Chapter 123: Breaking the Formation [Please Subscribe]

One hundred and fifty steps—no movement from the imperial troops.

One hundred steps—still no movement.

Liu Guoneng’s formation began to run, their pace quickening with every stride. A mere hundred steps could be crossed in just twenty or thirty breaths.

Their advance nearly matched that of Zhang Tianlin on the right flank.

Everyone thrust their spears and brandished their blades as they charged forward. This surge of energy invigorated them far more than standing still under cannon fire, each moment shrouded in the shadow of death.

They did not fear dying in battle; they feared waiting to die.

Suddenly, someone crossed an invisible line.

“Fire the falconet!”

The four falconets, loaded with scattershot, had been expertly angled, awaiting the officer’s command. At the order, the powder ignited, and the artillerymen flinched, covering their ears as a series of thunderous blasts erupted. The battlefield ahead was soon engulfed in smoke.

Hundreds of cannonballs burst forth in fiery smoke, their countless hissing sounds slicing through the air like blades, carving a cone-shaped clearing through the millet fields.

At the end of this cone stood Liu Guoneng’s running formation.

Lead pellets tore through bodies, spraying crimson mists.

Rows of men fell, their torsos hit mid-stride, thrown backward while legs still moved forward, causing them to collapse midair.

Those lucky enough to avoid the pellets froze in shock, halting abruptly, gasping, wide-eyed with terror, searching helplessly around.

Liu Guoneng himself was dazed. Iron shot pierced through the hem of his garment, lodging painfully in his left leg. He fell to his knees, screaming, crawling painfully along the ground, patting and prodding himself.

Every face clutching at chest or abdomen, spitting blood, every terrified, weeping soul losing control of their bowels—these were his kin, brothers, neighbors, uncles.

Those who fled the millet fields behind could only see their kin writhing in agony on the ground, while just dozens of steps away, imperial troops leveled their cannons at them.

The struggling reached out, pushing away the advancing lines with all their might: “Don’t come closer! Run! Run!”

Splash!

The artillerymen dipped wet cloths from a bucket to cover the blackened muskets. With a sharp hiss, they swiftly lifted and discarded the weapons aside, tossing the scorched cloths back into the water.

The next muskets were immediately loaded into the cannon breeches, while the used ones were cleaned.

The artillery officer revised the orders, signaling the flag bearers on either side.

The four falconets adjusted their muzzles—two to the left, two to the right—aiming at the advancing forces of Li Wanqing and Luo Rucai.

Li Wanqing still stood stunned, turning his head dully. He saw Liu Guoneng’s troops transform after the cannon fire: the front ranks vanished, the rear froze in place, some fled.

He soon understood.

Bang! Bang!

Bang! Bang!

The left and right flanks of the formation were again blasted with cone-shaped clearings. Cannonballs flew like scythes, severing the millet like ripe grain, scattering the advancing men.

The left corner of his formation was carved as if by a blade—twenty or thirty men felled by lead pellets. A cacophony of screams and curses filled the air.

For several seconds amid the blood mist, the entire formation was stunned.

Li Wanqing’s men were not kin. He glanced down at himself—his gear still mostly intact—then rushed forward, snatching a makeshift square flag from the dazed standard-bearer. Waving it high, he shouted, “Form ranks! Engage while they reload!”

Luo Rucai’s troops also took a cannon blast. Their situation resembled Li Wanqing’s, though having lost a dozen or so the night before, their formation was looser, less tragic.

Now, the skilled fighters tended to the wounded, swiftly dispatching those severely hurt.

After leaving behind about twenty lightly wounded, over two hundred pressed forward.

Zhang Tianlin rode swiftly along the right flank. Amid several cannon blasts, he raised his whip, casting his gaze backward. From his vantage point, he took in the devastation of the three formations.

Cursing under his breath, he looked afar, signaling his troops to spread out. Leading the charge himself, he aimed to assault the imperial scouts encircling the flanks, while his infantry rode toward the enemy’s rear.

His mission: to break through the imperial scouts blocking the enemy’s outer lines and deliver horses to Liu Chengzong.

The cavalry hunted and clashed with enemy scouts on the battlefield’s outskirts, covering the infantry as they brought the mounts through the lines.

Gao Yingxiang stood astride his horse on the left flank, commanding a Mongol cavalry unit skirmishing around. Behind him, the border troops held position; half dismounted to unload five small donkey-drawn cannons, observing the battlefield together.

