Chapter 71 The Death of Commander Zhu

The soldiers set out in a tumultuous clamor. It was the heart of winter; the cold and the biting wind and snow cut like knives, making the garrison troops groan in misery. Many moved sluggishly, clutching their spears and muttering complaints, dragging their feet, unwilling to head to the front lines and fight desperately against the Tartars.

The garrison officers, clad in tattered armor and astride scrawny horses, shouted orders, and if anyone dared defy them, they swung their leather whips mercilessly, drawing cries of pain.

Shi Kefa watched this scene with deep worry. He turned to Li Yi, concern in his voice, “Commander Zhu is greedy for merit, reckless and underestimating the enemy. This is no good. Li Yi, the defense of Sui Jin Town will require your utmost attention.”

Li Yi nodded, “I will send men to observe the battle. If our troops falter, we can provide timely support.”

Shi Kefa was finally reassured. Meanwhile, the able-bodied men had dismantled wood, sharpened it, and nailed it together to make anti-cavalry barricades.

Li Yi summoned Honest Gao and instructed, “Most of the Tartars are cavalry. Use the method you employed against Zhang Xianzhong’s horsemen—prepare horse traps in the ground and plant spikes.”

Honest Gao immediately responded and led his men to make preparations.

While Li Yi and the others worked on fortifications, the soldiers had already marched north for over twenty li. Commander Zhu ordered scouts to reconnoiter, advancing cautiously with the main force.

Upon learning the Tartars numbered only about three hundred, he resolved to lead his three hundred elite soldiers and six hundred garrison men to wipe them out completely. If victorious, he would surely earn merit and reward, perhaps even promotion to Guerrilla General or Deputy Commander.

With this thought, Commander Zhu’s heart burned; he eagerly anticipated the coming battle.

He had fought in many wars and, passing through undulating terrain, would send men to search the flanks to prevent ambushes. Among his troops were several border scouts who could interpret sounds to gauge enemy distance and track hoofprints to find where the enemy hid.

The march was peaceful, with no ambushes or surprise attacks. However, as the journey wore on, the garrison troops' formation became increasingly disordered. Commander Zhu, seeing they were closing in on the enemy, ordered a rest.

On hearing the order, the garrison soldiers sat down in a noisy mass. Some rushed about asking for water, some for bread, others rolled their eyes, searching for a chance to escape.

Suddenly, the dull thunder of hooves resounded. In the distance, dust rose, and the furious neighing of horses echoed from afar.

“Kill these Ming dogs! Charge!”

Three hundred Tartar cavalry charged in; Commander Zhu was startled and cursed, “Damn it, have all my scouts died?”

He drew his saber and roared, “Armor up, form ranks—quick, form ranks and face the enemy!”

Three hundred elite troops helped one another don armor and formed ranks to meet the attack. The garrison soldiers, however, were in utter chaos.

Commander Zhu looked back and saw the garrison troops scatter like an exploded pot, fleeing in all directions. The officers waved their whips, shouting to maintain order, but a handful could not control so many men.

In moments, more than half the soldiers had fled. Seeing the situation lost, the garrison officers, realizing their troops were gone, mounted their horses and chased after the fleeing men.

The elite soldiers stared in shock as the garrison troops ran off en masse.

What was this? They were supposed to be in front, and yet the others escaped so quickly?

But there was no time for hesitation.

The Tartar cavalry shrieked wildly as they charged.

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The elite troops were seasoned veterans amassed by Hong Chengchou. Though the garrison soldiers had routed in an instant, the elite troops were barely affected.

They were used to this.

Commander Zhu donned his mountain-pattern iron armor, with an iron-tipped helmet, mounted his horse with the help of trusted aides.

“Firearms ready, archers loose arrows—slow their charge!”

Commander Zhu, though proud, was capable. The burly soldiers drew their bows, and two volleys of arrows rained onto the Tartar cavalry.

Lacking iron armor, the Tartars were thrown from their horses, and their fierce charge faltered.

The next wave of cavalry reached close, but faced rows of firearm bearers.

On Commander Zhu’s command, dozens of fine muskets thundered in unison, startling the horses, who balked and refused to charge.

Smoke enveloped the elite troops, but the lead shot flew mercilessly, piercing the Tartar cavalry in front. Several Tartars fell, screaming.

Those not struck by firearms were frightened by the thunderous noise, faces pale, reining in their mounts.

A burly, bearded Tartar waved his whip and shouted, “It’s just Ming firearms—nothing to fear! Follow me!”

He spurred ahead, charging the formation.

The other Tartars followed.

A volley exploded; another round of musket fire struck the leading Tartars, who clutched their mangled faces and fell, quickly trampled by their own comrades.

Commander Zhu roared, “Drop firearms, spears forward—charge!”

At his command, the soldiers grabbed their long spears and surged at the cavalry.

The two sides clashed in melee.

