Chapter Fifty-Five: At the End of the Road, Burning the Boats

“Guards! Guards!”
A detachment of elite personal troops hurriedly clustered around the bowman Cui Sheng, escorting him into the cabin and out of the ballista’s range.

At the same moment, a group of fearless Japanese warriors drew their swords and leapt into the sea, dashing forward atop the waves with astonishing speed. They were unmistakably the ghostly temple troops known as the “Shore Phantoms,” the signature shock soldiers under Grand Admiral Xu Hai of Tiancha Pinghai. Whether they were his former men or new recruits trained with the arcane arts captured by the Five Peaks Banner was unclear.

“Musket squad, port side, form up!”
At Wang Cheng’s command, more than twenty of the thirty-odd Tanka sailors, led by Zhang Wu, raced to the port side to face the oncoming Shore Phantoms. They brandished their triple-barreled firelocks, each loaded with shards of iron.

European matchlocks were far too expensive and often secondhand, prone to bursting at unpredictable moments. Before departing, Wang Cheng had managed to procure a batch of triple-barreled firelocks from the black market, originally sold off by the Grand Zhao Navy. They had slow match fuses but no triggers. Three single-barrels were lashed together in a triangle, sharing a single stock. Each barrel was about half an inch wide and a foot long, with separate powder chambers and touch holes, allowing for three consecutive shots.

The effective range was about thirty paces—just under fifty meters—enough to penetrate heavy armor; at fifty paces, they could still inflict serious wounds on unarmored targets; beyond a hundred paces, their killing power dropped off sharply.

To Wang Cheng, these weapons, more cold iron than true firearms, were crude in the extreme, but in massed volleys, their first three salvos still packed a punch. Once he confirmed their enemies were Shore Phantoms, he had the crew pack incense ash and prepared cinnabar powder into the muzzles, specifically to break through the spirit shield known as “Soft-Shelled Turtle Form” that these apparitions employed.

“One hundred paces… eighty… fifty… thirty… fire!”
At his signal, the Tanka musketeers lit their fuses.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
Flames flashed and gun smoke billowed. Searing iron shards fanned out in a deadly arc, cutting down the four or five lead Phantoms in an instant. Not only did the iron tear flesh, but the incense ash and cinnabar invaded their bodies, violently dispelling every ghostly art they possessed.

Screams filled the air as one after another tumbled into the sea, where, in this weather, a single plunge was likely a death sentence.

The Phantoms behind gritted their teeth and scattered, widening their formation so the musket fire couldn’t concentrate. Thankfully, Wang Cheng had equipped his men with spare triple-barreled guns, so once they’d fired three times, they could simply discard the empty one and grab another.

Amid the swirling snow, muskets thundered and more Shore Phantoms vanished beneath the waves.

At last, the deputy bowman Tanaka broke through the “Zhang Fushun”’s curtain of fire and made it onto the deck. The word “Wa” literally meant “dwarf,” and in this war-torn age, even the famed generals of the Sixty-Six Kingdoms of Yingzhou were not as tall as the children of Grand Zhao. Sometimes, even on horseback, foreign observers likened them to monkeys riding dogs.

This Tanaka—who now boarded the “Zhang Fushun”—was a strapping giant… all of one meter forty. A true, unadulterated Wa warrior, his sword nearly as long as he was tall.

Though short in stature, his eyes blazed with murderous intent, a bestial ferocity. He unleashed a fearsome diagonal slash at Wang Cheng, intent on cleaving him in two.

As he swung, he roared,
“Kesa-giri!”

Wang Cheng, no longer the swordsman he once was, had his Mind’s Eye fully open, seemingly foreseeing every move. He effortlessly leaned back and dodged the blow.

“Gyaku-kesa!”
Tanaka’s sword became a whirl of silver, pressing Wang Cheng hard as he dodged, each strike punctuated with a shouted battle cry.
A downward diagonal from right to left was “Kesa-giri.”
A vertical chop was “Thousand Rocks Shatter.”
Slashing with both sword and scabbard was the “Twin Dragon Flash.”
Even the shouts had special names: “Kiai.”

If these intimidating names matched the techniques, it would be impressive, but this unknown school’s “swordsmanship” was nothing but basic cuts and swings.