He commanded left and right: “Clear the imperial scouts. Once Liu Shizi’s men arrive, all three formations advance together to break their lines!”

Liu Guoneng’s troops did not collapse after the initial heavy scattershot bombardment, but the falconet fire directed at their allies shattered their morale, sending them into a panicked rout.

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More than three hundred men in the entire formation shouted that Liu Guoneng had been killed and fled to the rear.

They were halted midair by Cao Yao’s triple-barrel muskets and regrouped by Liu Chengzu at the rear.

Cao Yao pressed forward with the artillery unit. Yet this old scoundrel was no hero; he ordered over a hundred artillerymen to crouch low among the millet, exposing only half their helmets, inching forward with their cannons.

It was strange: the millet was bent with ripeness, so they had nowhere to hide but half their helmets poked out as they pushed onward.

Every now and then, Cao Yao straightened to peer ahead, checking if the line faltered or if the enemy advanced, then ducked back down like a troop of dwarfs crawling through the millet.

Cannon fire thundered from the front, but he did not know who was under attack. He urged those beside him: “They haven’t hit us yet. Keep moving forward—this battle rests on us!”

Suddenly, a volley of musket fire cracked.

Li Wanqing’s forces engaged the imperial troops. He drew his bow to loose an arrow, followed by volley after volley of musket shots from his musketeers, then arrows from crossbowmen as they withdrew.

Several imperial soldiers fell, returning arrow fire in kind.

He dared not advance further. After releasing another arrow, he anxiously scanned to the right, cursing: “Where’s Monk Wang?”

Wang was still at the rear organizing the ranks.

The commoners summoned from various places had never seen battle nor were prepared to fight.

Liu Guoneng’s men charged forward driven by cannon fire, but these peasants slowed with the noise, halting completely as Liu’s troops retreated.

Only thanks to Wang Ziyong’s ritual prayers calling on guardian spirits did they not flee alongside.

Otherwise, with so many running, Gao Ying’en at the rear could not have held them back.

Now the ritual was complete. The thousand-strong peasant force, armed with farm tools, marched forward again, brimming with confidence.

Only Wang Ziyong wore a face full of helplessness. He knew the peasants were not fools—few truly believed in this—but most only sought to delay the advance, to avoid being hit by cannon fire.

Still, he had no choice. Without this, his men would break like Liu Guoneng’s, all retreating en masse.

Liu Chengzu could withstand Liu Guoneng’s rout, but not a collapse of thousands. So even if this force advanced slowly, Wang could not let them flee.

The left flank also engaged. Luo Rucai pushed starving shield- and spear-men forward. After twenty paces, a line of imperial arquebuses and muskets unleashed a volley, felling men like ripe grain cut by a sickle, exposing skilled archers behind who drew their bows.

Luo’s role was similar to Wang’s: to bolster morale.

But Luo had no mysticism—only repeated encouragements.

He told the starving men they were all worth little; even if they died, someone would care for their families. Fear nothing. Survive this battle, and they would never suffer like this again.

This was effective for the desperate. Three rows of shield-bearers formed a wall, a row of men interspersed between, standing firm even as bodies fell.

They could even block the falconet’s scattershot, losing only a few in the second and third ranks.

Behind, dozens of skilled archers crouched, nocked arrows, rose, and loosed volleys without pattern, keeping a fierce exchange with the imperial troops.

He directed his forces to reinforce the right flank facing the imperial falconets, opening the left side to lure the enemy into committing troops, hoping Gao Yingxiang’s cavalry could exploit a breakthrough.

Yet the imperial right flank brought out two volley guns. Their barrages struck Luo’s men so hard they cried out in pain, shattering his plans.

Liu Chengzu’s forces advanced rapidly behind Cao Yao, trying to fill the gap left by Liu Guoneng.

Cao Yao peered from the millet fields, gasping at the rivers of blood staining the ground. Quickly, he ducked back and ordered three falconets to line up, then peered out again.

He saw Liu Guoneng struggling on the ground, clutching his leg. Wiping his face, he muttered curses: “Damn, I thought you were dead.”

“Get a few men to drag the wounded back.”

Several artillerymen set down their weapons and hurried into the danger zone with Cao Yao, immediately met with musket volleys.

Cao dodged, picking up a shield along the way, tossing it to Liu Guoneng, grabbing him by the collar to pull him back.

