hope was that such feints would confuse the enemy commander, prompting him to mirror the Han army’s moves and allocate his defenders accordingly. Thus, when the real attack on the west gate commenced, the Han could strike swiftly, exploiting the defenders’ thin presence to breach Liaoyang’s defenses.

Unfortunately, Commander Cai Yurong saw through the plan. Despite earning the Han commanders' respect with his prowess in the artillery duel, few, Lin Feng included, truly understood the depth of his tactical skill. No one suspected that before the siege even began, Cai had already identified the weaknesses in his own defenses and laid a trap for the Han.

Last night, the Han threw everything into a simultaneous assault on all four gates. Waves of infantry charged relentlessly, artillery units pushed every cannon to the front, and the cries of battle echoed for miles. The carnage was so intense that Lin Feng almost believed it was a genuine all-out attack rather than a feint. Yet despite the massive commitment, Cai’s judgment remained unshaken. By dawn, the Han elite had rested and concentrated their artillery for a sustained bombardment, finally blasting a breach in the wall and launching an all-out attack. After paying a heavy price to break through, they discovered the residential buildings along the west wall had been cleared away, with Cai deploying heavy troops across the open ground and high points. Bullets and cannonballs rained down, devastating the Han vanguard. Then, massive fireballs of pine boughs and explosive coffins—the so-called "Ten Thousand Enemies"—were unleashed, flames soared, and boiling oil poured from both sides of the breach, severing the Han assault columns. The fighting raged till morning; not only were the Han's desperate attacks repelled, but an entire battalion of Han musketeers that had penetrated the city was annihilated.

Breathing the air thick with blood, Lin Feng’s throat convulsed with a hoarse cough. He turned aside, hacking up a mouthful of filthy sputum. He had slept less than an hour since yesterday; now his eyes were sunken, his face charred, his gaze dull and bloodshot. He had stood atop this small hill for five hours since dawn, and after the elite Han forces failed in the assault, he had not eaten a grain of rice or drunk a drop of water.

The drums sounded again. Rick’s voice bellowed curses nearby, orders were shouted by mounted messengers charging down the slope. The front-line militia battalions struggled to form ranks, urged forward by a squad of musketeers as they leapt from their trenches and advanced in a disorderly formation toward Liaoyang.

A volley of thunderous cannon fire broke the brief silence; the red-uniformed cannons roared anew, shells screeching through the air and smashing into the piles of corpses by the wall, spraying blood and shattered limbs across the already crimson stones.

The charging militia quickened their pace, soon reaching the moat. Sharp clappers sounded from the city walls as the defenders' heads appeared en masse. Arrows and stones rained down, along with boiling water and oil. The attackers suffered heavy casualties, their vanguard collapsing. Officers cursed fiercely, archers scrambled forward, firing upward in desperate retaliation, while Han musketeers behind maintained a steady barrage.

Han morale was at its nadir. The Qing troops who had just fallen, save for those accidentally killed, seized the moment to stand and instead of attacking, retreated swiftly along the wall. Amid the confusion, a sudden thunder of hooves signaled several hundred cavalry bursting from the inner city, accelerating under cover of artillery and arrows, crashing into the Han ranks. Horses neighed, iron hooves trampled over corpses, and the cavalry, bold and ruthless, swept their snow-bright sabers in all directions, scattering the Han militia into chaos.

The fleeing troops screamed wildly, disregarding the curses and musket volleys from Han rear guards, stampeding toward camp. The Han musketeer formations were shattered, helplessly swept along by the panicked mob.

Lin Feng, beside himself with rage, hurled his monocular to the ground and spat, “Cai Yurong… damn him!” He turned abruptly, shouting, “Li Er Gou—Li Er Gou! Pass the order—” But before he could finish, several riders raced from the rear, ignoring the central guards, heading straight for Lin Feng’s command banner.

At the foot of the hill, Mu Tianyan erupted in fury, shouting, “Who goes there?! Don’t you know military law?!”

“Urgent… army…” The leading rider, a Han second lieutenant, his face split by bloody gashes, opened his mouth wide, throat convulsing with a voice so hoarse he could barely speak. Halfway through his cry, his words failed him.

