MLMD -Chapter 343 We Can’t Retreat

“Kill…!”

Hu Laosan shouted, plunging his bayonet into the chest of a Korchin soldier who had just climbed up from below. The thin leather armor offered no protection against the high-hardness steel trilobed military bayonet. After the sharp point pierced the soldier’s chest, Hu Laosan kicked him, and the Korchin soldier let out a pained scream as he fell off the wall. The instant the bayonet was pulled out, a stream of hot, fresh blood spurted from his chest.

By now, gunfire on the stockade wall had grown sparse—meaning the majority of the defenders had run out of ammunition. The stockade was flimsy, making it easy for the enemy to scale it with just a few steps on their ladders. Once the Yingzhou soldiers’ ammo was exhausted, the battle quickly descended into brutal hand-to-hand combat.

Having spent time running in the Jianghu and serving as a bodyguard, Hu Laosan’s martial skills were undoubtedly exceptional. The bayonet’s power in his hands was fully displayed. Wielding a Mini-style musket, he moved like a venomous dragon striking with its tongue, slicing up four or five enemies attempting to climb the walls in less than a quarter of an hour.

The battle had now raged for more than half an hour. The initial force of three thousand Korchin warriors had been almost entirely wiped out. The force now continuing the attack was the Red Banner unit of the Eight Banners. Watching the wounded being carried away, Zaisang’s heart ached so much that tears fell. He grabbed the centurion in charge of the assault, grit his teeth, and demanded, “Didn’t I tell you not to advance too far? Is this how you obey my orders?!”

Zaisang’s eyes were practically shooting flames. Three thousand brave warriors—yet fewer than a thousand returned alive. Over two thousand had fallen in less than half an hour. Such losses were devastating—even for the wealthy Korchin tribe, it was unbearable.

Seeing Zaisang’s fury, the centurion clutched his commander’s pants and sobbed uncontrollably. “Chief, I didn’t want this! Fifteen A’ge led the White Banner troops right behind us. Anyone who tried to retreat was instantly struck down by him. Over ten warriors have already died by his blade!”

Zaisang trembled with rage and, after a long pause, spat out, “Duo’er… I will never reconcile with you!”

The centurion hesitated and asked, “Chief, what should we do now?”

“What should we do?” Zaisang sneered. “Since they don’t regard us as human, why should we serve them? Let’s go—we’re done playing their game!”

“Yes!” the centurion gritted his teeth and followed Zaisang in retreat.

As Zaisang led the men carrying cart after cart of corpses down, many Mongol tribes in the main formation saw the Korchin tribe’s dire situation, and numerous faces turned pale with shock.

Dorgon and others at the center of the Qing army also noticed. Daishan frowned and whispered to Yuetu, “How could the Korchin troops suffer so badly?”

Yuetu sighed. “Just now, Duo’er went up front to supervise, forcing Zaisang’s men not to withdraw. That’s why it ended like this. Three thousand went up, but fewer than a thousand returned.”

“How could Duo’er do this!” Daishan slammed his thigh in anger. “Dorgon, this fool—does he even know what he’s doing?”

“This may not have been Dorgon’s intention,” Yuetu said with a bitter smile. “Almighty, you know Duo’er’s temper. He may have acted on his own…”

Daishan growled, “Sigh… I knew it. Duo’er is always impulsive, yet he doesn’t consider the timing. Treating the Korchin like this—don’t they fear Zaisang’s resentment? Remember, the Korchin tribe has two hundred thousand herders and nearly thirty thousand cavalry.”

Yuetu gritted his teeth. “Almighty, there’s no point talking now. The most urgent matter is breaking through the Ming army camp; otherwise, all is for nothing!”

“Of course, I know,” Daishan replied. “Haven’t you seen? Dorgon has already sent Engetu and Buyandai’s Mongol Eight Banners forward. Once they breach that thin stockade, at least half of the Yingzhou troops will be casualties. That will be the moment our Eight Banner cavalry strikes!”

