Chapter Thirty-Five: Crushing Forward

“Shall we make a move?” Zhu Cilang suddenly broke into a laugh. “How interesting, truly interesting!”

After speaking, Zhu Cilang stared coldly at Liu Yongquan, regarding him as one might a dead dog.

It went without saying: Zhu Cilang possessed power, held high office, and had quelled a mutiny—he had slain the rebel leader before a thousand soldiers in chaos. Under Zhu Cilang’s gaze, Liu Yongquan felt a chill rise from the depths of his heart on this scorching May day.

“Damn it, does this fellow surnamed Qin think he can take on two hundred men alone?” Liu Yongquan tried to rally his courage, drawing his broadsword at last. With a low shout, he called, “Brothers, seize Hero Qin! Fifty taels of silver for the first man to take him!”

“If you stop now, you’ll still keep your lives.” Zhu Cilang, hands clasped behind his back, didn’t even bother to draw his sword.

“I’d like to see if you really have skin of bronze and bones of iron!” Liu Yongquan’s mouth twitched, his expression growing more ferocious.

But in the next instant, his brow furrowed sharply.

Behind Liu Yongquan, the ground trembled ever so slightly.

It was a vibration from the earth itself.

One of the guards from the Wanquan Trading House turned to look, and stood frozen in shock, the iron ruler slipping from his hand and clattering to the ground.

Before their eyes, a line of men came marching toward them!

“All present, prepare!” Old Seventeen, clad in a brand-new mountain-patterned cuirass, barked his order to the squads of iron-armored retainers: “Form ranks!”

“Hup!” Instantly, a formation unfolded—thirty men across, four rows deep.

Every man in the formation wore overlapping iron lamellar armor, each step ringing with the clash of metal plates, exuding an aura of might. Their unified shout rumbled like thunder, silencing the entire scene.

At the head of each column stood junior officers in beast-faced visored helmets, silent and still, their long spears leveled—a single glance sufficed to see these were veterans, drilled and disciplined.

“Forward!” Old Seventeen swept his longsword forward, stepping in unison with the front row.

One hundred and twenty-one men moved as one, advancing in perfect step.

Liu Yongquan felt his heart jolt at the sight. He was no mere hired thug of the trading house; he had earned a reputation for bravery under Liu Zeqing, a battle-hardened veteran unafraid of the fight, and brought with him two or three dozen equally bold and skilled brothers.

As an old soldier, he might be lacking in other skills, but his eye for the field was sharp—otherwise, he’d never have survived so many skirmishes. Seeing this force today, how could Liu Yongquan not sense their prowess?

While he was still weighing his options, the phalanx drew near, no more than a dozen paces away.

“Raise spears!” A calm, cold voice rang out. Old Seventeen fixed his gaze on the men before him and issued a crisp command.

In a flash, one hundred and twenty spear points came up, glittering coldly, radiating a power that sent chills down the spine.

“Advance—thrust!” came the next order.

It was only then that Liu Yongquan realized in horror that the spear tips were already nearly upon the last of his own men.

Sure enough, as Old Seventeen’s command rang out, the hired thugs behind Liu Yongquan began to wail in terror.

“Fall back! All those spearheads—they’re going to kill us!”

“Help! Don’t block me, out of the way!”

“Master Liu, give the order! They’re going to kill us!”

“I don’t want to die…”

Suddenly, a burly fellow, startled by the forest of spear points, slipped and fell hard to the ground. Scrambling to crawl away, he felt a sudden chill atop his head—a lock of hair had been sliced clean off, and he froze in place, dumbstruck.

Within the crowd, Hou Fangyu watched this unfold, his heart icy with dread. “These spearmen—they really dare to kill…”

All at once, Hou Fangyu’s gaze locked onto Liu Yongquan, then shifted to Zhu Cilang, eyes burning with intensity.

“Why aren’t they seizing Hero Qin? Capture the leader and the rest will fall!”

While Hou Fangyu’s resentment simmered, Liu Yongquan seemed to hear his silent urging. He raised his broadsword at last, pointing it at Zhu Cilang.

But before he could make his move, a gust of wind whistled past—a black shadow, swift as lightning, struck the ground with a rush of air.

The arrowhead quivered.

Clang…

Liu Yongquan’s steel blade fell from his grasp. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

Behind Zhu Cilang, a young figure emerged, bow already drawn and another arrow nocked, ready to fire. All around, small boats surged forward, each manned by customs patrol archers, their arrows aimed directly at Liu Yongquan and his men, draining them of all will to fight.

“We surrender… we surrender…” Liu Yongquan dropped to his knees, and the rest of the hired thugs, not daring to resist, followed suit, casting away their weapons and kneeling in submission.

At that moment, Zhu Cilang looked to the bow-wielding Fu Rugui standing at the prow, who smiled and nodded in greeting.

Zhu Cilang’s personal troops had arrived.

“Still,” Zhu Cilang murmured, “facing such feeble opponents is hardly a challenge.”

Having just come ashore, Fu Rugui shook his head in disapproval. “Lord Qin, the enemy may be weak, but a man of great worth should not risk himself so carelessly. You mustn’t put yourself in danger again.”

Zhu Cilang replied with a smile, “These are the hardships of starting out—one must sometimes take risks. But with your help, brother Fu, from now on I’ll have someone to share the burdens and dangers.”

“It’s all thanks to Lord Qin’s training that you command such fine troops!” Fu Rugui glanced admiringly at Old Seventeen, who saluted Zhu Cilang with grave respect.

These old soldiers had been fierce enough in the Right Battalion of the Martial Army—individually or in small groups, they were as bold as wolves and tigers. But on the battlefield, an army cannot rely on individual bravery alone.

Back in the Right Battalion, these veterans could fight, but on the field they were not necessarily elite.

Since Zhu Cilang’s brief period of drilling them in the capital, and with Fu Rugui taking over their subsequent training, he’d noticed the men now had the discipline and cohesion of true elite soldiers.

They obeyed like an extension of his own will, with iron discipline.

Troops like these are those who can be truly useful on the battlefield.

As for the remaining four hundred or so men of the Right Battalion, though they’d been selected once already and faced no worries of pay or supplies, nor personnel disputes, they still lacked something in training. Seeing the difference now, Fu Rugui was filled with envy.

Of course, the envy was not for command, but for Zhu Cilang’s methods of drilling soldiers.

After exchanging a few words, Zhu Cilang glanced at the bamboo palisade of the customs office, now once more crawling with men. “Where are Yan and Wei?”