Who killed the Ming Dynasty?

A determined look flashed in Bahana's eyes as he gently flicked the riding crop in his hand.

Fucha Turhong spurred his horse hard, and the warhorse reared up, neighing and raising its forelegs high.

"The Bannermen's warriors! The wolves of Changbai Mountain!"

"Tonight, let us use this burning blood and sharp swords to crush the barbarian traitors and display the might of our Great Qing!"

"My lads, follow me and kill!"

Everything was ready, and a deep, powerful voice pierced the night sky:

"Waaaaah—!"

The sound of a conch shell horn pierced the silence, startling owls into flight through the woods.

This is the bugle call for the Qing army to charge.

The three-foot conch shell that played the horn still carried the salty, fishy smell of Sakhalin Island.

Turgun could even smell the distant ocean; the wailing sound was just like the roar of orcas in the North Sea.

The sound waves tore through the night, and the veterans of the White Banner stood with veins bulging on their necks, their eyes bloodshot and burning, roaring like wolves as they urged their warhorses on.

The charge began.

First, a few scouts clashed their iron hooves, creating sparks, and then a thousand riders accelerated simultaneously.

The sound of iron hooves echoed in the silent night, like the urgent drumming of war.

A bloody and brutal battle is about to begin.

The moonlight was obscured by dark clouds, and the torchlight halos twisted into ghostly shapes in the night fog, casting an eerie hue over the entire camp.

Fucha Turhong's mount shot out like a black lightning bolt.

Behind him, light cavalry followed, their horseshoes striking the gravel and sending up scattered sparks.

Immediately afterwards, the earth began to tremble like muffled thunder—a column of heavily armored cavalry had moved out.

The blades and scales of the armored horse scraped and collided with each other, making a continuous "click...click..." sound, like the bronze bells of Yama, the King of Hell, calling for lives.

The overwhelming sound of horses' hooves, like the footsteps of death, drew ever closer to Zhu Cilang's camp.

Outside the camp, the Ming army was clearly on guard.

Three barricades, each about half a person's height, were driven diagonally into the ground, their sharp wooden stakes topped with iron tips.

The barricades were linked together by iron chains, with three-edged iron caltrops hanging upside down from the chains.

Further out, there was a shallow moat, less than ten feet deep, but deep enough to break a horse's leg.

"This is a series of barricades!"

Turhong chuckled, his sword flashing as it was drawn, the gleaming blade reflecting the fires of the Ming army camp.

"Break through the formation—"

The night wind, carrying the scents of sulfur and freshly cut logs, rushed into his nostrils.

He grinned, revealing his gleaming white teeth:

"The Ming dogs even leave their gunpowder to dry at the camp gate; they deserve to be exterminated."

Just as this thunderous charge was launched.

In the shadows of the camp, two patrolmen were walking slowly.

The recruit stumbled and stepped on a haystack, cursing under his breath:

"Who would carelessly leave ignition sources lying around!"

The veteran whispered, "Silence! This is the saltpeter powder that the imperial decree requires to be mixed in."

The new recruit muttered, "Are we going to use this stuff to start a fire?"

The veteran sneered, "Stupid! It's for preventing moisture! Can't you see the gunpowder is drying in the sun at the camp gate? Hurry up..."

The veteran's words abruptly stopped, and his ears twitched slightly—

The large camp built against the mountain was constantly reflecting and amplifying the sound of horses' hooves from afar. The sound was faint at first, but then it surged in from all directions.

The new recruits were flustered and confused, and the police gong in their hands crashed to the ground with a loud bang.

He forced out a dry, labored sound, finally picked up the gong mallet, and struck it down with all his might—

"clang--!!!"

"clang--!!!"

"clang--!!!"

The piercing sound of the gong instantly shattered the tranquility.

"The Jurchens are here! The Jurchens are here!"

"Enemy raid! Enemy raid—!"

The terrified screams were like cold water poured into boiling oil, and the entire camp instantly erupted.

The soldiers tumbled out of the tents, their armor disheveled and their feet bare.

Faces were contorted with terror, appearing ghostly in the flickering firelight.

A young recruit slumped down beside a powder box, his hands trembling violently, lead bullets slipping through his fingers, unable to be loaded into the musket.

The sergeant's eyes widened in fury, and he kicked him to the ground, his roar booming like thunder:

"Stop shivering! Remember your mother is still waiting for her pay in Yangzhou."

Resistance quickly organized amidst the chaos.