“Yes, you are correct.” Yuetu nodded slowly as he watched the Eight Banner soldiers attacking relentlessly. Even the most pessimistic Qing generals no longer doubted victory; the only question was at what cost.

Dorgon’s wheel-of-war tactic had indeed pressured the Yingzhou army. Although five thousand Chahar soldiers under Bater assisted, the hastily constructed stockade was far too flimsy. Its defense relied solely on the courage and self-sacrifice of the Yingzhou soldiers.

The battle raged on. In front of the stockade, piles of Mongol corpses stacked layer upon layer, nearly level with the already low walls. The Mongols could now step on their comrades’ bodies to climb, making defense exponentially harder for the Yingzhou troops.

“Pfft!”

Hu Laosan’s bayonet had just impaled a Mongol climbing a ladder when a burly Mongol charged from the side.

“Whoosh—hah!”

A blade flashed as a long sword swung toward Hu Laosan. He hastily raised his musket to block, hearing a snap as it split in two. At that moment, a heavily bearded Mongol leapt onto the stockade, raising his long sword with a savage grin to strike again.

Hu Laosan didn’t have time to draw his saber and could only close his eyes helplessly, bracing for death.

“Bang!”

Just as Hu Laosan waited for the end, a sharp gunshot rang out. The Mongol faltered, staggered, his face registering surprise. Though he tried to swing his sword again, his strength seemed drained. He wobbled, fell backward, and tumbled off the wall.

Hu Laosan had no time to react before a steady voice rang out behind him: “Don’t panic, everyone! Reinforcements are arriving!”

Hearing this, Hu Laosan could hardly believe his eyes as a familiar figure appeared.

“Lord Hou!”

“Lord Hou has come! He’s here to support us!”

The Yingzhou soldiers on the stockade were moved to tears. After eight long days, the Lord Hou they had been waiting for had finally arrived.

Yue Yang strode up the wall, wielding a short musket. Behind him were Chen Dazhi and five hundred bodyguards, and further behind, Hu Laosan’s reserve troops had all arrived.

Seeing Yue Yang, Hu Laosan felt strength surge through his body and shouted hoarsely, “Brothers! Lord Hou is here! Kill the Tartars!”

“Kill the Tartars!”

The exhausted soldiers found renewed vigor, clashing with the enemy with muskets and blades.

“Fire!”

Bang bang bang…

With the reinforcements, the familiar sounds of muskets rang out. Mongol Eight Banner soldiers stepping on corpses were riddled with bullets, blood and flesh splattering as they fell.

Yue Yang strode to Hu Laosan, whose armor was smeared with blood, the stench overwhelming. Patting his shoulder, Yue Yang’s hand was instantly coated with fresh blood.

Hu Laosan looked at him, lips twitching, and saluted: “Reporting, Lord Hou! I was ordered to hold the valley until your return. Not a single inch lost. I now submit my report!”

“Good! Very good!” Yue Yang solemnly returned the salute. “You’ve done well. Your mission is complete—you may withdraw and rest.”

Hu Laosan was eager to continue. “Lord Hou, I won’t step down! I can still fight!”

“This is an order!” Yue Yang’s face darkened. “I will take command now. Do you object?”

“Yes, sir!” Hu Laosan knew Yue Yang was mindful of him and the weary soldiers. Gritting his teeth, he ordered his men still fighting to retreat.

Earlier, Hu Laosan had split twenty thousand musketeers into two groups of ten thousand, alternating on the front line. Though battle had raged for seven or eight days, casualties were low due to firepower advantage, totaling fewer than a thousand.

But today, with ammunition exhausted, the tide turned sharply. In under an hour, Hu Laosan’s group lost nearly two thousand men. The battle was that fierce.

