Late Ming Dynasty: Summoning players from Liaodong to support the Ming Dynasty

Chapter 175 A knife to the neck, the adjutant cries out for the city gate to be opened!

General Zhang's roar still lingered in his throat, its echo not yet dissipated. The sound of firing was torn to pieces by the north wind and crashed onto the artillery position.

The three gunners simultaneously pressed their torches toward the fuse.

The flames leaped and licked at the grayish-white wick, and then all three people froze in place.

It wasn't hesitation. It wasn't fear.

The fuse is missing.

The fuses of the three Hongyi cannons were broken off neatly at the base of the breech. The breaks were sharp and clean, the cut surfaces smooth, without a single rough fiber curled up. It was definitely not natural aging from wind and sun exposure, nor was it accidental damage from rodents or insects.

It was an extremely sharp blade, and it cut through with a clean, decisive stroke.

The torch flames flickered violently in the cold wind, their orange glow illuminating the pale faces of the three gunners. Their arms, holding the torches, hung stiffly in mid-air.

The first to react was the veteran gunner next to the cannon on the far left. This man had been in the artillery for over a decade, fighting from Xuanfu to Jizhou. He was highly skilled and quick-witted, much faster than others. The broken fuse didn't matter; the spare fuse was tucked in his leather pouch at his waist, and he could simply reconnect it.

The veteran gunner abruptly crouched down, his kneecaps slamming heavily against the cold city bricks with a dull thud. His withered fingers frantically ripped open the greasy leather pouch at his waist, pulling out a spare fuse. His fingers trembled violently, taking two tries to firmly grasp the thin string. He bent over, approaching the breech of the cannon, and shakily shoved the fuse into the touch hole.

As soon as I put my finger into the fire door, the sensation was wrong.

It's not empty.

What the fingertips touched was not the smooth bronze of the inner wall of the fire door, but a cold, hard mixture that emitted a strong stench. The stench was mostly contained by the freezing air, but once the warmth of the fingers touched it, the putrid smell seeped out through the gaps between the fingers and rushed into the nasal cavity.

The veteran gunner's pupils suddenly contracted.

He pushed his index finger in hard, his fingernail scraping against the surface of the foreign object, making a teeth-grinding friction sound.

The sensation from his fingertips sent a jolt through his stomach. Frozen horse manure, mixed with ice chips, and tattered strips of rag stuffed tightly into the cannon barrel. These things had been rammed into the deepest part of the fuselage with tremendous force, freezing in the bone-chilling cold into an airtight plug that clung perfectly to the inner wall of the cannon.

The veteran gunner's entire face turned deathly gray in an instant. The color faded from his lips, cheeks, and forehead at a visible speed, leaving only a layer of waxy yellow dead skin tightly taut on his cheekbones.

He had served as an artilleryman for over a decade and knew all too well what this meant.

The touchhole is the only channel through which propellant gases travel from the chamber to the breech. If the touchhole is blocked, the gases have nowhere to escape, and the immense chamber pressure will instantly exceed the limits of the bronze barrel. If they had forcibly lit the fuse—no, the fuse has already been cut—if they had tried to ignite the propellant in another way...

The barrel exploded.

The three-thousand-pound bronze cannon barrel would explode from the inside. Scorching copper sheets, broken iron, and unburnt gunpowder particles would create an absolute storm of death within a radius of three zhang (approximately 10 meters). None of the dozen or so men on the artillery position would survive; not even a single intact bone would remain.

The veteran gunner's Adam's apple bobbed wildly three or four times. He opened his mouth, his lips trembling violently, his teeth chattering loudly. Words squeezed out from between his teeth, high-pitched and inhuman.

"The cannon—the cannon is destroyed!"

He sprang up abruptly from beside the cannon breech, staggering back three steps before his back slammed heavily against the crenellations of the parapet. The torch slipped from his hand, bounced on the bricks, and hissed as the flame licked at the thin ice on the ground.

"The fire doors are blocked! All three doors are blocked!" The old gunner's voice suddenly rose, his throat ripping, "We can't light it!"

"No one is allowed to light it! If you do, it'll explode! People will die! Everyone will die!"

In that instant, Zhang Canjiang's blood was completely drained.

From head to toe, from limbs to internal organs, all the heat evaporated in a single breath. The frigid north wind rushed into his open mouth, chilling his lungs to the bone, yet doing nothing to warm the deathly cold seeping from the very depths of his marrow.

He abruptly turned his head to look at the other two cannons. His neck joints made a cracking sound; the sudden turn had pulled at the muscles in the back of his neck, sending a sharp pain up to the back of his head.

The gunners over there were also frantically checking. One was lying on the ground, his entire arm stretched under the breech, his fingers digging frantically at the breech. Another was squatting next to the gun carriage, holding the severed fuse fragment in his hands, examining it over and over, his ten fingers trembling so much that he couldn't even hold onto the thin string, which fell to the ground with a thud, and he quickly picked it up again.

The two men looked up almost simultaneously, their four eyes filled with utter despair and terror.