The musketeers, under the cover of shields, lined up in three rows and fired in rotation, raining down lead bullets on the charging Qing troops.

Arrows rained down from behind the camp, and Qing cavalrymen were constantly being hit and falling from their horses.

The battle at the camp gate was particularly fierce, with Ming soldiers' spearmen forming ranks and thrusting, stabbing Qing cavalrymen who were trying to break through the gap off their horses.

Swordsmen and shieldmen clashed with the Jurchen troops who had stormed into the camp, the sounds of clashing metal, shouts, and screams deafening.

"Cut the chains! Flatten the fortress!"

The White Banner Bayara guards swung their heavy axes at the barricades.

Three scouts suddenly fell into a camouflaged trench. Before their neighing had even faded, the cavalry behind them had already leaped over the gap, pressing down on the corpses of their companions.

The moment the armored horse collided with the barricade chain, all three wooden stakes snapped at the base.

At the gate of the stockade, several rows of Ming soldiers had their three-barreled muskets mounted on wooden stakes, and they lit the fuses and fired in unison.

"Bang bang bang—",

The gun barrel spewed out dazzling flashes of light, and pungent gunpowder smoke quickly filled the air.

The Qing soldiers' warhorses in the front row neighed and fell down, throwing their riders off.

The Ming soldiers fought to the death and refused to retreat, with fierce battles erupting at the camp gates.

Torches illuminated the狰狞 faces of soldiers on both sides, and the ground was already littered with the wounded and the dead.

One Ming cavalry unit even launched a counter-charge, attempting to force the Qing troops out of their camp, but they were quickly annihilated by the heavy cavalry charge.

However, the Qing army's offensive was relentless and did not stop in the slightest.

The heavily armored cavalry had approached the stockade walls, their warhorses clad in forty-pound rounded armor, making them resemble mobile fortresses.

The chief of the Niru (military unit) threw out a lasso and hooked it onto the crossbeam of the camp gate. More than ten riders exerted force at the same time, and the wooden gate collapsed with a tearing sound.

Almost the instant the gate of the stockade opened, the Ming army squad leader, who had been roaring just moments before, attempted to organize a final resistance, but was struck in the throat by a stray arrow, and his voice came to an abrupt halt.

The Ming army's defenses began to falter, with the right flank being breached first, and Qing cavalry pouring in.

Some soldiers began to discard their muskets and turned to flee deeper into the camp.

Fucha Turhong seized the opportunity and led two thousand of his most elite cavalry, charging straight into the breach like a wedge.

As the horse's hooves trampled over the rolled-up earthen mound, he suddenly caught a glimpse of bundles of withered wormwood scattered on the ground, with hemp ropes peeking out from among the grass stems.

"Watch out for tripwires!"

Goshkha behind him shouted a warning, but the warning was instantly swallowed up by the sound of iron hooves and shouts of killing.

In the firelight of the night, the chaotic figures of people fleeing between the tents ahead were illuminated. Those figures, like a flock of startled sheep, were tumbling and crawling toward the rear of the central command tent.

Fucha Turhong grinned, revealing his snow-white teeth:

"What a rabble, a beggar's army!"

His raised sword unleashed a deafening roar:

"Warriors, charge with me!"

The soldiers shouted in unison:

"Charge!"

"Charge!"

Two thousand iron cavalry swept through like a storm, their hooves crushing everything in their wake, like a giant plow turning over a swamp.

The dark outline of the central command tent grew rapidly in the flickering firelight, getting closer and closer.

Fucha Turhong gripped the reins tightly, his boot heels pressed firmly against the horse's belly, man and horse seemed to merge into one, transforming into a black lightning bolt tearing through the night, rushing straight for their target.

Fifty steps!

The bright yellow tassels fluttering at the corners of the tent were clearly visible, and the ecstasy of victory almost overwhelmed his reason.

Right now—

His warhorse suddenly let out a short neigh, its front hooves slamming into a rope that was not far off the ground.

The horse jolted violently, and Turgun's jaw almost hit the horse's mane. He instantly tightened his arms around the reins.

The warhorse neighed, raised its head, pawed at the ground, and struggled to stand up, its horseshoes scraping the ground as it forcibly dragged the tripwire forward.

He had only taken two steps when suddenly—

"BOOM—!!!"

A deafening roar that seemed to tear the heavens and earth apart suddenly exploded just inches behind them, and a powerful shockwave swept over them like a tidal wave.