Section Eighteen

The morning sun rose in the east, bathing the land in golden light. Fierce winds howled, banners snapped and fluttered, as tens of thousands of soldiers faced off on the eastern plains of Beining. Swords and spears bristled like a forest, men and horses surged in waves, the gleam of weapons and armor flashed coldly. Before dawn, both sides had only just ceased their bloody struggle, and the air still hung heavy with the scent of blood.

The scouts sent out last night had now returned; the force of over thirty thousand Manchu-Mongol cavalry had come from Heishan Fort. They had originally been stationed at Shahe Post east of the Xisha River, but must have received an urgent plea for help from General Peng Chun at the front, prompting them to mobilize immediately, force a crossing of the Xisha River, and rush dozens of miles to aid their comrades.

Even so, they arrived too late.

Over ten thousand elite cavalry had been routed by the Han army before dawn, in less than an hour, and this was a direct clash of cavalry against cavalry. To be defeated by their own pride, cavalry archery, was beyond the imagination of the Manchu-Mongol warriors and deeply wounded their confidence. The field strewn with corpses nearby continued to sting at them, the blood-soaked battlefield inciting a sense of shame and rage as if they had been insulted.

The Han army had seized the only hill on the battlefield, overlooking the field like a bird of prey. Nearly ten thousand musketeers, centered around Lin Feng’s great banner, formed a massive oval formation, each standing solemnly with their guns, over ten thousand slender bayonets gleaming coldly, angled toward the sky.

Moments earlier, Lin Feng had gently refused Wang Shirong’s suggestion to place wagons and horse traps in front of the two armies to obstruct cavalry. Now he held a telescope, carefully observing the enemy’s formation.

The Manchu-Mongol coalition presented a formidable military presence. To Lin Feng’s surprise, this nomadic army was remarkably disciplined: whether the Eastern Mongol cavalry of Khalkha or the Manchu Eight Banners under Sabusu, their ranks were impeccably ordered. The Qing troops were on the left, Mongols on the right, tens of thousands spread out on both wings, banners, drums, and horns each aligned with their units. Despite the dense formations, there was not a hint of chaos; messengers moved swiftly, tens of thousands of officers and soldiers wore indifferent expressions, and their mounts were calm and steady. At this moment, tens of thousands faced each other, brimming with murderous intent, yet not a single horse neighed nervously—a clear sign of seasoned, professional soldiers.

The reason Lin Feng risked so much to draw his army out from the fortified city, aside from political and strategic significance, lay in his tactical intent. Putting himself in the enemy’s shoes, by the logic of the age, if he were the opposing commander, he would surely try to sever the Han army’s connection to Beining, utilize cavalry mobility to isolate the Han forces lacking strong fortifications, launch attacks from multiple directions, exert intense pressure, causing the Han army to gradually collapse—and once their lines broke, pursue and annihilate them.

This was the classic cavalry tactic. If the Han army’s main force could be destroyed, Beining would fall without a fight, and victory here would place all of Liaodong and even the capital under threat from the Manchu-Mongol cavalry, pushing Lin Feng’s Han military group to the brink of collapse.

A massive bait, a wild gamble.

Sure enough, the cavalry that had circled widely did not rush directly to Beining’s gates, but stopped midway, forming a triple front with the main Manchu-Mongol force, encircling the Han formation in a half-circle. Soon, the main force began to move, drums thundered, horns echoed, squad after squad of armored horsemen advanced, slowly pressing toward the Han positions.

Lin Feng tossed down his telescope, strode to his mount, vaulted onto the saddle, and squeezed the horse’s sides. The steed neighed with delight, galloping toward the Han army’s front. His guards, stunned for a moment, quickly followed suit, leaping onto their horses and chasing after their king.

Facing the biting wind, Lin Feng rode along the long line, the great banner fluttering behind him, the character for “Han” billowing in the wind. Wherever he passed, officers and soldiers were ablaze with passion, swords and spears raised in thunderous acclaim. Bathed in the fiery gaze of tens of thousands, Lin Feng drew his blade with a metallic clang, pointing it skyward toward the rising sun, and shouted, “Comrades… slay the enemy! Slay the enemy!! Slay the enemy!!!”

His voice was instantly drowned by the roar of tens of thousands. Han soldiers raised their weapons in unison, echoing, “Slay the enemy!! Slay the enemy!! Slaughter the barbarians!!!”

Dozens of war drums thundered in the rear, cannons fired in unison from the heights, shells whistled through the air, exploding on the open ground ahead, throwing up clouds of dust—morale surged to its peak.

“Boom... bang...” Nearly a hundred cannons unleashed earth-shaking blasts, recoiling as fiery tongues erupted. Sharp, solid shells tore through the dense cavalry, carving bloody paths through their ranks; those caught directly vanished, horse and man alike, as shells laden with blood smashed into the Manchu-Mongol artillery and suppressed their fire.