With Yue Yang’s fresh troops joining, the situation reversed. Musketeers with loaded firearms took the walls, and white smoke mingled with gunfire once more. Mongol soldiers charging forward fell in a hail of bullets. The musketeers formed three waves—one firing, one reloading, one preparing—creating a continuous storm of death that pinned the Mongols in place.

Meanwhile, Chahar herders brought crates of gunpowder and bullets to the artillery positions, delighting Zhao Yongxin beyond measure.

One gunner wept with joy, holding a crate of powder and bullets: “Finally, we have ammunition! Sir, we can fight back!”

“Idiot! Stop standing there—load the guns!” Zhao Yongxin roared, kicking the gunner. “If you don’t fire within thirty breaths, I’ll skin you alive! Get to work!”

“Yes, sir!”

The gunners eagerly loaded the artillery. Soon, reports rang out:

“One cannon ready!”

“Two ready!”

“Three ready!”

Zhao Yongxin’s face twisted into a grim expression as he shouted, “Fire!”

At the command, a bugler blew a piercing note. Simultaneously, huge explosions rang out. A line of fiery flashes shot from the front, thick smoke rising. Thirty tiger-crouching cannons fired simultaneously, sending over a thousand iron shots into the Mongols, striking them with such force that blood erupted and they screamed, falling to the ground.

Though the cannons’ range was only sixty to seventy steps, the iron balls’ kinetic energy pulverized anything in their path. Even Mongols wearing heavy double armor or carrying thick shields were crushed by the impact, their bones and organs shattered. Many coughed up blood, collapsing in agony, their survival impossible.

Yue Yang saw a Mongol officer in triple armor and centurion attire. His right arm’s tiger-head spear was gone; a bowl-sized hole gaped in his right chest, blood gushing. Holding a heavy shield in his left hand, he staggered forward, dazed. Another gunshot struck him in the face, blasting half his head off—this time, he was truly dead.

With cannons and muskets now on the battlefield, the crisis reversed. The two thousand-plus Mongols at the stockade were nearly annihilated, their corpses and wounded littering the approach.

The sudden change shocked the defenders’ morale and left Dorgon, calculating when to launch his final assault, dumbfounded. Smoke rose from the stockade as bursts of musket fire rained down, Mongols being felled continuously.

“What’s going on? Weren’t the Yingzhou troops out of ammo? Why are they firing again?”

Dorgon panicked, eyes bulging. He spun in place, then muttered, “Ah, this must be their last remaining ammunition—a dying flash of light. Yes, a dying flash. If we keep attacking, we’ll finish their ammo.”

He pulled a Mongol leader close, shouting, “Agudai, lead your tribe to relieve Engetu and continue the assault! Drive the Ming troops off the wall!”

Seeing Dorgon red-faced, Agudai knew this usually calm and intelligent prince had lost reason. To object was to invite death.

Most nearby agreed with Dorgon, believing the Ming ammo would soon run out, hence the exhaustion of their previous attack. Normally, this would have been correct—but they hadn’t counted on Yue Yang, who played by no rules. Disaster followed.

Agudai led over five thousand troops in attack—but as they approached within two hundred steps of the wall, thunderous musket fire erupted. Hot iron balls hurtled through the air, carving bloody paths, felling Mongols as they rolled on with residual momentum until energy was spent.

Seeing Mongol Eight Banner soldiers fall and wail in agony, Yuetu grabbed Dorgon’s hand: “Prince, this can’t continue. I don’t know where the Yingzhou troops got ammo, but with it, they are undefeatable. We must order retreat first before our warriors bleed out completely!”

Dorgon’s face went ashen. He couldn’t understand how the supposedly exhausted Yingzhou troops suddenly had firepower again.

A White Banner flag master ran to Dorgon, kneeling at his thigh: “Prince, we can’t fight like this! Retreat! Leave something for our tribes!”

Dorgon bitterly pointed ahead: “Too late. We can’t retreat now—the Ming army has come out!”