Of course, he did not forget to hold Liu up as a human shield.

More musket fire rang out, and Liu groaned again.

The human shield worked.

When they pulled him back, another arrow pierced his right leg.

Cao Yao dropped him beside the falconets. Once his men returned, he adjusted the cannon muzzles again, squatted low like a mole, and took aim.

A volley of musket fire struck, several gunners groaned and fell.

He said to those beside him, “The general is already mounted. Prepare to fire.”

Earlier, he had seen cavalry riding behind the imperial lines, about to complete a pincer movement.

Liu Chengzong had arrived on the battlefield.

Soon, Liu Chengzu’s forces formed ranks behind the artillery. Cao Yao saw his moment and ordered, “Falconets, fire!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three solid cannonballs pierced the imperial formation, crashing through dozens of steps, toppling several men.

The artillerymen quickly cleaned and reloaded, firing another three solid shots in rapid succession.

After two fast volleys, the cannon breeches glowed red-hot. The gunners abandoned the falconets and rushed forward with fifteen small cannons. Each fired a shot toward the enemy lines before squatting to adjust their weapons.

Imperial arrows rained down, but the armored gunners showed no fear. One by one, the small cannons thundered, sending nine solid iron balls and hundreds of pellets into the enemy ranks.

The once unshakable imperial formation finally wavered and trembled.

Cao Yao felt some cannons had not yet fired, but there was no time to check. He called out, “Commander Liu, it’s your turn!”

Taking advantage of the chaos wrought by the close-range bombardment, Liu Chengzu’s kin charged out of the millet fields, firing muskets and arrows, then engaging spear-to-spear, tearing a breach in the wavering imperial front.

The continuous roar of cannon fire emboldened their comrades. Li Wanqing’s men seized the opportunity to crash into the enemy, engaging in deadly close combat.

Shouts thundered into the sky.

Zhang Tianlin’s unit regrouped on the flank. His cavalry, wounded from clashes with scouts, bore arrows even in Zhang’s own armor. Leaning his goose-feathered saber against his shoulder, he rode at the head of several dozen horsemen, eyes scanning each familiar face.

Without a word, he turned his horse, lifted his hips slightly. His mount understood, striding rhythmically forward.

The dozens of riders sheathed their blades, each holding bow, arrow, and spear, accelerating steadily.

One hundred steps.

The horses galloped faster, closing in on the enemy, cannonballs hissing past, kicking up clouds of dust, horses neighing.

Fifty steps.

Zhang’s saber dropped from his shoulder, pointing straight ahead. The cavalry slowed to a moderate pace, advancing toward the rear left of the imperial formation.

Arrows flew through the air. Behind came the sound of horses crashing to the earth.

Twenty steps.

The imperial ranks began to waver but had not yet collapsed.

Zhang began turning his horse left. His helmet rang sharply as a stray arrow struck, dazing him, but his outstretched arm and gleaming goose-feather saber did not falter.

The riders formed a line mid-gallop, following their leader’s path to the left. Twenty paces from the enemy lines, they loosed arrows and hurled spears.

The formation’s arquebusiers fired in volleys, toppling horsemen and horses. The riders behind pressed forward along the deadly path.

Arrows rained into the enemy. Falling musketeers covered their faces and collapsed; spearmen replaced the gaps, only to be struck down in turn and tripped by comrades behind.

More spears flew as the breach grew wider.

Zhang, barely halfway through the arc, saw the rear of the enemy lines breached. He reined in his horse, raised his saber, and pointed at the gap.

The entire cavalry turned. Riders sheathed bows and drew swords, joining their leader’s charge toward the breach.

Imperial soldiers frantically filled the breach, officers shouting orders, armor clashing.

At last, the horsemen thundered through, churning dust, figures swelling before their eyes. Infantry scattered, horses broke the line, blades rose to strike.

On the other side of the battlefield, Gao Yingxiang raised his guandao, shouting, “Break their lines!” Hundreds of riders followed the banner, charged with unstoppable momentum toward the imperial formation.

Watching the imperial lines collapse on three sides, Liu Chengzong smiled from his horse.

Facing him, the imperial rear ranks were crushed by the tide of fleeing troops, surging forward.

With a deft wrist, his goose-feather saber danced before him, pointing straight ahead. Spurring his horse, he led his cavalry in a four-pronged formation, raising four marshal flags, and charged into the fleeing enemy!