Tang Dynasty Mingyue Song Dynasty Pass

Chapter 925 The situation is determined
The setting sun at dusk, like a pool of thick blood, splattered over the walls of Bianjing.

Wu Jun's overwhelming offensive had just subsided, leaving behind a mess and the pungent, burnt smell of fish.

The left gate of the city was torn open by cannon fire, leaving a dark gaping hole, but it seemed to be blocked again by an invisible iron gate—a dozen or so logs were haphazardly blocking the breach, their surfaces embedded with broken arrows and scraps of iron, and blood dripping down the wood grain.

At the crenellations, Song soldiers' spears and forks formed a forest, with Wu soldiers' armor still hanging on the forks. Several Wu soldiers who had just charged up the crenellations were lifted up by the fork tips, suspended in mid-air like bunches of ripe grapes, and then violently shaken off the city wall.

Thump, thump, thump! The dull thuds of the ground, the crisp sounds of bones breaking, mingled with the wails of wounded soldiers below the city walls.

The lingering heat of the hot oil and broth still lingered, white bubbles rose from the bluestone, and the air was filled with the smell of burnt flesh.

"Damn it, they pushed back again!" A Song army captain wiped the blood from his face, slumped behind the battlements, and gasped for breath. His right arm was ripped open by a knife, exposing the bone, but he didn't bother with bandaging it, only staring intently at the receding figures of the Wu army below the city.

Beneath the city walls, the Wu army's drums rose and fell three times, finally signaling a slow retreat. The long, drawn-out bugle call of retreat, like a dull knife cutting flesh, slowly withdrew the killing intent from the battlefield.

Ladders abandoned on the battlefield lay scattered, half still leaning against the wall, their broken ends charred and smoking; the iron spikes of the battering rams were twisted and deformed, like the horns of an animal broken off by a tremendous force.

Su Chen surveyed the battlefield expressionlessly amidst the troops. The setting sun cast his long shadow across the shattered armor and blood-soaked ground, like a cold, stern crack.

A lieutenant whispered the count: "Today we have lost more than 5,700 men, and more than 1,400 are seriously wounded..."

"Hmm." Su Chen responded indifferently, his gaze passing over the mountains of corpses and seas of blood, landing on the tattered dragon flag on the Bianjing city gate tower.

"On the first day, we didn't plan to break through the city. The morale of the Song Dynasty is still high, and we need to launch a strong attack for a few more days."

Su Chen's assessment was accurate, and he made a preliminary judgment on the situation of the Song Dynasty's garrison.

On the city wall, the Song army was also busy cleaning up the mess.

"Wu's army has finally retreated, and they almost breached the city!" Many Song soldiers were terrified, and some even collapsed to the ground, panting heavily.

"Quickly treat the wounded."

Medics carried stretchers back and forth, the white cloth instantly turning crimson. Some had their intestines protruding, held down tightly, their screams like tearing fabric; others clung to their severed legs, leaning against the parapet, their eyes vacant.

"Repair the stacking joints! Roll some more logs up!"

Shouts rose and fell, but they couldn't hide the trembling in the voices. The veteran pressed the recruit's head into his arms and whispered, "What are you crying for? You're still alive, so hold onto your knife tight!"

As dusk settled, the lights of the two camps lit up one after another, like wolves facing each other in the wilderness, each licking their wounds.

The walls of Bianjing flickered in the firelight, and every crack in the bricks and stones spoke of the ferocity of the undecided outcome of the battle.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, bonfires blazed across Wu Jun's camp. Wu Jun was bringing many wounded soldiers back to camp, where they were bandaging wounds, stopping bleeding, and treating injuries. The army doctors had already set up long tables, with white cloths spread on the ground, and silver knives and tweezers gleaming coldly in the firelight. These were army doctors that Su Chen had specially brought from Jiangnan, numbering over a hundred, all gathered in the wounded soldiers' camp.

"Quickly, use liquor to disinfect!"

"Give me the scissors, these arrowheads have barbs!"

A young apprentice carried a copper basin back and forth, filled with boiled well water, topped with a layer of crushed dandelion and violet flowers—for reducing inflammation and stopping bleeding. On the other side, several soldiers were stuffing powdered willow bark into bamboo tubes, mixing it with warm wine to make a simple "pain-relieving soup." The wounded soldiers, their faces covered in cold sweat from the pain, would gulp it down, and moments later, they would grit their teeth and allow the doctor to stitch up their wounds.

Because Wu's army brought many military doctors and had ample medicine, including anti-inflammatory drugs and painkillers, the treatment effect was far better than that of the Song army.

Su Chen personally visited the wounded soldiers' camp to offer his condolences and bring warmth and care to the injured. When he lifted the curtain and entered, he saw a captain whose thigh was scalded by boiling oil, the skin and flesh of which were peeling off. Without saying a word, he squatted down, personally applied a cool, wet cloth to the wound, and whispered, "Don't wail. Tomorrow you have to go back to the camp and chop down a few more Song soldiers."

