Who killed the Ming Dynasty?

The shockwave blew him and his horse into the air. Turhong's ears were ringing, and he felt as if his internal organs had been displaced. A fishy, ​​sweet taste filled his mouth and nose.

The warhorse curled its chest and neighed in pain as he fell heavily to the ground, the breastplate on the back of his armor deeply dented.

The world has fallen silent!

His vision was stained crimson:

A Goshha (personal guard) had his white armor torn apart, and a severed arm wrapped in chainmail rings was smashed into the mud, his knuckles still twitching.

Further away, burning haystacks wrapped around half a horse's skull floated into the air, its mane curled into charcoal in the fire.

Tinnitus as sharp as needles!

A Goshkha with a collapsed chest lay curled up in a pool of blood, making a "hoarse" sound with each breath, and blood foam kept oozing from the cracks in his armor.

"My legs, my legs—!"

A scream pierced the smoke as a soldier crawled along, dragging his skeletal lower limbs, leaving a trail of dark red mud behind him.

The pungent smell of sulfur mixed with the scorching smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils.

Turhong shook his head to dispel the buzzing sound; the crimson hue in his vision had not yet faded, but a dull tremor came from the ground beneath his feet—

The tremor did not come from the horses' hooves, but from deeper underground, as if some enormous beast was about to burst forth from the earth.

Suddenly, pillars of fire erupted simultaneously from both the left and right sides!

"BOOM—!!!"

The explosions occurred simultaneously from both sides, and the shockwaves, carrying sand and gravel, slammed into the faceplates of the Eight Banners soldiers.

Turgun crouched low, the gravel striking his helmet with a sound like a sudden downpour.

In the foreground, the heavy cavalry of the Bordered White Banner, their armored horse armor now turned into crimson cages, were filled with the pitiful cries of men and horses.

Sparks flew like poisonous insects.

Flames suddenly shot out from the inner lining of a servant's cotton armor, and within moments, the smoke rose and the flames wrapped around his neck.

He rolled around, tearing at his burning collar, until he finally curled up into a screaming fireball.

"Scatter! Get away from the haystack! There's something underground—"

Before Turgun's roar could even be heard, it was completely swallowed up by the sudden eruption of the ground beneath his feet.

"Boom! Boom! Boom—!"

The burning hay clearly ignited a series of underground explosive devices, and the entire camp began to collapse amidst the tremors.

The flames tore through the sky, making the night sky look like a scroll splattered with blood.

The edges of the armor were heated red by the high temperature.

A soldier's leather boot sole was melted to the ground. As flames licked his calf, he was tearing the boot shaft with his bare hands, his fingernails cracking and exposing his white bone.

"Ah-Hun!"

Turhong roared in Manchu, trying to find his personal guards.

His response was the crackling sound of the wooden fence shattering.

Flames were engulfing the tent frame, and twisted, charred wood stretched out to the sky like desperate arms.

The white-armored soldiers fled between the walls of fire; some were thrown into the blast pit by the blast wave and instantly turned into charcoal.

Some stumbled and fell, never to rise again; others spun around like headless flies, only to be torn apart by an explosion that seemed to come from nowhere.

He watched as the flames devoured the last battle flag, the flagpole snapped, and the flag that represented glory and belonging curled up and turned to ashes in the fire.

The soldiers' cries and the warhorses' mournful neighing mingled in the fire, creating a suffocating atmosphere.

Just as Fucha Turhong was trapped in the flames and plunged into despair—

At the mountaintop, a pair of cold eyes looked down upon this boiling furnace.

There was no pity in his eyes, only a calm scrutiny, as if he were looking at a game of chess that was about to end.

Zhu Cilang, clad in armor, with beads of cold night dew clinging to the seams, murmured to himself:

"Nanjing Curry's 'Iron Watermelon' needs to wake up."

His gaze swept across the battlefield, and his thoughts drifted back to the workshops in Nanjing.

These deathly figures tearing the earth apart are none other than the "ground-penetrating, sky-piercing bombs" piled high in Nanjing's arsenal.

