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

Chapter 176 A single whip lashes the military commander, terrifying all the officials!

The clattering of horses' hooves on the wooden planks of the suspension bridge sounded particularly muffled in the wind and snow.

Chu Ze spurred his horse forward, the hem of his dark fox fur coat fluttering wildly in the breeze blowing across the bridge. The gate of Guangqumen was already half open, and the aroma of cooking fires wafted through the archway.

Wang Han squatted at the foot of the city gate, holding a bundle of explosives in his hands. He looked down at the fuse he had extinguished, then looked up at the now-open city gate.

The door was open.

But he felt a tightness in his chest.

All that hard work I'd been holding back all this time, was it all just wasted like this?

Wang Han took out a tinderbox from his pocket, snapped open the copper lid, and the flame jumped twice in the cold wind.

"Since it's already open, I still have to leave you guys a souvenir."

Wang Han grinned and held the remaining fuse from the explosive charge to the tinderbox. With a hiss, the fuse was reignited, and sparks flew rapidly along the hemp rope.

He stood up, swung his right arm back sharply, and used his waist and hips to generate power. The explosive charge flew out of his hand, arcing through the air before slamming heavily against the outer wall of the right-side gate of Guangqumen.

The gate was opened to its limit, its sheet metal exterior facing the moat. The explosive charge slid down along the metal sheet and got stuck in the gap between the bottom of the gate and the ground.

The fuse burned to its end.

boom-!

A deafening roar erupted inside the city gate. The sound wave, carrying scalding hot air, surged out from both ends of the gate simultaneously, hurling snow, ice fragments, and scorched earth several feet into the air. The shockwave struck the vaulted ceiling of the gate, bounced back by the bricks and stones, and rippled back and forth in the narrow space.

At the epicenter of the explosion, the three-tenths-inch-thick sheet metal on the outer wall of the right gate was torn open with a gaping hole the size of a washbasin. The edges of the sheet metal curled outwards, glowing red-hot, emitting a pungent, acrid metallic smell. The stray nails, lead bullets, and fragments of copper coins embedded in the explosive charge rained down, riddling the sheet metal on the gate panel with holes. Large chunks of sheet metal ripped off the gate, crashing to the ground with a loud clang.

The pine wood of the door panel shattered into countless wood chips under the shockwave, spraying out from the gap. The lower half of the door was blown beyond recognition, with only a few charred wooden frames barely holding it together on the hinges, teetering precariously in the aftershocks.

The air was thick with smoke. The smells of burning, gunpowder, and charred wood mingled together, making it hard to open one's eyes.

On the city wall, that explosion became the final blow that crushed everything.

General Zhang, already stiff with Qin Jue's dagger pressed against his neck, dared not even breathe. The moment the explosion rang out, a shockwave erupted from the city gate, the scalding air carrying the smell of burning wood and splinters. He jerked violently; the convulsion tore open the wound on his neck by half an inch, flesh rolled back, and blood gushed from the cut, flowing down the curve of his collarbone, soaking the cotton lining of his mountain-patterned armor, leaving a large dark red stain.

But he ignored the injury on his neck.

A warm liquid gushed from his lower abdomen, rapidly trickling down his inner thighs. The sensation of incontinence caused his mind to go completely blank for a moment; his crotch was instantly soaked, urine drenching his cotton trousers, dripping from the legs onto the city bricks, leaving small, dark dots. In the frigid air, a wisp of white steam rose from the pool of liquid, rising gently before being quickly torn apart by the north wind.

The stench was strong and pungent, spreading in the howling north wind.

Qin Jue wrinkled his nose, a vertical line forming between his brows. He took a half step back, his soft-soled cloth shoes making no sound on the city bricks. The dagger was withdrawn from Zhang Canjiang's neck, a trace of blood clinging to the blade, along with a few drops of unidentified liquid.

"Dirty".

Qin Jue uttered a single word, his voice filled with undisguised disgust. He raised his left sleeve and slowly and meticulously wiped the stains off the dagger. After wiping it, he turned the dagger over, inspected the blade against the dim light of the day, and then, satisfied, put it back into his sleeve.

General Zhang's knees buckled, and he collapsed from the parapet onto the city bricks. The iron plates of his armor scraped against the hard bricks with a piercing metallic screech, sharp enough to make one's teeth ache. He curled up in a ball, clutching his head tightly with his arms, his ten fingers digging into the tangled hair beneath his helmet, his knuckles turning pale from the force. His entire body trembled violently, the armor plates clanging and rattling, even causing tiny cracks to appear in the thin ice on the city bricks.