"All ruined!" The gunner of the second cannon collapsed onto the city bricks, his buttocks hitting the cold, hard surface with a dull thud. His legs had completely given way, and he lay limp on the ground. The torch slipped from between his loose fingers, bounced twice on the bricks, and rolled to the base of the parapet. The flames licked at the thin layer of ice at the base of the wall, hissing and emitting white smoke, the flickering light casting violently dancing shadows on his ashen face.

"They're all ruined! Exactly the same! The fire doors are all blocked!"

General Zhang's mind exploded with a buzz. A blinding white light flashed wildly in his vision, and only a sharp buzzing sound filled his ears, shutting out all other sounds around him.

His right hand, which was gripping his sword, completely lost its strength. The steel blade slipped from his sweaty palm, the tip striking the city bricks with a crisp clang, before falling to the ground, the metal scraping against the stone surface with a piercing shriek.

When?

This question struck right to the core of General Zhang's mind.

When was it sneaked up here? When was the fuse cut? When was horse manure stuffed into the firebox? Three thousand men took turns guarding the city wall, torches burned all night, and patrolling sentries passed by every quarter of an hour. The three Hongyi cannons were the lifeblood of the Beijing garrison, and no unauthorized personnel were allowed to approach within ten paces of the artillery positions.

Despite such precautions, someone managed to sneak onto the city wall and reach the cannons. Calmly, they cut the three fuses and then calmly pounded bits of horse manure, crushed ice, and tattered cloth into the three fuse holes.

After doing all this, he calmly disappeared.

Not a single sentry was alerted. Not a single trace was left.

General Zhang's knees buckled suddenly. He stumbled back two steps, his back slamming heavily against the doorframe of the city gate. The rough wooden frame pressed against his spine, causing him to grimace in pain, but he paid no heed.

He remembered something.

He remembered the message in the guild channel that he couldn't see or hear at all, just before Chu Ze started the countdown.

Qin Jue once said something like this.

"I'm in position. Northeast corner of the city wall, drainage outlet. Three guards. Ready to move at any time."

General Zhang didn't know those words. But at that moment, every pore on his body was telling him the same thing.

From the very beginning, from the moment they closed the city gates, set up the cannons, and adopted this show of force, they had already lost.

Those monsters didn't even need to wait for the city gates to open.

They had already come in.

He clearly arranged for people to guard the artillery positions! Clearly, patrolling soldiers passed by every half hour! These three cannons are the lifeblood of the Beijing garrison, and his biggest trump card that allows him to swagger around at Guangqumen today!

Who could sneak up the city wall undetected under the noses of three thousand soldiers of the Beijing Garrison, cut the fuse, block the fire gate, and then escape unscathed?

The answer came faster than he expected.

A hand reached out from behind.

The cold fingertips gently rested on the back of General Zhang's neck, sliding down two inches along the cervical spine, stopping at the point where the carotid artery was throbbing most violently.

Immediately afterwards, something even colder pressed against me.

metal.

The blade, thin enough to cut a strand of hair, lay flat against the skin on the right side of his neck. A viscous liquid clung to the blade, emitting an extremely pungent, bitter almond smell.

Poisoning.

Zhang Can tensed all the muscles in his body into an iron plate in an instant. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down sharply, and the blade gently sliced ​​open the skin on his neck, a drop of warm blood slowly sliding down the blade.

"Don't move."

The voice came from behind his ear. It was extremely soft, extremely cold, and carried a chilling languor.

Out of the corner of Zhang's eye, he noticed a thin, dark figure standing behind him. The person was wearing a faded black outfit and soft-soled cloth shoes, pressed against his back so close that he could feel the other's steady, almost frightening breathing.

Qin Jue.

When did he get up here? From where did he come up? There were three thousand people on the city wall, hundreds of eyes, but not a single one saw him!

Qin Jue tilted his head, his lips close to Zhang Canjiang's ear, his breath icy cold.

"Is your shot guaranteed to be cooked?"

General Zhang's teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The clattering sound leaked from between his tightly closed lips, particularly jarring in the cold wind.

Qin Jue pushed his dagger forward slightly. The blade sliced ​​through the skin and touched the thin membrane covering the outer wall of the aorta.

With just a little more force, just a little more, warm blood will gush out from this opening, and within three breaths, General Zhang will completely lose consciousness due to excessive blood loss.

What's more, the knife was poisoned.

"I advise you not to move rashly." Qin Jue's voice was lazy, with a hint of wicked amusement. "This poison is specially concocted by our Brother Huaxue; it's lethal once it touches blood. If you don't believe me, you can try it."

General Zhang's sword slipped from his hand. The fine steel longsword struck the city bricks with a crisp clang. The sound was particularly jarring on the deathly silent city wall, startling several soldiers nearby who turned their heads sharply.

What did they see?

They saw their adjutant standing ramrod straight against the parapet, a dagger gleaming with a ghostly blue light against his neck. A man in black, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, stood close behind the adjutant, his posture excessively casual, a playful smile playing on his lips.

more than one.

From the shadows at the northeast corner of the city wall, two more people stood up. They were wrapped in gray cloths almost identical in color to the city bricks, their faces smeared with black ash, and each clutched a short blade. At the feet of one of them lay three Jing garrison soldiers, not dead, but their pressure points had been sealed, their mouths stuffed with rags, their eyes wide open, their bodies convulsing but unable to utter a sound.