The cavalry drew nearer. At General Rick’s command, white smoke billowed, gunfire crackled like beans frying, swathes of cavalry dropped like autumn leaves, screaming as they fell. Frantic, riderless horses refused to charge into the wall of fire, instead fleeing madly, only to be struck down by the following wave of armored horsemen—ground into pulp. Manchu-Mongol warriors, bearded and red-eyed, whipped their mounts desperately, storming the Han lines, falling in droves to musket fire, only for more to surge forward. The battlefield echoed with agonized howls and cries; the coalition poured in bodies, and the cavalry pressed ever closer. But now the Han artillery was loaded with grapeshot—at a volley, iron pellets swept through the ranks, blasting their bodies like sieves, broken corpses thrown afar like kites with cut strings, blood spraying in the air, spattering comrades. Countless horses collapsed, twitching, bellies emptied, colorful innards trailing along their path, tears streaming from their eyes, bits raised in piteous cries, unable to move another inch.

In just moments, the Han lines were layered thick with flesh and blood. Within a hundred meters, the pile of dead men and horses stood nearly as tall as a person, yet the Manchu-Mongol soldiers seemed oblivious to death, continuing their mad charge. Smoldering fire arrows rained down, their stench dizzying, but the howling winds outside Beining and the blood-soaked ground extinguished the burning arrows as soon as they landed; these chemical weapons—wolf dung and poison grass—failed to have any effect.

The battle raged fiercely. Besides direct assaults, the coalition’s cavalry on both flanks let out shouts, launching fierce attacks on the Han positions. The tide of men surged like waves, crashing endlessly against the Han lines, but like waves against a rocky shore, they were repelled time and again.

Lin Feng stood atop the highest point of the hill, his expression cold and unmoving. Wang Shirong, beside him, was pale, scanning anxiously through his telescope, sweat trickling down his brow.

“Your Highness...” Wang Shirong’s lips were blue, his voice anxious. “Look... the barbarian army seems... seems about to break through...”

“That’s Rick’s concern, not mine,” Lin Feng replied indifferently, lowering his eyes. Now that the battle had begun, the specifics were for his generals; as commander, he was powerless to intervene.

“...” Wang Shirong was stunned for a moment, then managed a bitter smile. “Your Highness is so calm, I feel utterly ashamed!”

Lin Feng laughed heartily, thumping his shoulder. “No worries, fight a few more battles and you’ll get used to it. In fact, when I first took the field, I was even more nervous than you!”

“Yes... was it that time against Tu Hai?!”

Lin Feng pondered briefly, then shook his head with a smile. “I don’t know, maybe, but not entirely!” He gestured to the battlefield ahead. “In truth, war is just killing people. Think about it—since I entered Beijing, has there been a day I didn’t kill? Wiping out the Aisin Gioro clan was killing, forcing the Eight Banners’ women and children was killing, executing landlords who defected to Tu Hai was killing, suppressing rebellious peasants was killing, massacring Liaoyang was killing—does Ji Yun really think there’s any difference between killing on the execution ground and killing on the battlefield?!”

“...”

“Heh, life and death, it’s all the same. All this talk of princely rivalry and imperial ambition, in the end, it’s just a competition in methods and skills of killing,” Lin Feng smiled carelessly. “See enough dead, and you get used to it.”

By now, the coalition had been attacking for nearly an hour and a half, surrounding the Han-held hills and launching fierce assaults from three sides. Yet the Han musket units were well-prepared, holding the high ground, and despite the desperate attacks of tens of thousands, the Han formation stood firm. Worse still, in that short time, the coalition had suffered nearly four thousand casualties, yet hadn’t even managed to reach the Han lines for close combat.

The drums beat urgently, and the Han musket ranks, having fought hard, had suffered losses as well. Upon seeing Ma Ying’s cavalry arrive, they erupted in cheers. Suddenly, hearing the enemy’s thunderous shouts and seeing the coalition’s attack falter, the Manchu-Mongol warriors hesitated, their assault slackening. Under their confused gazes, the musket lines abruptly split open, hooves thundered, armor clanged, and the Han cavalry surged forth, cries of battle erupting from all sides. The Han horsemen shouted excitedly, over ten thousand soldiers nearby cheered frantically. Amidst the smoke and chaos, iron hooves surged forward, their numbers uncertain.

With shouts rising, the Han cavalry charged, spears and sabers gleaming, scattering the Manchu-Mongol attackers in moments. Five thousand cavalry whistled, charging northeast. The red-cannoned artillery on the hill fired desperately, clearing a path for the horsemen. Ma Ying led his guards at the front, like an arrowhead, tearing deep into the coalition’s lines.

Caught off guard, the Manchu-Mongol formation was thrown into chaos. To attack from many directions, their forces were spread thin, and after prolonged fighting, their soldiers were exhausted. The Han cavalry broke through in one burst, and within moments, all five thousand had smashed through, not lingering to fight but rushing northeast at full speed.