"Don't kill me—don't kill me—please—don't kill me—"

His voice had completely changed, becoming a high-pitched, inhuman shrill sound, each word squeezed out from between his teeth. Every word was heavy with nasal consonant and a sobbing tone, accompanied by a dry gagging sound from deep within his throat. The dignified military commander of the Beijing Garrison was now curled up in his own urine.

The three thousand soldiers of the Beijing garrison on the city wall completely collapsed.

The deafening roar of the explosion still echoed within the city walls, its reverberation lingering. Smoke billowed from the city gate, the grayish-yellow fumes spreading along the inner ramparts of the city walls, stinging the eyes and bringing tears to the eyes of those inside. The desperate cries of the commander, collapsed on the ground, pierced through the smoke and reached the ears of every soldier in the Beijing garrison.

The triple blow crushed the last shred of morale in this otherwise ineffective, battle-hardened unit into dust.

The soldiers in the back ranks moved first. A corporal in padded armor threw down his spear, the iron bar striking the city bricks with a crisp clang, and turned to run. His action triggered one, two, five, ten men around him—the armor plates rattled incessantly, and the sound of boots pounding the city bricks was incredibly dense. The musketeers in the front ranks simply threw their muskets to the ground; the iron weapons bounced twice on the bricks before rolling to the base of the parapet. They crouched behind the crenellations, huddled together, trembling, their hands covering their heads. Several of the younger recruits had already begun to cry, their sobs intermittent, mixed with sniffles and the snot dripping from their noses, sounding particularly pitiful against the smoke-filled city walls.

No one dared to look down at the city walls again.

The smoke from the battle had not yet dissipated inside the city gate. Grayish-yellow wisps of smoke, carried by the draft, drifted slowly, swirling along the ground and shrouding everything in the gate in a murky fog. Scattered black wood chips and twisted iron pieces lay on the ground, some still glowing with a dark red warmth, melting the surrounding snow into puddles of dirty water.

Chu Ze rode his horse across the end of the suspension bridge.

The warhorse's iron hooves pounded on the charred wood scraps and twisted iron pieces, making a creaking sound. A piece of burnt, deformed sheet metal was flattened by the horse's hoof, breaking in half, with the two fragments flying to either side. Smoke flowed past him, torn in two by the air currents stirred up by the horse, gathering behind him before being swept away by the hem of his dark fox fur coat.

He passed through the archway and entered the barbican.

The barbican was small, surrounded by walls on all four sides, with a hazy gray sky overhead. The clouds hung low, and large snowflakes drifted down from beneath them, settling on the scattered weapons on the ground. Spears, sabers, and crossbows lay strewn about, some blades still reflecting the faint glimmer of snowflakes. Several Jing garrison soldiers who hadn't had time to escape huddled in the deepest shadows of the corner, their hands raised high above their heads, fingers spread wide, their bodies trembling uncontrollably. Their teeth chattered, their eyes wide open, staring intently at the black figure riding towards them, not daring to blink.

Chu Ze didn't look at them.

The warhorses passed through the barbican and emerged from the inner gate.

The inner city gate had long been wide open, with one or two door panels pushed to their limit, and the rust on the door hinges had been squeezed off the ground.

The moment the explosion was heard, the guards inside fled in droves, leaving not even one to close the gate. Only an abandoned leather drum lay forlornly in the corner of the doorway, its drumhead facing upwards, covered with a layer of snow.

The streets of the capital city came into view.

The flagstone street was deserted. The shop doors on both sides were tightly shut, the wooden doors held shut from the inside. Occasionally, a few pairs of frightened eyes would peek out from the cracks in the doors—the pupils would reflect the figure riding a black horse, then quickly retreat when they met Chu Ze's gaze, followed by a hushed gasp from behind the doors and the dull thud of something being knocked over.

Icicles hung from the eaves on both sides of the street, swaying slightly in the north wind. Occasionally, one would succumb to its weight and shatter on the bluestone slabs with a crack, scattering shards of ice. Apart from that, the entire street was deathly silent.

Chu Ze didn't rush into the city. He reined in his horse, looping the reins in his palm, and the warhorse obediently stopped, pawing the flagstones twice with its front hooves. He turned to look at the inside of the city gate.

General Zhang was dragged down the city wall's ramp by two soldiers from the Beijing garrison, tumbling and crawling. The stone steps were steep and narrow, and the three men, crammed together, stumbled and scrambled. General Zhang's legs were completely out of his control; his knees were bent in the wrong direction, and his entire weight was on the two soldiers. His toes left long scratches on the stone steps, and the iron blades of his armor scraped against the stone with a teeth-grinding creak. With each step he descended, his body lurched violently, pulling the two soldiers back, almost causing all three of them to tumble down.