The weapons left over from the previous dynasty were clumsy to trigger and repeatedly caused missed opportunities in battle, so they were long regarded as worthless by the generals.

These long-forgotten "King Yama's Cannon" and "Iron Watermelon" were treasures to him.

In the workshop of the Ministry of Works in Nanjing, Zhu Cilang led people to put those old-fashioned fuses (tinder bowls) into use.

It was transformed into an automatic trigger mechanism that utilizes tripwires and wooden crate flaps.

Its design resembles the "Swallows and Sparrows Congratulating Each Other" puzzle from the game of Thousand Gates.

It uses ordinary wooden wedges as a starting point, tripwires as a medium, and gunpowder as the final element.

Its operation is simple yet deadly:

Once enemy cavalry trip over the pre-set rope, they will instantly pull off the wooden wedges that are wedged into the wooden box.

The wooden plank, no longer secured by the wedges, sprang downwards, spilling gunpowder that crashed down onto the fuse at the bottom.

The moment the gunpowder comes into contact with the fuse, it will ignite the fuse of the "ground-based thunderbolt".

—Boom!

An earth-shaking explosion occurred.

The "Lying Ground Mine" has limited effectiveness in mobile combat, but it can play a significant role when deployed in a fixed location.

The night wind grew stronger, carrying an even more intense smell of sulfur.

The camp at the foot of the mountain was engulfed in flames, with explosions echoing everywhere.

The towering flames tore through the night, turning the sky crimson and completely engulfing Turgun's two thousand iron cavalry.

The "empty camp strategy" targeting the arrogant and fierce generals of the Bordered White Banner thus came to an end.

Everything went as expected, even more smoothly than anticipated.

Zhu Cilang turned around resolutely and gave the order in a deep voice:

"It's time to close the net!"

Just as Fucha Turhong was trapped in the fire and isolated with no help, three loud explosions suddenly rang out in the sky, shattering the chaotic night.

Three dazzling "Level 3 Wave" fireworks (signal fireworks) exploded one after another in the dark sky, their light instantly illuminating the tragic scene on the ground.

"kill--!"

The deafening shouts of battle followed the fireworks signal, and soldiers instantly swept towards the center from all sides of the burning camp.

Zhu Cilang's Beijing garrison soldiers—

They completely swallowed up Fucha Turhong and his remaining forces.

Countless footsteps shook the earth.

Long spears stood like a forest, their dense tips refracting countless leaping points of light under the glow of the fireworks.

In the firelight, Fucha Turhong's figure suddenly struggled to his feet.

He brandished his sword wildly, roaring at the top of his lungs:

"Charge out! Charge out!"

The roar was immediately drowned out by an even more violent wave of sound.

The white-armored soldiers and bondservants around him were like ants thrown into boiling water.

Their figures, terrified by the approaching torrent of black armor, scattered and fled in disarray.

Several long spears were thrust at Turhong's vital points.

He suddenly turned to the side, the tip of the gun grazing the empty space under his armpit.

Another spear had already reached his ribs!

The sword parried in an instant, the blade clashing violently with the spear tip, sending sparks flying.

The third gunshot, however, was like a venomous snake emerging from its hole; a flash of cold light—*thud*!

The spear tip pierced the lock ring and embedded itself deeply in his left shoulder.

Turhong's body trembled violently, and with a muffled groan, his sword almost slipped from his hand.

"Exterminate the Jurchens! Reclaim our lost territories!"

The soldiers' roars thundered like a rolling thunder.

Turhong was gripped tightly by the cold hail of guns, and fresh blood gushed from the wound on his left shoulder, instantly flowing and dripping onto his white armor.

Just as he was struggling to block, several sharp whooshing sounds suddenly rang out.

Chi!Chi!Chi!

Turhong's neck twisted suddenly—

Several cold arrows whistled from the darkness and struck his right leg.

The pain of the arrow piercing his flesh made him freeze, almost causing him to kneel down.

His head drooped, the arrowheads piercing deep into his flesh, blood flowing down the shaft and staining his boots red.