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

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Outside the resurrection point in Guangning City, a broken wooden barrel on the street was kicked to pieces.

Splinters of wood flew everywhere, splattering onto the muddy stone pavement. Wu Jingjing scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. He clutched his neck tightly with both hands; although there was no open wound, the lingering, terrifying pain of his cervical vertebrae being severed by the steel blade still made him tremble uncontrollably.

"Fuck! Fuck those Jurchen slaves!"

Wu Jingjing's eyes were bloodshot. He slammed his fist into the brick wall beside him, scraping his knuckles instantly. He opened the encrypted channel of the [Reverse Scale] guild and frantically typed on the virtual keyboard, venting all the anger he was simmering inside.

"The NPCs in this lousy game are insane! I was waving a white flag! I didn't even have a weapon! Those Tartars didn't ask a single question, they just started chopping off my head! How am I supposed to play this?!"

Several guild members who had died and returned with him also chimed in, their words filled with frustration and terror.

"Chong is right, those patrolmen are impossible to communicate with. The way they look at us is no different than looking at a bunch of walking medals."

"It's so realistic! When that knife came down, I could even smell the muttony odor on that Tartar. This mission is impossible to complete!"

The channel was filled with complaints, and morale had visibly plummeted. The initial fervor, fueled by the promise of being a "loyal subject to the emperor," was instantly extinguished by the cold sabers of the Later Jin cavalry.

After a brief period of noise, a line of text appeared in the center of the channel.

"Quiet."

Only two words. Sender: Long Shuo.

The entire channel fell silent instantly. The complaints and curses were frozen on the screen; no one dared to type another word.

Long Shuo sat in the simple command room, the faint glow of the screen illuminating his expressionless face. He picked up the teacup beside him; the tea had gone cold, and the bitter liquid slid down his throat into his stomach, keeping him perfectly alert.

He didn't get angry, nor did he scold Wu Jingjing for his incompetence.

"The responsibility for this failure lies with me."

Long Shuo typed this line and sent it.

The players in the channel were stunned. In their minds, guild leaders were always high and mighty, issuing orders, and very few would willingly take the blame. Wu Jingjing had originally prepared herself to be scolded, but upon seeing these words, her anger subsided considerably, replaced by a strange sense of awe.

"The low-ranking scouts are like wild dogs unleashed by Huang Taiji." Long Shuo's words continued scrolling across the screen, clear and logical, carrying a cold, analytical tone. "Wild dogs only know how to tear apart their prey, not how to read letters. Expecting them to pass intelligence to Huang Taiji was an overestimation of the game's AI. This move was too hasty."

With just a few words, he not only calmed people down but also attributed the failure to the realism of the game mechanics, perfectly maintaining his image as an unfathomable leader.

"Since external contact is not an option for the time being, let's try a different approach."

Long Shuo's fingers flew across the keyboard, the sound of the keystrokes ringing out crisply in the quiet room.

"Chu Ze's army seems unstoppable, but in reality, it has a fatal weakness."

"The Chosen Ones are fearless of death and pain, and can travel day and night. But don't forget, the army's supplies, provisions, and divine fire oil all rely on those few thousand Ming auxiliary soldiers for transport. Players can run for three days without food or water, but can those NPC auxiliary soldiers do the same?"

Someone in the chat realized what was happening: "Boss means... to target those auxiliary soldiers?"

"That's right." Long Shuo's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Tear a hole from the inside. As long as the auxiliary troops are paralyzed, the supply train will have to stop. Even if Chu Ze has great abilities, he wouldn't dare to abandon the food and gunpowder and lead a bunch of shirtless players to charge Huang Taiji's 100,000 iron cavalry."

He called out directly: "Is Jin Buhuan here?"

At the edge of the logistics camp, Qian Shi was resting against a broken cart. Seeing his ID light up, he immediately sat up straight.

"Boss, I'm here. What are your orders?"

"Your new task is not to sabotage the axles or burn the weapons. I want you to deal with the food." Long Shuo's command was resolute and left no room for argument.

Qian Shi gasped, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for half a second: "Boss...poisoning? If Chu Ze finds out, our guild will probably be skinned alive by those tens of thousands of lunatics."

"Who told you to poison me?" Long Shuo sneered, typing faster and faster. "A dead body will trigger a thorough investigation. What I asked you to administer was a laxative."

"I just checked the local produce section on this map. Ten miles to the west, there's a shady, muddy ditch. There grows a kind of herb with purplish-red leaf edges, which the locals call 'intestine-piercing grass.' It won't kill you, but if you eat even a little bit, you'll definitely vomit and have diarrhea within half an hour, feel completely weak, and be unable to even stand."

Long Shuo sent the coordinates directly to the channel.

"Mix this stuff into the rations distributed to the NPC auxiliary soldiers tomorrow. Widespread diarrhea in this desolate wilderness will only be seen as acclimatization issues or a small-scale epidemic. The law won't punish everyone, and the source will be impossible to trace."