Horn blasts sounded from the perimeter, warning the coalition’s central command. Several cavalry units hurried in pursuit. Soon, the central camp was in turmoil, the Khalkha king’s great banner billowed, escorted by war flags, Mongol cavalry galloped like arrows, forming a long line that just intercepted Ma Ying’s charge, then suddenly turned, launching a head-on assault.

Ma Ying stood in his stirrups, waving his long blade and cried, “Brothers! Charge with me!! Charge!!” Thousands of Han soldiers shouted as one, leaning close to their horses’ necks, rushing headlong at the enemy. Arrows whistled, iron streams crashed together, blood and flesh flew everywhere, countless cried out in agony, dust and sand flew, visibility dropped to nothing. From afar, only a haze of arrows and clashing horses could be seen. Observing the rear cavalry battle, the coalition forces stopped their attacks, rushing to aid, and within moments, tens of thousands formed a loose encirclement.

Lin Feng lowered his telescope and sighed inwardly, then ordered the signalers to ring the gong, recalling the cavalry. The losses this time were regrettable; he blamed himself, realizing he still didn’t quite understand cavalry tactics and had underestimated the enemy.

Manchu-Mongol cavalry couldn’t break through dense firearm defenses, but in open plains melee, it was another matter—their legendary reputation was not easily earned.

Before the coalition could complete their encirclement, Ma Ying’s cavalry struggled to turn and break out, fighting for nearly half an hour before retreating, circling the Han musket lines and heading toward Beining, where the coalition finally gave up pursuit. In this single action, nearly a thousand Han cavalry were killed.

After the cavalry battle ended, the fight drew to a close; both sides seemed to lose their fighting spirit. The coalition lowered their banners, horns sounded softly, and the cavalry withdrew to camp some distance away.

Under the evening sun, smoke cleared, and the land around Beining was strewn with corpses. Brave warriors had spilled their blood, soaking the fertile black earth until it shone dark red. Arrows, weapons, and armor lay scattered, stray horses grazed quietly, occasionally raising their heads to cry mournfully. The northern wind howled, scattering autumn leaves that danced lightly. A flock of crows circled, crying hoarsely, rising and falling over the battlefield. Once noisy, the field was now peaceful, dust to dust, earth to earth—the vast land was clean and desolate.

As dusk approached, several small units remained to clear the battlefield. These teams, stripped of armor and weapons, moved with solemn faces. Over a thousand Han cavalry had died today, their bodies lying outside, so the burial squads had to carry them back one by one. Officers and soldiers from both sides, as they passed each other, said nothing, as if strangers.

In this battle, the Han army killed or wounded five to six thousand Manchu-Mongol troops, but themselves lost over six hundred musketeers and nearly a thousand cavalry—heavy casualties on both sides. Lin Feng’s heart was heavy as he looked at the long list of names marked in red in the military roll; many were veterans who had followed him from Linji County, serving in the guards, sharing life and death for over two years—yet in just a moment, they had fallen on the field, never to be seen again.

He wondered how many more would die in the future, weighed down by the thought.

Suddenly, there was a gentle knock outside the tent. Li Ergou’s voice came, “Your Highness... um... someone requests an audience!”

Lin Feng was puzzled, “Dog, what are you talking about?!”

The tent flap was pushed aside—Wang Shirong, impatient, brushed past Li Ergou, bowed slightly, and said urgently, “Your Highness! Someone from the other side has come!”

Lin Feng was surprised, looking up at Wang Shirong, who lowered his voice, “It’s someone from Khalkha!”

“Oh?!” Lin Feng looked at Wang Shirong in confusion, who spread his hands to indicate uncertainty. Lin Feng pondered briefly, then said briskly, “Show them in!”

The visitor wore an old leather robe, dressed as a corpse collector. Lin Feng was startled, then realized it was a disguise for secret entry into the Han camp, and couldn’t help but smile. He asked casually, “Who are you? What brings you here?”

The envoy bowed deeply, speaking fluent Han, “Greetings, Prince of Han. I am General Jamuka under the Khalkha king.” He raised his face. “This time, the king sent me to propose a truce and alliance with the Han king!”

Why not call him Temujin? Lin Feng nearly laughed, but hearing the rest, his eyes widened in disbelief, “A truce?! An alliance?! My god, after all this fighting, has Buryagma had his head kicked by a donkey?!”

Jamuka was solemn, paying no heed to Lin Feng’s insult to the Khalkha king. He looked straight at the laughing Lin Feng, waited for his laughter to subside, then sighed deeply and said coldly, “Besides seeking friendship with the Han king, the king asked me to relay an important matter!”

“An important matter?” Lin Feng shook his head, “Khalkha’s affairs—what do they have to do with me?!”

Jamuka met Lin Feng’s gaze without flinching, speaking slowly and clearly, “This noon, our tribe’s warriors brought word: Galdan of Dzungar has defeated the three Khalkha divisions. His army of one hundred and fifty thousand has beaten the Tüsheet division and is nearly at our border!”

Lin Feng’s laughter stopped abruptly. He sprang to his feet, mouth agape, staring at Jamuka in disbelief.