From the shadows of the arrow tower on the west side of the city wall, another dark figure emerged. The person squatted on the arrow slats, holding a severed piece of fuse rope in his hand, waving it at the people below the city wall, and grinning silently.

Four people.

There were only four people.

Surrounded by three thousand Beijing garrison soldiers, the four men made their way onto the city wall, disabled three cannons, subdued three sentries, and then one of them put a knife to the commander's neck.

The entire process was completely silent.

The Jingying soldiers on the city wall were in complete chaos. Panic spread rapidly in all directions from General Zhang. Soldiers in the back ranks began to retreat uncontrollably, their armor plates clanging and rattling. Some threw down their spears, while others tumbled and scrambled down the ramparts inside the city wall.

"Don't run! Stop right there!" A centurion drew his sword, trying to stop the fleeing soldiers. But his voice was trembling, and his legs were involuntarily moving backward.

Under the city.

Sitting on his horse, Chu Ze took in the entire scene of the changes taking place on the city wall.

Qin Jue acted even faster than he had anticipated. From the moment Wang Han pulled out the explosives and created chaos, Qin Jue, along with three highly agile assassin players, took advantage of the moment when everyone's attention was drawn to the area below the city wall and slipped into the drainage outlet at the northeast corner of the city wall.

The whole process took less than the time it takes for an incense stick to burn.

Chu Ze withdrew his gaze, the cold line at the corner of his mouth remaining unchanged.

"one"

The ninth number came out of his mouth.

On the city wall, upon hearing those words, Zhang, the military officer, shuddered violently. The shudder tore open the wound on his neck slightly, and beads of blood trickled down his collarbone, staining the collar of his armor red.

Qin Jue whispered in his ear, "The next number is one. After one, the city gate will be gone. And so will you. Think it through."

General Zhang's knees began to buckle.

He wasn't afraid of death. After serving in the army for twenty years, living a life where his head was always on the line, what did death matter?

But he was afraid of dying that way.

His throat was slit by some unknown ghost in his own territory, in front of his three thousand men.

This is not the heroic death on the battlefield; it is the humiliation of being crushed on the ground.

What terrified him even more was that if he died, the city gates would be blown open, and the monsters would flood into the capital.

His family members, including that of Lieutenant General Zhang, are still in the city.

His wife, children, and parents all lived in the house inside Chongwen Gate.

"I—" Zhang Canjiang's lips trembled violently, and he made a dry gagging sound in his throat.

Below the city walls, Chu Ze's lips parted slightly.

"one.

""

The moment the last word landed, an extremely piercing hissing sound came from the ice.

Wang Han pressed the fuse in his hand onto the detonator of the explosive charge.

The grayish-white wick was lit, and sparks flew rapidly along the hemp rope, making a dense hissing sound. Tiny sparks danced in the cold wind, inch by inch approaching the oiled paper package stuffed with shards of iron nails.

Holding the smoking explosive charge, Wang Han's expression wasn't one of tension, but pure, heartfelt joy. He rushed to the base of the city gate, his rough hands shoving the explosive charge into the gap at the bottom of the gate's hinges.

"Ten seconds!" Wang Han turned and yelled at the people behind him, "Everyone get the hell down!"

Instead of lying down, the players on the ice took two steps forward in unison, craning their necks and staring intently at the fuse that was burning shorter and shorter.

On the city wall, General Zhang's last string snapped.

"Open the door!"

He roared. His vocal cords tore completely, and a mouthful of bloody saliva spurted from his throat.

"Open the city gates! Lower the drawbridge! Quickly! Open the gates!"

Qin Jue sheathed his dagger and took a step back. He wiped the blood from the blade with his sleeve, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

The winches on the city wall were being turned frantically. The thick iron chains creaked and groaned, and the drawbridge swayed violently in mid-air as it slowly descended.

At the same time, a dull thud came from inside the city gate as heavy wooden bolts were pulled out. Pushed open by dozens of soldiers, the iron gate creaked and scraped open inch by inch.

Wang Han squatted at the foot of the city gate, staring at the still hissing fuse, his smile freezing on his face.

The door opened.

His explosives were still smoking.

"Damn it!" Wang Han cursed, reaching out to extinguish the fuse. The tip of the fuse was less than two inches from the explosive charge. He pulled the explosive charge out through the crack in the door, brushed off the ice chips, and stuffed it back under his cotton-padded coat.

"What a waste of my fuse," Wang Han muttered, his face full of regret.

The Guangqumen Gate was wide open.

The drawbridge crashed onto the frozen surface of the moat with a dull thud, causing the cracks in the ice to spread even further.

Chu Ze sheathed his sword.

With a crisp clang, the fine steel longsword slid back into its sheath. The terrifying pressure that had permeated the city gate vanished instantly. Snowflakes began to fall again, and the north wind resumed its howling.

He gave the reins a gentle tug, and the warhorse strode slowly onto the drawbridge. The horse's hooves thudded heavily on the thick wooden planks.