Chapter Thirteen

At this moment, a large number of Qing soldiers surged across the drawbridge and engaged the Han army's sword-and-shield troops in close combat, tearing open several breaches at once. Under the dual assault from both atop and below the city walls, the outcome was beyond Lin Feng's expectations. The sword-and-shield troops, composed almost entirely of new recruits, miraculously did not collapse immediately. Whether it was the fearlessness of the untested or simply that they had not yet realized the need to flee, the soldiers at the front actually shouted and fought the Qing soldiers in hand-to-hand combat, stunning Lin Feng, who had held little hope for them. This shield-bearing force had already suffered heavy casualties, yet they still managed to withstand the onslaught? Hadn't military historians of later generations always claimed that armies of this era were prone to rout at the slightest setback?

Modern theories were soon put to the test. Just as the sword-and-shield troops bravely entered the fray, the soldiers who had been working on fortifications began to waver and quickly scattered. These men were only temporarily pressed into service as laborers and were unarmed; they had no choice but to flee. Unfortunately, their panic immediately spread confusion among the sword-and-shield troops, which in turn bolstered the morale of the Qing soldiers. Within moments, the sword-and-shield troops also crumbled, and the defeated masses frantically fled toward the rear, seeking refuge among the main body of the Han army.

Now, it was the Swedish army lieutenant who truly came into his own. Seeing the collapse of the sword-and-shield troops, the musket battalion grew restless, their previously precise volleys becoming disordered. Lin Feng, regaining his composure, stood at a distance, watching the unit teeter on the brink of collapse. Unexpectedly, the Swedish lieutenant rode out, calmly dismounted, drew his saber, and, with a sharp command, restored order to the battalion.

Lin Feng was momentarily stunned. He suddenly recalled that many of the officers in these two battalions had once served in Rick's original cadre company. Could it be that the Swede wielded such influence?

There was no time to ponder further. The Qing soldiers, mixed with fleeing men, charged forward. The musket battalion immediately leveled their guns and fired in volleys. The first to fall were the retreating Han soldiers—the musket battalion, cold and unflinching, opened fire on their former comrades. The rattle of gunfire filled the air once again, and the sword-and-shield troops stared in disbelief at the smoke-shrouded musket lines before collapsing, only to be trampled into bloody pulp by the surging crowd behind them.

The Qing soldiers hesitated only briefly before roaring forward in another assault. On the heights, the generals' faces were dark as iron. At least several thousand Qing troops were now surging forth, a relentless tide, undaunted by death, their morale surging. Meanwhile, the defenders atop the city walls concentrated all their missile weapons on the sole remaining musket battalion. Under the barrage of arrows and bolts, musketmen continued to fall.

Yet the musketmen's true might was now fully revealed. With relentless, coordinated volleys, they felled the leading Qing soldiers by the dozens. Though the musket balls lacked great power, any who fell in this crush were immediately trampled to death by the horde, with no chance to rise again. Despite their earlier fury, the Qing soldiers could not break through the concentrated fire, and their heavy losses only emboldened the musketmen. Gradually, the battalion regained its composure. Under Rick's command, they withdrew in orderly fashion, each line covering the other in turn—unhurried, methodical, and precise. Observing this from afar, even some generals who had once scorned Rick's training methods now saw the truth: the months spent drilling these formations were not merely for show, but had a profound purpose.

The musket battalion eventually moved out of range of the wall's missile weapons and halted their retreat. The Qing soldiers, by now, were utterly spent. The Qing officers at the front, unable to accept defeat, lost all reason, desperately driving their men to charge again and again—each time suffering heavy casualties for naught. Tens of thousands of Han soldiers watched in utter silence, tens of thousands of eyes fixed on Rick, whose strange yet striking stance captivated all. For a long moment, there was only silence; then, without warning, the entire army erupted into thunderous cheers, as if they had won a great victory. The drums sounded once more, this time beating a triumphant march.

Lin Feng gave a wry smile and glanced up at the walls of Tianjin. The Qing soldiers there appeared dispirited. Unlike the jubilant troops, Lin Feng and his generals knew the truth: this had been a defeat. Yet Rick's musket battalion had performed so brilliantly that, as the rearguard, they had stolen the spotlight in the final moments, staging a dramatic reversal even in the face of disaster. For now, Rick simply had to be allowed his moment of glory.

With a sigh, Lin Feng composed himself, raised a hand in solemn salute to Rick, nudged his horse, and swept down from the hill at a gallop to personally welcome the musketmen—defeated, but still honorable.

After the cheers died down, Lin Feng smiled slightly. “So, let me remind you all: some of you joined the army just for a meal, and your families' names were never registered with us. If, in the end, no one can find you, you’ll have only yourselves to blame—don't say I, your commander, treated you unfairly!”

The soldiers burst into hearty laughter. As they marched, one of them shouted, “To hell with it! If I lose my head, it's just a scar! If I must die, let it be facing the sky—eighteen years from now, I'll be a hero again!”

This spirit of heroism was contagious. The officers, no longer begging for mercy or arguing, simply knelt before Lin Feng and kowtowed, then turned and followed the brawny man.

Moved by the scene, Lin Feng felt a surge of emotion and was nearly tempted to pardon them on the spot. But he knew that such an act would undermine discipline and make the army impossible to lead, so he forced himself to hold back. Glancing at Liu Fourth's executioners, he wondered if he ought to go further—perhaps offer the condemned a few bowls of wine as a farewell, in the old tradition, to lend the moment a touch of heroic romanticism.

Just as he was about to act on this thought, Chen Menglei suddenly came running from the rear, dashing up the hill in a frenzy, quite unlike his usual composed self. He scrambled up in cloth shoes, drenched in sweat. Lin Feng’s heart sank; he leapt down from his horse and caught Chen's slight frame, patting his back to help him catch his breath, though he chided him, “Old Chen, you must take care of yourself—even if the sky were to fall…”

Chen Menglei had no time for gratitude. Gasping for breath, he leaned close to Lin Feng’s ear and whispered, “My lord, we have a grave crisis!” He handed over a dispatch and murmured, “Emergency at Tongzhou!”