Well-equipped, the elite troops had already blunted the Tartars’ attempt to break them with ranged attacks. Though the battle devolved into close combat, the trained soldiers advanced in groups, while the Tartars, lacking formation and armor, though fiercely brave, were cut down.

The fierce fight lasted a quarter of an hour; of the three hundred Tartar cavalry, only about two hundred remained.

The soldiers had lost only a dozen, clearly holding the advantage.

Seeing no gain, the Tartars turned their horses and fled north.

Commander Zhu, victorious in his first engagement, was elated.

He hastily ordered men to collect Tartar heads—proof of their valor, to be verified by the Ministry of War.

The soldiers rested, but soon, the two hundred Tartars returned.

Commander Zhu’s heart sank.

Years of warfare told him these Tartars had found reinforcements, intending to pin them down.

“Hurry, clear the field—this place is dangerous. We must return to Sui Jin Town!”

Detecting danger, Commander Zhu ordered a retreat.

But as the soldiers prepared to withdraw, the Tartars attacked again.

This time they were smarter: instead of charging the formation, they formed a semicircle and shot arrows into the ranks.

The scattered arrows struck armor, causing little harm.

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But the soldiers had to remain vigilant, unable to retreat south.

Commander Zhu was drenched in sweat, regretting his reckless advance and ignoring the young inspector’s warning.

But it was too late. He ordered the spearmen to guard carefully, archers to return fire, and began a slow withdrawal.

The Tartar cavalry was patient, circling from afar; when the soldiers tried to retreat quickly, they charged in, unleashing two volleys of arrows, then retreated when the soldiers formed ranks.

They hunted like wolves on the steppe, chasing their prey, waiting for their reinforcements to arrive and then pounce to tear the prey’s throat.

Commander Zhu withdrew step by step, covering barely ten li, when he saw clouds of dust in the distance—a large force approaching.

When the cavalry entered view, he was aghast, despair flooding his eyes.

A burly man in a purple robe sat imposingly on horseback; behind him rode nearly a hundred blue-armored cavalry, followed by three hundred in half-armor, and the rest were fur-clad nomads.

Clearly, this was the direct force of a Tumet noble, the main force of the main force.

The bearded Tartar dismounted and bowed, “Batu Taiji, these Ming soldiers block our way south.”

Batu Taiji studied the distant soldiers, then turned to the Mongol at his side, “Buyan, my most loyal slave, how should we defeat these Ming soldiers?”

Buyan, the Mongol, wore a coarse cotton robe, his hair wild as a mane, with a broad, high nose and wide mouth, resembling a silent lion.

He caressed his horn bow, his callused hand passing over the string, and coldly surveyed the Ming formation.

“These Ming soldiers are elite and well-equipped—not easy to deal with. I need you to scatter their formation so I can find their commander. Once the officer is dead, the Ming will collapse without a fight.”

Batu Taiji nodded, a cruel smile on his lips, “I’ll send my precious blue-armored cavalry. Buyan, do not disappoint me—or your people will be hanged.”

Buyan drew an arrow, glanced at his ragged tribesmen forced into slavery behind him, and nodded, “Batu Taiji, you will have the Ming officer’s head.”

Batu accepted the arrow, fired it toward the Ming, and its whistling call signaled the attack.

The armored cavalry readied their mounts and, following the signal, charged.

Buyan took a crude sheepskin bag, gulped strong liquor, gripped his bow, and waited silently for his moment.

Commander Zhu loudly ordered his men to climb the hillside, seizing the terrain for defense.

But the Tartar attack came too quickly, too fiercely.

When the armored cavalry charged in, even the bravest elite troops could not help but fear.

The muskets thundered; the armored cavalry broke into the ranks.

Commander Zhu drew his saber, directing the spearmen to hold against the cavalry.

The cotton-armored soldiers knew that if the Tartars broke their formation, they would die here. So they fought with all their might, brandishing weapons and roaring in counterattack.

Spearmen and shield-bearers held off the Tartars; several firearm bearers fired, and screams erupted as lead bullets easily pierced the Tartars’ armor.

Space was tight, so the Tartars dismounted and, weapons raised, swarmed forward.

Commander Zhu shouted orders, repelling the Tartars again and again.

The battle was fierce—blood splattered, cold blades flashed, and death loomed. War raged at its utmost intensity.

Batu Taiji turned to look at Buyan, his expression grim.

At that moment, the silent lion began his hunt.

Buyan nudged his horse, expertly maneuvering it away from the main fray, prowling like a lone wolf on the battlefield. His sharp eyes were fixed on the Ming formation.

Just as Commander Zhu repelled the Tartars once more, Buyan suddenly spurred his horse forward, drew his bow in one fluid motion, and at the moment when Commander Zhu was most relaxed, released an arrow.

With a sharp whistle, a heavy arrow struck Commander Zhu’s throat, and with a piercing scream, the proud Ming officer fell to the ground, clutching his blood-soaked neck, his breath ceasing forever.