MLMD -Chapter 149 Total Rout

“Bang, bang, bang…”

A rapid series of crackling sounds like beans being stir‑fried rang out. Several auxiliary troops and camp followers who had been waving long sabers and charging forward with wild shouts were knocked to the ground as if kicked hard in the chest. Blood foam spilled from their mouths. Though they were not killed on the spot, at the current level of medical knowledge there was no way they would survive.

Hafeng’a brandished his long saber, urging a group of Manchu armored soldiers to charge forward at all costs. In front of him, seven or eight auxiliaries held their wooden shields high to block the lead bullets. He looked completely deranged as he roared hoarsely, “Charge! Charge forward and kill those lowly Nikan!”

By now, the formation no longer required Feng Xiaoming’s personal direction. For soldiers, the battlefield had always been the best teacher. One real battle was worth more than a hundred rounds of rigorous training.

After nearly half an hour of fighting, these matchlock gunners—who had never before seen combat—had matured at astonishing speed. Tearing open the pre-measured powder packets, pouring the powder into the barrel, dropping in the lead ball, ramming it home, raising the gun, firing—these motions had become instinctive. Every gunner carried them out methodically. Now they had only one goal: to kill every enemy in front of them wearing red-and-white armor.

With the four formations having completed their rotation, the rate of fire returned to normal. Dense sheets of bullets battered the Later Jin troops, leaving them in utter disarray.

As the battle dragged on, the situation on the field was fundamentally reversed. The Jurchens of this era were famed for their ferocity, but after fighting for so long, every Later Jin archer had loosed at least ten or twenty arrows. No matter how strong or brave, anyone would be utterly exhausted. Their arrows now flew crooked and weak, soft and powerless, like a man afflicted with lingering dribble.

Feng Xiaoming crouched behind a heavy shield and took a telescope from a leather case at his waist. This was an item reserved for officers of the rank of company commander or above. Feng Xiaoming treasured it dearly and never allowed anyone else to touch it.

Through the lens, he saw two shield carts stationed some sixty paces ahead. A Later Jin officer stood behind them, waving his saber and gesturing animatedly toward the Ming lines. Around him were six or seven White Armored soldiers and several men holding wooden shields. Clearly, this man was the enemy commander.

Feng Xiaoming beckoned over a matchlock gunner and said, “Xiao Liuzi, see that Tatar officer up ahead? He must be their commander. Can you take him out?”

Xiao Liuzi was short and wiry, with dark skin, but he looked sharp and spirited. After staring ahead for a moment, he nodded. “Sir, I can try, but I can’t guarantee a hit. There are quite a few Tatars guarding him.”

Feng Xiaoming looked him in the eye. “What if I assign you a few more men?”

Xiao Liuzi nodded again. “Then I’d say there’s a fifty or sixty percent chance.”

“Fifty or sixty percent is good enough.” Feng Xiaoming clenched his right fist and struck it into his left palm, then called over three more gunners—men who normally ranked among the best shots.

After a few quick words from Xiao Liuzi, the four gunners each found a position, braced their matchlocks, and began aiming.

Lean and wiry, Xiao Liuzi was from Lingnan and a devout Buddhist. He had fled north to Shanxi as a refugee the previous year. Stroking his beloved matchlock, he murmured softly,
“Life in this world is like standing among thorns. If the mind does not move, the body will not act recklessly; if one does not move, one will not be harmed. But if the mind moves, the body acts rashly, injuring flesh and bone, and thus one comes to know all the sufferings of this world…”

At that moment, Hafeng’a—who had been under layers of protection—suddenly leaned out from between the shields and pointed toward the Ming lines, as if shouting orders.

“Now!” Xiao Liuzi shouted. “Fire!”