After a few exchanges, Wang Cheng realized that in this land, even caesarean section was called “imperial excision,” so such overblown naming was hardly surprising.

“I’d hoped with such grand names I could ‘buy’ a decent sword art. What a waste of everyone’s time.”

After only a few quick moves, he spotted a flaw in Tanaka’s technique with his Mind’s Eye.

Dodge—Coiling Dragon Twists!
Draw-cut—Cloud Dragon’s Claw!
With both hands, Wang Cheng slashed a line of dazzling silver as he spun aside.

Crack!
Before any onlooker could react, Tanaka’s prized tamahagane blade was sliced clean in two by the treasured Chīwěn saber, clattering to the deck.

Stunned, the Phantom Tanaka had no chance to roll away before the frosty white blade flashed and blinded him.

A geyser of blood arced from his severed artery, painting a wide red circle on the deck.

With a sickening thud, his lifeless head hit the floor.

This time, what Wang Cheng “bought” from him was nothing special—no arcane skill, but a master’s command of Wa language: he could now listen, speak, and write fluently. It would make future dealings with Yingzhou far easier.

Seeing their deputy bowman slain with ease, the remaining Shore Phantoms finally lost their nerve and fled.

A sailing warship’s true strength was never in close combat—the Japanese had lost their heads in the heat of the moment, and paid dearly for it.

The Tanka sailors, emboldened, cheered and pumped their fists.

Cui Sheng roared,
“Gunners, load my enchanted stone shot! Fire at will! Sink them!”

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The two ships, battered by wind and snow, gave chase from day into night, and from night into day again. The thunder of cannon was less constant, but never ceased entirely.

Were it not for “Majesty” and his daily “Ghostwind” invocation, the little fishing boat would have been riddled with holes long ago, regardless of the enemy’s poor aim.

It was a flyweight challenger against a heavyweight champion: the “Zhang Fushun” danced on a razor’s edge, one false step from total annihilation. Everyone’s nerves had been stretched to the breaking point.

Boom!
Another deafening blast.
The ship shuddered violently as a cannonball, etched with scarlet runes, crashed through the sterncastle and exploded, ripping a hapless Tanka sailor into a cloud of blood.

Without the thick oak hulls and massive ribs of a true warship, the “Fuchuan” was never built for punishment—a twelve-pounder could punch right through without effort.

Wang Cheng, standing at his command post on the aft deck, narrowly dodged a sharp fragment aimed at him.

Though haggard from days without sleep, his eyes and bearing were as sharp as blades. Bloodshot eyes swept over his crew—each man as exhausted as he, yet in the crucible of flight, their spirits had been forged anew. They were no longer mere fishermen, but the nucleus of a hardened force.

Yet the “Zhang Fushun” now had a gaping hole in the sterncastle, the hull relying on watertight compartments to stay afloat, sails riddled with holes, and the ballista, after such heavy use, was on the verge of collapse.

Even with all of Wang Cheng’s ingenuity, the ship was at the end of its rope. Perhaps he could ask his master to burn incense and open the altar, “selling posts and titles” to turn the tide, but on reflection, he dared not gamble his future.

“Brothers, hold on for one more day—tonight, we decide it all.”

From the very start, Wang Cheng had been planning a bold, desperate gambit, counting the days until tonight—New Year’s Eve.

He raised his telescope to observe the enemy.

After days at sea, even with three shifts, the Japanese on the warship were plainly fatigued. The “Zhang Fushun” had no cannons, but its ballista, guided by Wang Cheng’s Mind’s Eye, had proved deadly. Any who dared show themselves on the deck risked being pinned where they stood; not a sign remained of any lookout in the mast-top. Only those guarding the backup helmsman, under the cover of great shields, dared remain on deck.

Tomorrow would be New Year’s Day.
The culture of Yingzhou’s Sixty-Six Kingdoms was heavily influenced by Cathay—they, too, celebrated the New Year.

Cui Sheng, at the bow, was already rewarding the crew with stores of wine and meat, preparing to seize the “Zhang Fushun” in one last push.

And that night, as the snow started falling again, the officers on the “Zi Ying” feasted and made merry.

Donning his sharkskin diving jacket, Wang Cheng slipped quietly into the sea.

He was down to his final, desperate move—assassination.