He jerked the reins; the warhorse reared, crying out. The lieutenant, heedless of danger, leapt from the stirrup, but his legs gave way and he collapsed. The horse staggered a few steps, then fell, twitching and foaming at the mouth, clearly dead from exhaustion.

Mu Tianyan, shocked, dared not scold him further. He gestured, and a personal guard hurried forward, pouring several gulps of water down the lieutenant’s throat.

Lin Feng, seeing the situation, hurried down the hill. “What’s happened?!”

The lieutenant, limp in the guard’s arms, pale and barely conscious, suddenly caught sight of Lin Feng and, summoning a last surge of strength, broke free and bowed, rasping, “Subordinate Wang Zhongxiao, second lieutenant, Sixth Army Second Brigade, by order of Colonel Zhao Yingkui, presents urgent military intelligence!”

“No need for ceremony!” Lin Feng, moved, helped him up, gripping his shoulder. “Well done, Wang Zhongxiao—truly loyal and filial!”

“My lord…” Wang Zhongxiao, anxious, croaked, “Reporting, Your Highness—days ago our scouts discovered the main Eight Banners force at East Mongol Kucherim—!”

“What?!” Lin Feng was aghast. How could they arrive so quickly? The distance from Yaksa to Shenyang was vast, with mountains and treacherous paths. How could the Eight Banners main force return so soon? He seized Wang’s arm, “How many are there? Who commands them?!”

“About fifteen or sixteen thousand Eight Banners troops—all cavalry. Commanded by General Sabsu of Heilongjiang, with Deputy Commander Peng Chun of the Plain Red Banner Mongols…” Wang’s voice was raspy, swallowing repeatedly, unable to continue.

“Don’t rush, take your time!” Lin Feng handed him the water gourd, feigning ease. “Good, I command a hundred thousand this time, ready to wipe out the Eight Banners. If they hadn’t come to me, I’d have gone north after them. Now we save a trip!”

Wang drank deeply, wiped his mouth, and forced a bitter smile. “My lord, I haven’t finished… Besides Sabsu’s Eight Banners, there are twenty-five thousand Korchin cavalry. Now the Mongol army is on the left, Eight Banners on the right, advancing together—over forty thousand, marching south!”

“What did you say?!” This time Lin Feng was genuinely shaken, abandoning all pretense, grabbing Wang’s collar. “Don’t lie—Korchin has always been calm, our intelligence keeps close watch. There’s been no sign, how could they suddenly join the war?!”

Despite Lin Feng’s anger, Wang Zhongxiao showed no fear, letting his collar be gripped. “I dare not deceive, my lord—the Eight Banners and Mongols are both cavalry, moving fast. Two days ago our brigade fought them at Kulun, lost over two hundred brothers. Colonel Zhao is heading east to join forces with General Ma at Zhangwu. Afraid you didn’t know, he sent me day and night to report.”

Wang’s composure steadied Lin Feng, who gradually released him, smoothing his rumpled collar. After a long pause, Lin Feng patted his shoulder. “Good work. I’ll record your merit here—Zhongxiao, you’ve suffered. Stay and serve with my guard, rest for now.”

Once Wang had departed with the guards, Lin Feng turned to Mu Tianyan. “Heming, what do you make of this—is it true?”

Mu Tianyan hesitated, took a moment to recover, and cautiously observed Lin Feng’s face. “Do you mean—do you suspect Wang Zhongxiao is a Qing spy?”

“Yes. Cai Yurong is both wise and brave, truly exceptional,” Lin Feng said bitterly. “We’ve fought day and night, our losses are heavy, but surely the Qing have suffered too. If we withdraw now, all our efforts are wasted!”

Mu Tianyan laughed dryly, shaking his head. “My lord doesn’t know—Wang Zhongxiao is my student.” Seeing Lin Feng’s surprise, he saluted. “Have you forgotten? I once taught at the Ma Zhuang Military Academy, specializing in Qi Jiguang’s ‘Essentials of Soldier Training.’ Wang Zhongxiao attended my lectures. Moreover, I’ve inspected his uniform and insignia—no errors. And…” He nudged the dead horse with his foot. “This horse bears the Sixth Army brand, the tack and stirrups are marked ‘Huji Ironworks’—there’s no mistake.”