When the constable saw Commander Su applying medicine to him, tears and snot streamed down his face, but he grinned and said, "Yes, sir!"

"Anyone who beheads an enemy will be awarded ten taels of silver for each merit; their parents and spouse will be exempt from three years of corvée labor. Those who die in battle will receive fifty taels of silver in compensation, and their coffins will be delivered by the army; the disabled will receive firewood and rice monthly, with no reduction in their allowance."

The doctor was stitching up the last stitches in a soldier whose chest had been slashed open by a spear when he looked up and saw Su Chen. He hurriedly tried to salute him.

Su Chen raised his hand to stop him, took the medicine bowl, and personally poured a mouthful of warm ginseng soup into the soldier's mouth: "Lie down properly. Your life is owed to you by the Wu Kingdom. You will get double credit in the military merit book."

"Thank you, Commander Su!" The soldier swallowed, tears mingling with the medicine.

The news swept through the camps like the wind. Some people stuffed the written "tax exemption plaques" into the lapels of wounded soldiers' clothes, while others immediately put their pension money into small cloth bags brought by their families.

Outside the camp, by the campfire, soldiers who hadn't yet taken their turn were laughing and joking as they wiped blood and applied medicine to their comrades, shouting, "Did you hear that? No rent for three years! Even if I'm crippled, my old mother at home will still have a full meal!"

Further away, the cooks carried in buckets of mutton soup with ginger slices, steaming hot. Su Chen scooped up a bowl and personally handed it to the old soldier with the missing arm: "Drink it and warm yourself up. Wu will not forget the blood shed today. Tomorrow, when we conquer Bianjing, the greatest reward we can give you is—the unification of the world, and the end of war."

The old soldier caught the bowl with one hand, tilted his head back, and drank it all. The empty bowl crashed to the ground, shattering in two. A moment of silence followed, then a deafening roar erupted: "We are willing to die for Commander Su!"

The firelight illuminated faces blackened by gunpowder smoke, revealing the renewed fierceness in their eyes—a resolute determination towards their homes, the tax exemption certificate in their arms, and the war drums of tomorrow.

The following day, a low horn sounded again outside Bianjing city.

Su Chen, clad in silver armor and riding a white horse, personally escorted Zhao Dezhao to the outskirts of Bianjing City.

Zhao Dezhao stood tall and proud, with a white banner behind him embroidered with the words "Return to My Fate," fluttering in the wind.

At the front of Wu's army, ten large drums were struck simultaneously, the sound waves rolling over the city walls and causing the dust in the cracks between the bricks to fall in a flurry.

The defenders on the city wall fell silent instantly.

“Look! That’s Jiangzuo Su Lang!” A young imperial guard peered out, his voice trembling.

"The real person looks even younger than the portrait..." The old soldier next to him swallowed hard, his grip on the bowstring tightening and loosening.

Many of them had read Su Chen's "Linjiangxian," flipped through the fragments of "The Legend of the Condor Heroes," and some even secretly recited his "Pozhenzi" at night. Yet now, separated by a city wall, they faced this legend directly amidst the smoke of battle.

However, no one dared to speak.

"Anyone who dares to speak of surrender will be executed!" the captain of the Imperial City Guard shouted sternly. The flash of his blade made several soldiers swallow back the words they were about to say.

The drumbeats ceased, and Su Chen stepped forward, reining in his horse, and proclaimed loudly: "All soldiers on the city walls, listen up! The Crown Prince is here, and the legitimacy of the Song Dynasty is now clear. Those who surrender will be spared death and resettled according to their original residences, with land allocated accordingly; those who resist will be burned to ashes on the day the city falls!"

His response was a deathly silence.

But in this deathly silence, something was clearly crumbling quietly; no one dared to speak out now, because anyone who uttered words of surrender would be punished by military law.

Although the Song army did not open the city gates to surrender, it still dealt a blow to the morale of the Song soldiers. When the Wu army attacked the city again, the Song army's resistance was noticeably weaker than on the first day.

As soon as the first volley of arrows fell, some soldiers on the city wall hesitated for a moment before firing; the rolling logs and stones were pushed to the crenellations, but were a beat too slow, causing Wu soldiers to continuously rush onto the city wall.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Han Chongyun shouted hoarsely, slashing down a retreating soldier with his sword, but he couldn't stop the fear that surfaced in the eyes of more soldiers—a fear of the four words "Jiangzuo Su Lang" and despair at the impending doom.

As the sun set, cracks appeared on the city towers and gates of Bianjing, like a small boat tossed about in a raging sea, ready to be swallowed by the next wave at any moment.

This book has only a few tens of thousands of words left to finish, and it should be completed in August. Thank you all for your support over the years! A new long novel will be released in September.