MLMD -Chapter 433 It Begins

“Bang—!”

A thunderous crash rang out as a Canghai ship scraped against a fourth‑rate warship. The larger fourth‑rate vessel naturally had the advantage—though it was only a glancing collision, the sailors on the Canghai ship were still knocked sprawling in all directions.

“Quick—jump over—hurry and jump over!”

A leader gripping a curved saber stood at the bow of the Canghai ship, shouting at the top of his lungs. Beside him, boarding specialists—shield men, throwing‑axe men, and close‑combat fighters—were scrambling over one after another, leaping toward the nearby Weihai Guard naval warships. Watching his men swarm toward the Ming vessels, Zheng Zhibao’s face twisted into a smug, ferocious grin. In his experience, any ship successfully boarded by the Zheng fleet always met a miserable end. He could already picture the Ming navy being slaughtered by his sailors.

“Hmph… no matter how powerful your firearms are, once I get aboard, those muskets will be no better than pokers for stoking fires,” Zheng Zhibao thought smugly.

But he celebrated too soon.

Before his grin could fully settle, continuous gunfire erupted from ahead.

“Bang, bang… bang bang bang…”

The crisp shots did not stop with the boarding—instead, they rang out even more clearly, and with an unnerving rhythm. The Zheng sailors who had leapt onto the Ming decks hadn’t even managed to steady themselves before each volley was followed by shrill, varied screams.

Zheng Zhibao hurriedly raised his spyglass. He saw four or five of his men just land on a slightly smaller Ming ship. White smoke burst forth ahead, and amid a volley of gunfire, the sailors collapsed into pools of blood before they could even find their footing.

“What is going on? How can their muskets fire so fast? And… they don’t seem to have matchcords!” Zheng Zhibao was incredulous. In his understanding, musketeers always carried long coils of matchcord over their shoulders. Yet these men had none. They merely raised their muskets, aimed—and with a flash of white smoke, his men fell screaming. It completely overturned his understanding.

The crack of Minié rifles continued without pause. Boarding sailors from the Zheng fleet were turned into lifeless bodies strewn across the decks. Seeing this, Zheng Zhibao trembled with rage. These cowardly Ming soldiers had no intention of engaging in hand‑to‑hand combat—they meant to annihilate them with overwhelming firepower.

“Damn these cowards! They won’t even dare fight us face to face. Is the Ming navy really this gutless?” His anger was so intense his nose nearly twisted out of shape.

He had painstakingly maneuvered his ships alongside, intending to rely on his men’s well‑honed boarding tactics to catch the Ming off guard. Instead, the enemy refused to play along, using their muskets to inflict horrific losses on the boarding parties.

“Bastards… how can their muskets fire this fast?” Zheng Zhibao dug his fingernails deep into his palms until blood flowed, unaware of the pain. He had spent years at sea, fighting the Dutch and the East India Company, and had seen plenty of firearms—but muskets capable of firing two or three volleys per minute were something he had never even heard of.

What pained him most was that the men daring enough to board were mostly veterans who had followed him for years—skilled fighters who fought without fear. They were well treated by the Zheng family: food and drink aplenty, women and silver at will. The only demand was that when it came time to board, they would risk their lives. Such men numbered only two or three thousand in the entire Zheng clan. Now, after this single battle, hundreds were dead or wounded. He had no idea how he would explain this to his elder brother, Zheng Zhilong.

“Second Master, the Ming muskets are too deadly. Our men can’t push through—order them to withdraw!” Seeing the boarding sailors being shot down and splashing into the sea like dumplings, the men beside him ached with grief. These fearless fighters were the Zheng family’s treasures.

Zheng Zhibao scanned the battlefield. More than a dozen of their warships were already entangled with the Ming fleet. His expression shifted several times before he grit his teeth and said, “Issue the order—cease boarding immediately. All warships, turn rudders north and retreat!”

“What about the merchant ships behind us?” his aide asked anxiously. Nearly thirty cargo ships laden with goods were still trailing them.

Zheng Zhibao closed his eyes in pain. “There’s no choice now. They’ll have to fend for themselves.”

The aide understood—trying to withdraw with those slow merchant ships would only doom everyone. Soon, a blue flag was hoisted on the mast of Zheng Zhibao’s Fukien ship, the signal for retreat.

As the blue flag went up, the Zheng warships—already being driven back—turned their bows and began pulling away from the Weihai Guard fleet.