"This is enough to slow down the army's march by at least two days. These are precisely the two days that Huang Taiji needs most right now!"

Qian Shi stared at the coordinates on the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. Drugging an "ally" crossed the line for most players. Even in a game, such backstabbing was utterly despicable.

He hesitated.

Long Shuo understood the psychology of these speculators all too well. He threw out his last trump card.

"Jin Buhuan, close this deal. Once the Jurchens enter the pass, you can choose three top-tier pieces of equipment from the guild warehouse first."

"In real life, I'll transfer another 200,000 to you."

Two hundred thousand. Plus three top-tier pieces of equipment.

Qian Shi's breathing instantly became heavy. The dim light from the screen illuminated his face, slightly distorted by greed. His meager sense of morality and unease were crushed in the face of such enormous profits.

"Leave it to me." He pressed the Enter key heavily and closed the panel.

The night was as dark as ink.

The army set up camp on a leeward slope fifty miles from Shanhaiguan.

A fierce wind howled outside the camp, whipping up ice shards. Most players chose to log off and rest, or gather in small groups around the campfire to chat and joke. Only the few thousand Ming soldiers, who had been pushing heavy carts all day, were too exhausted to even take off their clothes and collapsed on the haystacks, falling into a deep sleep with loud snores.

Under the cover of night, Qian Shi slipped out of the camp without making a sound.

Following the coordinates given by Long Shuo, he groped around in that muddy ditch for half an hour. The mud was up to his ankles and emitted a pungent, fishy stench. Finally, behind a patch of withered reeds, he found the "intestine-piercing grass" with purplish-red leaf edges.

They pulled it up by the roots and stuffed it into a coarse cloth bag.

Back in his small tent, Qian Shi found two flat stones. He placed the dried herbs on the stones and crushed them forcefully.

A pungent, bitter smell instantly filled the air. Qian Shi pinched his nose and carefully put the crushed, pale purple powder into a leather water bag.

Next came the murder weapon. He pulled out a hollow, thin bamboo tube he had picked up during the day from the corner and sharpened one end with a dagger until it was extremely sharp.

At 3:45 AM (丑时三刻).

Apart from the footsteps of the night patrol and the crackling of burning firewood, there was no other sound in the camp.

Qian Shi changed into a drab, gray workman's outfit, tucking the leather water bag and bamboo tube close to his body. He pulled down the brim of his tattered felt hat, lowered his head, and walked briskly towards the supply area.

The supply depot was of paramount importance to the entire camp.

Su Qingying was extremely strict in managing supplies, and every entry and exit in the ledgers had to be checked by her. However, the player group was already quite disorganized, especially in the latter half of the night.

Several Shenzhou guild players responsible for guarding the supplies were currently dozing off against sacks full of potatoes. Their IDs above their heads had turned gray and indicated they were AFK, clearly having set up auto-follow mode; they were actually fast asleep in real life.

Qian Shi stayed close to the shadow of the tent, avoiding the flickering light of the campfire.

Suddenly, a series of light footsteps came from not far away.

Qian Shi felt his hair stand on end and quickly shrank into the gap between the two supply wagons, not daring to even breathe.

Su Qingying, carrying a lantern that seemed to die in the wind, was patrolling the camp with two veteran Ming soldiers. She wore a thin blue cloak and held a thick account book in her hand.

"Check the moisture-proof tarpaulin for the third batch of gunpowder packages again. It's windy at night, so it must not get damp." Su Qingying's voice was gentle, but it carried an air of meticulousness that left no room for perfunctory work.

"Don't worry, Miss Su, they were all strangled with ropes," the old soldier replied respectfully.

The lantern's glow flickered in front of the supply wagon where Qian Shi was hiding. In the interplay of light and shadow, Qian Shi could even see the mud and water stains on the edge of Su Qingying's cloak.

Only when the footsteps had completely faded away did Qian Shi let out a long sigh of relief. His back was soaked with cold sweat.

"This woman, staying up all night, she's a lunatic," Qian Shi cursed inwardly.

He looked around to make sure it was safe, then, like a nimble night owl, slipped into the huge leather tent where the potatoes were stored.

The tent was filled with burlap sacks, and the air was thick with the musty smell of soil and starch.

Qian Shi clearly remembered the distribution plan from earlier that day. The pile of sacks tied with red rope on the left was the rations to be distributed to the NPC auxiliary soldiers the next morning. The sacks tied with black rope on the right were the players' supplies.

He walked straight to the red rope sack and squatted down.

He pulled out the sharpened bamboo tube from his pocket and felt around in the rough seams of the burlap sack. He found a spot, and with a sudden burst of strength, he plunged the tip of the bamboo tube deep into the sack.

The rough linen was easily pierced, and the bamboo tube disappeared into the pile of potatoes.