“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Four shots rang out almost simultaneously, four bursts of flame flashing at once. About sixty paces away, two wooden shields beside Hafeng’a were struck by lead balls. The tremendous impact sent the shield bearers staggering backward. At the same time, Hafeng’a’s head seemed to burst open like a watermelon—a Minié ball, carrying enormous kinetic force, tore away half his skull. He toppled to his left, dead before his body even hit the ground. Lying there, his eyes were wide open, his mouth agape, his face frozen in disbelief.

“Excellent!”

Seeing the scene clearly through the telescope, Feng Xiaoming slapped his thigh in excitement and shouted, “Xiao Liuzi, well done! You men keep it up—kill a few more Tatar officers. I’ll petition Lord Yue for merit on your behalf!”

Xiao Liuzi turned back, sheltering behind the heavy shield. From his waist pouch he took out a powder packet and a lead ball, loaded the gun, rammed it tight, and thrust the matchlock out again.

This time, he aimed at an infantry officer wearing heavy armor with a black plume atop his helmet—a Butha Janggin.

Watching that officer stubbornly draw his bow and keep shooting toward the Ming lines, Xiao Liuzi muttered once more,
“The ten causes and six effects of hell all arise from the delusions of sentient beings. When beings commit evil together, they fall into the Avīci Hell, suffering boundless torment for countless kalpas…”

“Crack—”

Xiao Liuzi pulled the trigger again. Flame and smoke burst forth. The officer, who had just nocked a heavy arrow and was about to shoot, suddenly had a bloody hole the size of an infant’s fist ripped into his neck. Blood sprayed out like a fountain. The lead ball pierced his lamellar neck guard and severed his esophagus. Unable to make any sound, he collapsed onto the ground, writhing and clutching his throat, emitting only gurgling noises like a chicken being slaughtered. It was obvious he would not live.

Watching the dying officer struggle on the ground, Xiao Liuzi licked his dry lips, a surge of exhilaration rising in his chest.

“Perhaps I was born to kill,” he murmured. “In my previous life, I must have been one of the Buddha’s wrathful guardians.”

News of Hafeng’a’s death quickly shattered the already faltering Later Jin troops. By this point, of the nearly two thousand men they had begun with, fewer than four hundred remained alive and able to fight. The Later Jin soldiers—long famed for their bravery, said never to retreat even after four engagements—finally broke. Under the leadership of the last two Niru commanders, the remaining three hundred or so Tatars turned and fled toward the rear.

The sight of this rout left the brothers Luo Lohun and Kalchuhun staring in stunned disbelief.

Luo Lohun closed his eyes in anguish. He desperately wanted to personally lead the remaining two thousand cavalry in a final charge, to slaughter every last Ming soldier before them. But reason told him that if he did so, the most likely outcome would be heavy losses inflicted on the enemy—at the cost of his own force being almost completely wiped out.

He let out a long sigh. “Third Brother, we must retreat. We’ve lost this battle.”

“Elder Brother!” Kalchuhun glared with bloodshot eyes, gripping his riding whip so tightly that veins bulged from his hand, his unwillingness plain to see.

Pointing ahead, he said bitterly, “Are we really just going back like this? So many of our brave warriors lie dead out there—are we going to leave them to rot in the open?”

Luo Lohun took a deep breath. “No. Those Ming dogs will bury our warriors for us. Our army’s morale is gone. If we keep fighting, we’ll gain nothing.”

As he spoke, the thunder of hooves suddenly erupted from the front. Seeing the Later Jin collapse, the cavalry that had been guarding the flanks finally moved. Two thousand horsemen surged forward like a black tide, charging straight at the fleeing Tatars.

“Third Brother, go—now!” Seeing Kalchuhun still hesitating, Luo Lohun lashed his whip against his horse’s hindquarters. The horse screamed in pain and lunged forward. Left with no choice, Kalchuhun pulled on the reins and retreated.

“Brothers, charge! Kill the Tatar soldiers!” Mounted on horseback, Wu Chengfeng led the cavalry in pursuit, chasing the enemy for a long while—only pulling back once they had driven them all the way to the main camp outside Hunyuan City, then returning triumphantly to camp.