Shan Wenjia's front was soaked with urine, dark stains running from his waist down to his thighs. The cold wind amplified the stench, making it even more intense and pungent. The two soldiers supporting him were ashen-faced, their lips pressed tightly together, desperately trying to hold their breath. Zhang, the adjutant, was utterly pale, his lips purple and bluish, his teeth chattering, unable to even cry out, only letting out dry gagging sounds from deep within his throat.

Two soldiers dragged him to the bluestone pavement inside the city gate and released him.

General Zhang's knee slammed directly onto the bluestone slab with a dull thud. The dull pain of his kneecap hitting the stone sent a jolt up his spine, yet he didn't utter a sound. He lay prone on the ground, his forehead pressed against the cold stone, his arms outstretched, his fingers digging tightly into the cracks of the bluestone. He trembled violently, the plates of his armor making a soft, metallic crackling sound as they struck the ground.

Chu Ze rode over.

The iron hooves of warhorses struck the bluestone slabs with a crisp rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Step by step, unhurried, each step landing at a fixed interval. The sound of hooves echoed in the empty city gate, reflected back from the four walls, and overlapped to become a dull drumbeat.

General Zhang lay prone on the ground, his forehead pressed against the cold stone surface. He couldn't see Chu Ze, but he could hear him. The sound of hooves pounded against his eardrums, each thud causing his body to flinch. Closer and closer. Closer and closer. Closer and closer. His fingernails, digging into the cracks of the bluestone slabs, curled and bled, mingling with the dirty water and ice fragments on the ground, staining the area a dark red.

Chu Ze stopped in front of him.

The warhorse snorted, hot breath billowing from its nostrils in two plumes of white mist that landed on the back of General Zhang's head. The horse's hoof was less than a foot from his head. The iron hooves were covered in charred wood chips and dark red rust, emitting the pungent smell of burning gunpowder.

Chu Ze sat on horseback, looking down from above.

The hem of his dark fox fur coat draped down on either side of the horse's belly, gently fluttering in the draft. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his thumb braced against the blade, casually resting there without applying any force. His deep eyes looked down at the huddled-up military officer of the capital garrison at his feet, his face showing no anger, no contempt, not even a trace of any other expression.

There was only one kind of absolute, indifference that came from the very core of one's being.

That indifference was more terrifying than any anger—it meant that, in Chu Ze's eyes, the person beneath his feet didn't even have the right to make him angry.

General Zhang dared not look up. He could only see the shards of ice splashing up beside the horse's hooves and the hem of Chu Ze's black fox fur coat hanging down.

Chu Ze drew a riding whip from his waist with his right hand.

That whip was made of cow sinew, about three feet long, with a section of fine steel wrapped around the tip. It had been used to whip warhorses in the wind and snow of Liaodong, and also to whip the backs of Jurchen captives in the wilderness of Yanjiao.

The whip drew an arc in mid-air.

Snapped-!

The whip lashed precisely across General Zhang's right cheek. The steel turban tore through the flesh, stretching from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth, leaving a deep, bone-revealing gash. Blood and bits of flesh splattered, a few drops landing on Chu Ze's riding boots.

General Zhang screamed in agony. The shrill sound echoed through the city gate. He covered his right cheek with both hands, and a large amount of blood gushed from between his fingers, mingling with snot and tears and covering his hands.

Chu Ze retracted his whip, a strip of bloody flesh clinging to the tip.

"I've got it."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was amplified several times over by the echoes in the city gate, clearly reaching the ears of everyone present.

"The gates of the Ming Dynasty cannot stop the blade from killing the Jurchens. Nor can they stop me, Chu Ze."

Lieutenant General Zhang lay sprawled on the ground, his body convulsing. Half of his face was torn apart, revealing the white bone beneath the flesh, which emitted a sweet, metallic scent in the cold wind. He no longer had the strength to scream, only able to make loud retching sounds, his saliva and blood mixing together to form a small puddle on the bluestone slab.

Behind him, a hundred players swaggered in.

They trudged through the charred wood scraps and twisted iron pieces scattered on the ground, passing through the city gate and entering the capital. Undisguised excitement and greed creased their faces; their eyes darted around, as if they wanted to scan every brick and tile on either side of the street.

As Shi Dali passed by Zhang, the military officer, he glanced down at the officer lying in a pool of blood. He sneered and let out a snort.

"this one?"

Shi Dali, carrying the rusty greatsword, twisted his thick neck, his joints cracking. He gestured with his chin towards the players behind him.