Lin Feng was silent for a moment, then sighed deeply. “With the Korchin joining, the situation is out of control…” After a long pause, he forced himself to rally. “Heming, whatever happens, we must take Liaoyang—this cannot drag on. Pass my orders: the central army will form ranks at once, cavalry to dismount, artillery to the front. All join the assault—the fate of the city will be decided now!”

He glanced at Mu Tianyan, his expression hardening. “You and Rick handle it—I don’t care what methods or strategies you use, I want Liaoyang. If we still can’t take it, you’ll answer for it yourselves!”

Mu Tianyan turned away, and soon the central army’s drums thundered, horns sounded the ninth round, and the guards—rested all day—formed their ranks across the rolling hills in a square formation. Their bearing was impeccable, spirits high. As Lin Feng inspected, every man stood rigid, eyes forward, holding his rifle at attention.

Lin Feng nodded, face impassive, and gave a fierce wave toward Mu Tianyan. The order was shouted, the leather drums boomed, hundreds of long knives were raised, glinting in the sunset. Suddenly, the drums stopped and the blades fell, severing heads with a spray of blood. Headless bodies collapsed, and hundreds of skulls rolled down the slope, leaving a crimson trail before the ranks.

Mu Tianyan’s face was ashen, teeth clenched. He strode to the front of the formation and shouted, “Soldiers! Those who fear the enemy, shirk battle, retreat, or desert—these militiamen are their warning!” He pointed to the bloody corpses, surveying the ranks. The soldiers, cowed, lowered their eyes. His tone softened: “You are all fine sons of the Han. We raise troops for a day like this; the court rewards you, cares for your families, so you may serve today.” Suddenly, he raised his voice, calling out, “The Han King decrees: the first to breach the city will be promoted two ranks, awarded first-class merit, granted a hundred acres of land and five slaves. After the city falls, all will be rewarded—Liaoyang’s gold, riches, and women are yours for the taking!”

The soldiers exchanged incredulous glances. Since Lin Feng’s reforms in Tianjin, discipline had tightened; regulations were strictly enforced, the military police watched night and day. While some officers misbehaved, common troops dared not. Now, hearing permission for plunder, they could hardly believe it. After a long stir, thousands erupted in cheers, crying, “Long live the Han King!”

“You too,” Mu Tianyan smiled, turning to the militia at the flank. “You’ve fought hard with us—when the city falls, you may take what you need. The city is full of traitors who have killed our men—our Han army will show no mercy!” With a sweeping gesture, he declared, “Liaoyang is a city of villains, guilty of heinous crimes. The Han army will punish them!”

The militia, barely organized and ignorant of military discipline, roared in assent, their voices drowning Mu Tianyan’s words. These conscripted refugees, bound by kinship and hometown ties, had fought to the death since last night, suffering heavy losses. Their hatred for the Qing troops ran deep. Now, inflamed by these words, they shouted as one, “Kill the Tatars! Sack the city! Sack the city!”

The horns sounded and the leather drums thundered. At the order, dozens of red-uniformed cannons fired in unison. Han musketeers marched to the beat, advancing in neat lines. Cavalry flanked them like clouds, moving forward together. The artillerymen dragged every cannon under a thousand pounds to the front, exposing themselves to enemy fire, shooting point-blank without regard for life.

Rick, his face grim, ignored his guards' desperate efforts to restrain him, spurred his horse to the front, drew his sword, and shouted, “Storm the city! Charge! Charge!”

The mass surged forward, dust rising and smoke blotting out the sun. Lin Feng’s personal guard, all the camp’s laborers, tens of thousands armed with blades, hooks, and clubs followed behind the armed Han troops and militia, forming a surging tide that swept toward Liaoyang.

The setting sun slanted across the sky, staining the clouds blood-red.