Their withdrawal was immediately noticed by the Ming captains. The naval guns, which had fallen silent due to the close range earlier, roared back to life.

“Boom, boom, boom—!”

Cannons spewed fire. The retreating Zheng ships suffered badly—planks flew, flames burst out in clusters. With the range so close and the barrels depressed low, many shots plunged into the sea, throwing up towering sprays. Thick smoke from the cannon fire mixed with sea mist into layers of white fog. Visibility dropped sharply; even Guo Jingxian, commanding from the deck, found it hard to see clearly. To avoid friendly fire, he ordered the fleet to turn to port and steer clear of the smoke‑shrouded area.

By sheer luck, Zheng Zhibao escaped. Once Guo Jingxian maneuvered around the fog, Zheng Zhilong had already led more than ten warships north in retreat. Guo pursued for over ten nautical miles, sinking seven or eight enemy ships before reluctantly turning back—dozens of merchant ships still remained behind, and any mishap would be his responsibility.

Still, the pursuit was not in vain. After Zheng Zhibao fled, the remaining twenty‑plus heavily laden, slow‑moving merchant ships became prizes of the Weihai Guard navy.

When Guo Jingxian escorted his fleet—along with dozens of merchant ships and over twenty captured Zheng vessels—to Donghaibao near Jinzhou and inventoried the cargo, they discovered vast quantities of grain, ironware, bows, crossbows, and armor—strategic supplies. Interrogation of prisoners revealed the destination: Shengjing, the Qing capital.

Alarmed, Guo Jingxian immediately drafted a report and dispatched a fast courier ship overnight to Shandong to inform Yue Yang.

Three days later, Yue Yang received the news at Weihai Guard. Shocked, he never imagined Zheng Zhilong would dare act so brazenly. At this critical moment, when the Ming and the Qing were locked in a fight to the death, Zheng Zhilong was actually selling massive quantities of strategic supplies to the enemy. This went far beyond greed—it showed a man utterly without principles. To him, it made no difference whether the Ming or the Qing ruled. No wonder, in another timeline, he surrendered to the Qing so swiftly.

“Zheng Zhilong… I’ll remember this. This isn’t over—we’ll settle accounts sooner or later.”

Though Yue Yang ground his teeth in fury, he chose not to report the matter to the court. He knew it would be useless. The court was bankrupt and already stretched thin dealing with rebels within the passes. Adding Zheng Zhilong—who commanded tens of thousands of pirates and hundreds of warships—would be impossible. If pushed too hard, Zheng might revert to piracy and ravage the coast, creating an even greater disaster.

In Yue Yang’s study, Wang Yue, helping process documents, saw him sigh and put the report into a drawer. She understood he had no intention of confronting the Zheng family now, and asked softly, “Husband, are you just going to let the Zhengs off?”

“What choice do I have?” Yue Yang sighed. “Now isn’t the time to fall out with him. The decisive battle with the Qing is imminent—fighting on two fronts is no good. Once I’ve dealt with the Qing and expanded the fleet severalfold, then I’ll come for him.”

Wang Yue nodded in understanding. Though not versed in military matters, she knew fighting on two fronts had always been a grave taboo. She asked, “Then you’re heading to Jinzhou now?”

“Yes,” Yue Yang nodded. “The navy returns to Weihai Guard the day after tomorrow. I’ll accompany the next transport of troops and supplies to Liaodong. You stay here and wait for good news.”

“Rest assured,” Wang Yue said gently. “Sister Xiangjun, Sister Xiaowan, and I will all wait here for your triumphant return.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek lightly, a soft warmth and fragrant sweetness settling into his heart.

On the 28th day of the second month of the twelfth year of Chongzhen, Yue Yang arrived at Donghaibao in Liaodong aboard a Weihai Guard warship. He then led five thousand personal troops to Jinzhou, where Yue Shunbao and over a hundred local commanders greeted him outside the yamen.

“We pay our respects to the Marquis—may Your Lordship enjoy peace and fortune!”

“At ease,” Yue Yang said curtly, striding straight into the former residence of Zu Dashou, once the Vanguard General’s mansion and now the Liaodong Commander’s office.

After taking the commander’s seat, the generals sat down in turn—Yue Shunbao, Hu Laoshan, Wu Chengfeng, Yang Guozhu, Hu Dawei, Wang Pu, and many others. One glance showed a gathering of brilliant stars, and a surge of heroic resolve welled up in Yue Yang’s chest.