"Brothers, the mobs in this dungeon are too fragile. They fall with a single whip, not even as good as the Jurchen cannon fodder."

With a broken iron pot on her head, Zhou Keke casually scraped the brick wall of the city gate with her entrenching tool. As the white lime fragments fell, she leaned closer to examine the composition of the mortar in the brickwork and clicked her tongue.

"The glutinous rice mortar is top-quality. The bricks in this city gate are more valuable than those in the outer city wall. We'll definitely have to come back and demolish it sometime."

Qian Lele rubbed her hands together, her eyes fixed on the weapons discarded by the Beijing garrison soldiers on the ground, and she made gurgling swallowing sounds.

"Can I pick up these knives and guns? Are they considered spoils of war? How are the merit points calculated?"

The chat in the guild channel has turned into shopping lists.

[Civil Engineering Bro - Zhou Keke: The archway of the city gate uses a five-layer staggered joint construction method, with bricks custom-made by the official kiln. Each brick costs at least eighty merit points! The entire archway could feed our guild for three months!]

[Cultivation Party Member - Qian Lele: Don't trample those bird guns on the ground! Each one is worth fifty merit points! I counted, there are more than twenty of them just in this city gate! A thousand merit points for free!]

[PVP Assassination - Qin Jue: That adjutant's mountain-patterned armor is pretty good. I'll loot it after he dies.]

Chu Ze ignored the noise from the group behind him.

He put away his riding whip and raised his head.

On the east side of the city gate tower, the window of the corner tower is still half open.

Looking up from this angle, you can clearly see several panicked figures behind the window frame. Some are shrinking back, some are pushing each other, and some people's official hats are askew.

Chu Ze's lips twitched slowly.

That curve was extremely shallow and extremely cold.

Wen Tiren.

Left Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate.

Vice Minister of the Ministry of Rites.

Academician of the Hanlin Academy.

This group of corrupt officials, who had been hiding in the warm pavilion drinking hot tea and waiting to see Chu Ze grovel, were now huddled together behind the half-open window, trembling with fear.

Chu Ze did not go up.

Not urgent.

He slowly withdrew his gaze and gently tugged the reins. The warhorse strode forward, its forelegs clattering on the cobblestones, and slowly made its way into the city.

Inside the corner tower.

Wen Tiren pressed himself tightly against the wall, huddled in the corner below the window. His back was pressed against the cold brick wall, and his undershirt was soaked with cold sweat and stuck to his skin.

He just saw it.

The moment Chu Ze looked up, he saw that person's expression.

It wasn't anger. It wasn't a threat.

It is an extremely calm, appraising scrutiny of the prey.

He'd seen that expression before. When he was a child in the countryside, he'd seen hunters watching rabbits in cages. They weren't in a hurry to kill them, because they couldn't escape. Whenever they wanted to eat them, they'd just reach in and pull them out.

Wen Tiren's teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The clattering sound was particularly jarring in the quiet corner tower.

"Lord Wen—Lord Wen—" The Left Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate collapsed to the ground, his voice trembling and incoherent. "He—he's gone?"

Wen Tiren did not answer.

He closed his eyes and slammed the back of his head against the brick wall.

It’s over.

The attempt to intimidate them not only failed, but was instead brutally crushed by Chu Ze in front of the entire city's soldiers and civilians.

The news that Zhang, the military commander, had half his face slapped to pieces would spread throughout the capital in less than half a day. Then all the officials would know—the first thing Marquis Pingliao Chu Ze did upon entering the capital was to publicly slap the military commander of the Beijing garrison who blocked his path.

This is not a slap in the face to Lieutenant General Zhang.

This is a slap in the face to the emperor.

Slap Wen Tiren in the face.

It's a slap in the face to the entire civil service.

And they didn't dare utter a single word.

Because that person has a hundred unkillable monsters in his hands.

Because behind that person, tens of thousands of even more insane monsters were waiting outside the pass.

Wen Tiren opened his eyes, his cloudy old eyes churning with extremely complex emotions, a mixture of fear, anger, humiliation, and scheming.

He had to hurry back to the palace.

We must quickly inform the emperor of what happened today.

We need to come up with a new solution quickly.

Otherwise, once Chu Ze had established himself in the capital and those hundred monsters had figured out the city's layout, Wen Tiren dared not think any further.

He leaned against the wall to stand up, his legs still trembling. He glanced out the window; Chu Ze's figure had already disappeared into the snowstorm at the end of the street.

That figure moved with unhurried, almost excessive composure.

Its composure is despair-inducing.