Qian Shi uncorked the leather water bag and aimed it at the other end of the bamboo tube.

He puffed out his cheeks and blew hard.

puff.

An extremely faint sound echoed inside the tent. Pale purple powder was evenly sprayed onto the surface of the potatoes inside the burlap sack through a hollow bamboo tube.

One bag. Two bags. Three bags.

Qian Shi moved swiftly and skillfully, like a seasoned thief who had been doing this for half his life. Fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, sliding down his cheeks and hitting the muddy ground. He carefully controlled the dosage, blowing only a fingernail-sized amount of powder into each sack. This amount was enough to knock out a dozen strong men, making them rip out their intestines, but it would definitely not kill anyone.

We processed over twenty bags in succession. The powder in the water bag was almost gone.

Qian Shi stopped what he was doing and carefully put the bamboo tube and water bag back close to his body.

He turned around, picked up a few sacks of potatoes that hadn't been tampered with, and laboriously placed them on top of the red-stringed burlap sacks that had been tampered with.

The scene was staged. Even if someone comes to check tomorrow morning, the outermost bags of potatoes will be perfectly clean, and no problems will be found.

After finishing all this, Qian Shi patted the dirt off his hands.

He stood in the dimly lit tent, looking at the mountain of provisions. A morbid... It shot up his tailbone all the way to the top of his head.

An army of tens of thousands.

Chu Ze, that high and mighty, commanding big boss.

Even far away at the foot of the capital, there was the arrogant Huang Taiji.

These terrifying entities, these colossal beings capable of stirring up the winds of history, were now all in the hands of this insignificant logistics soldier.

Qian Shi grinned and laughed silently. The smile looked particularly sinister in the dim light.

He turned around, lifted a corner of the tent, and disappeared back into the darkness outside.

A grayish-white hue appeared on the horizon.

The morning wind in Liaodong was still bitterly cold, stinging like a knife against the face.

The cooks at the logistics camp got up early. They were the hardest working men in the group, responsible for preparing breakfast for thousands of auxiliary soldiers before dawn. Only after they had eaten their fill could these soldiers have the strength to push the heavy supply wagons on their way.

Several large iron pots, each over a meter in diameter, were placed on the fire.

The dry firewood crackled, and flames licked the bottom of the pot. The water quickly boiled, and white steam billowed into the air, dissipating rapidly in the cold wind.

"Hurry up! Bring those potatoes over there! Wash them, cut them into chunks, and put them in the pot!" The old cook waved his long-handled ladle, loudly urging his kitchen helpers.

Several young auxiliary soldiers rubbed their frozen hands and jogged into the tent. They immediately carried the pile of sacks that Qian Shi had carefully arranged the night before.

The outermost, clean layer of potatoes was removed.

Immediately afterwards, sacks tied with red ropes and filled with light purple powder were carried out one after another.

The red string is untied.

The potatoes, still smelling of earth, were poured into a large wooden basin next to them.

"Wash it clean! No need to peel it, cut it into big pieces! In this weather, eating something with the skin on will keep you full!" the old man shouted at the top of his lungs.

The water in the wooden basin quickly became cloudy. The pale purple powder had long since clung tightly to the rough skin of the potatoes, blending with the color of the soil, making it impossible to tell anything was wrong.

The cleaver clattered on the cutting board, making a dull, repetitive thud.

The chopped potatoes were roughly pushed into the boiling water.

Water splashed everywhere.

The aroma of starch quickly wafted from the iron pot. Under the high heat, the potato skins gradually softened, and the deadly starch completely dissolved into the thick broth, becoming indistinguishable from each other.

In the distance, Ming soldiers gradually emerged from their tents.

Wrapped in thin cotton-padded coats, hunching their shoulders, and holding worn-out large bowls, they spontaneously formed a long queue in front of the iron pot.

In the cold wind, this steaming bowl of potato soup was their only hope to sustain them through a day of arduous marching. A longing for food shone in everyone's eyes.

The old man picked up a large ladle and stirred the pot vigorously a few times. The potatoes were stewed until very tender, and the broth had turned a thick, slightly yellow color.

"Dinner's ready!"

The old man shouted and slammed a spoonful of potato soup into the bowl of the soldier at the front of the line.

The soldier swallowed hard, ignoring the heat, and poured the contents of the large bowl into his mouth.

The scalding heat flowed down his throat and into his stomach, dispelling the chill of the night.

He let out a satisfied burp and wiped the soup from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. He was completely unaware that a terrifying storm, powerful enough to overturn an entire army, was already quietly brewing in his stomach.

The auxiliary soldiers at the back of the line couldn't wait to step forward and hand the empty bowls to the large iron pot.

Follow Uesugi Ryuka's pen and embark on an adventure in Cola Novels titled "The End of the Ming Dynasty: Summoning Players from Liaodong to Support the Ming Dynasty".