Smiling, he addressed them: “Gentlemen, two years ago we shattered the Qing, costing Huang Taiji his life and beheading Yoto before their ranks. A year ago, we expelled cowards like Wu Sangui and Zu Dashou from Liaodong. Today is the day we finish the barbarians once and for all! Are you willing to follow me, reclaim Shengjing, and drive those barbarians back into the deep mountains and forests?”

As soon as he finished, all the generals leapt to their feet and roared, “We are willing to die for Your Lordship—take Shengjing and annihilate the barbarians!”

Every face shone with excitement. At last, the barbarians would be dealt with. Since the Wanli era, the Jurchens from the White Mountains and Black Waters had grown steadily stronger, becoming the Ming’s mortal threat by the Tianqi years. In Chongzhen’s reign, they repeatedly violated the borders—like a venomous, greedy snake, biting the Ming again and again, then retreating to wait for its prey to weaken before swallowing it whole.

Without Yue Yang, the Ming would have collapsed within a few years, its last strength drained, the realm falling to this barbarian people. China’s backbone would have been broken, only to awaken centuries later under the blows of Western gunboats—never again reclaiming its former lead.

In this timeline, Yue Yang would never allow that to happen. The civilization of an agrarian people would not be destroyed by nomadic barbarians.

Seeing morale so high, Yue Yang nodded inwardly and asked, “Shunbao—as commander of Jinzhou, tell me: are our troops and supplies all in place?”

Yue Shunbao rose and clasped his fists. “Reporting to the Marquis: all forces have arrived—eighty thousand infantry, thirty thousand cavalry, five artillery battalions, and thirty thousand logistics troops. All are present.”

“Good!” Yue Yang said sharply. “Since everything is in place, I order that at dawn tomorrow, ten thousand men remain to hold the city. The rest will advance on Shengjing!”

“Yes!”

“We obey the Marquis’s command!”

“Clop‑clop‑clop—”

Thunderous hoofbeats halted outside the Shengjing imperial palace. A rider in bright yellow armor leapt from his horse and rushed toward the gates. The guards glanced at the three red flags fixed to his neck and looked away.

The rider sprinted to the Chongzheng Hall. After a brief exchange with a eunuch, he dashed inside.

Inside the hall, Dorgon sat upon the throne, screens, censers, incense stands, and crane‑shaped candleholders around him. Pale blue smoke drifted upward, a faint fragrance filling the chamber. Officials lined both sides, reporting affairs.

“Report—!”

The rider rushed forward and shouted, “Your Majesty! Our scouts report that Yue Yang has arrived in Jinzhou. Two days ago, he led a force of one hundred thousand infantry and cavalry from Jinzhou toward Shengjing. They are expected to arrive in seven days!”

The hall fell silent, the air seeming to freeze. Faces grew heavy. After a long moment, Dorgon inhaled deeply and smiled. “Good. Yue Yang has finally come. I’ve been waiting for him. Let us settle this once and for all.”

He turned to the assembled officials with a faint smile. “Gentlemen, are you ready to fight Yue Yang to the death?”

Silence reigned until Dodo stepped forward, voice ringing. “Your Majesty, your younger brother is ready. I will stand with you through life and death. If Shengjing stands, I stand. If Shengjing falls, I will not live alone!”

“Good!” Warmth filled Dorgon’s heart. As expected of his brother of the same mother—always the first to support him at critical moments. He looked around and sneered, “Didn’t you all swear you’d live and die with the Great Qing? Now that it’s real, why have you gone mute?”

Shame flickered across many faces. They could not bring themselves to boast of defeating Yue Yang—their years of defeat had taught them the vast gulf between Qing and Ming.

Under Huang Taiji, the Qing had battered the Ming not because they were stronger, but because the Ming was rotten—leaders without will, soldiers without heart. Talented rulers like Nurhaci and Huang Taiji, allied with Mongols, Koreans, and neighboring tribes, had exploited that weakness. Once the Ming awakened, with manpower, resources, and a capable commander, its power far surpassed the Qing—as Yue Yang’s victories proved. Now the Ming was launching its final counterattack. If the Qing lost, there would be no recovery.

Yet decades of war had produced some men of resolve. A burly, bearded general stepped forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, though unworthy, I am willing to live and die with Shengjing.”

“I too will live and die with Shengjing!”

“I will share life and death with the Great Qing!”

One by one they stepped forward, faces etched with grim resolve. They knew—the final hour had arrived.