Chapter 25: Welcome to the Real Battlefield

The atmosphere at the Beiping garrison turned icy overnight.

After months of silence, the remnants of the Northern Yuan had once again bared their fangs. A scout camp a hundred miles beyond the border had been wiped off the map in a single night; of the three hundred brothers stationed there, not a soul survived.

When the news reached the camp, the entire army was shaken.

Inside the commander’s tent, Xu Da’s face was dark enough to wring water from. On the sand table before him, the black pieces representing the Northern Yuan had crossed the border line, like a poisoned blade thrusting deep into the heart of the Great Ming.

"Fan Tong!"

"Present!"

Fan Tong stepped out from the ranks, clad in thick, heavy black armor. The bone-cleaving blade at his waist was thicker than the waistlines of the men around him. A leather waterskin slung behind him still sloshed with half a pot of chilled sour plum soup, ready for the journey.

"I order you to lead the vanguard battalion and depart immediately to patrol the northern line," Xu Da said, his finger carving a sharp arc across the sand table. "Annihilate all scattered Yuan forces, and bring me their heads!"

"Understood!"

Fan Tong accepted the order without a word of nonsense and turned to leave. This was his first time truly commanding troops independently, free from the shelter of the main camp.

Zhu Di’s heart skipped a beat at the command.

The vanguard battalion’s movements were shockingly swift. There was no oath-taking ceremony, no pre-battle mobilization. Fan Tong’s order consisted of only one word:

"Move!"

Thousands of soldiers assembled rapidly. Beyond their weapons and armor, each man carried a massive pack filled with dried meat, meat cakes, and highly concentrated broth cubes. This army looked less like a patrol unit and more like a group heading out for a wilderness drill.

They had barely traveled thirty miles from the base, entering a sparse woodland, when Bao Nianfeng’s nose—more sensitive than a hound’s—began to twitch.

"Boss," he said, leaning toward Fan Tong’s ox, his voice muffled. "There’s a smell up ahead."

"What kind of smell?"

"Blood, horse manure, and a rank, gamey odor." Bao Nianfeng licked his lips, his eyes brightening. "Mixed with the sour stench of undercooked roast meat. It’s foul."

Zhu Di felt a shiver of dread. They were still seventy miles from the site where the scout camp had been raided. How daring were these Yuan soldiers to have ventured so deep?

Fan Tong did not order a defensive stance, nor did he slow their pace. He simply unhooked the waterskin from his ox, took a deep gulp of sour plum soup, and gave a lazy wave of his hand.

"Attention everyone, ready your gear! Time to eat!"

Zhu Di tightened his grip on his mace. He noticed that as the veteran soldiers heard the word "eat," the expressions in their eyes shifted instantly. It was not the hunger for food, but a predatory glint, a mix of excitement and cruelty. These men had equated slaughter with sustenance.

***

Half an hour later, they discovered traces of the Yuan force in a hidden mountain hollow. It was a small camp of about two hundred men. The campfire was roaring, and a dozen Yuan cavalrymen were huddled around it, tearing at a half-raw leg of lamb while laughing and cursing loudly.

Hanging from their warhorses were the dried, severed heads of the Ming scouts.

Zhu Di’s pupils contracted, and a surge of fury rushed to his brain.

However, Fan Tong was faster.

There were no tactics, no flanking maneuvers, not even a shout. Fan Tong simply made a throat-slitting gesture to his personal guards.

*Boom!*

The eighteen ogre-like personal guards, followed by Zhu Di, charged forward like nineteen prehistoric beasts emerging from the woods, launching the most savage assault imaginable.

Bao Nianfeng led the charge, his giant axe swinging in a lethal arc. A Yuan corporal who had just scrambled to his feet was cleaved in two, horse and all; warm entrails and blood splattered the faces of those nearby.

The battle entered its bloodiest mode from the very first second.

Zhu Di swung his heavy mace, and with one blow, a Yuan soldier’s breastplate buckled inward, the man flying away like a broken sack. But the "cooks" around him were even more ruthless. One cook, besieged by three Yuan soldiers, ignored his own defense, taking two blades to his body just so he could grab one of the men, open his mouth wide, and bite down on the enemy’s throat!

*Squelch!*

A fountain of blood erupted.

The Yuan soldier let out an inhuman shriek, while the cook, his mouth dripping with blood, looked on with an increasingly frenzied gaze.

Zhu Di was stunned. He had seen slaughter, he had seen bloody battles, but he had never seen such a primitive way of fighting. This was not war; it was hunting. The soldiers of the vanguard battalion were the hunters, and those elite Yuan troops were nothing more than helpless prey.

The battle ended quickly. The entire hollow was transformed into a slaughterhouse of flesh and blood.

Fan Tong rode his black ox in, swaying slowly. He didn't even glance at the corpses on the ground; he walked straight to the campfire and kicked the charred carcass of the lamb.

"Bah! What a waste!" he cursed, then shouted to his men, "Set up our pots! Slaughter these Yuan horses! Tonight, we’re having horse-meat hotpot!"

The soldiers cheered, skillfully beginning to clear the battlefield—skinning, de-boning, cutting meat, and starting the fires.

Zhu Di stood where he was, his stomach churning. He watched his comrades, who had been fighting tooth and nail only moments ago, now happily processing the enemy into "ingredients." A profound sense of absurdity and discomfort welled up in him.

Just then, the sound of hoofbeats came from outside the woods. A dozen straggling Yuan scouts, unaware of the danger, charged back in.

"Boss, we’ve got some stragglers!" Bao Nianfeng shouted.

***

Fan Tong was busy directing his men to add spices to the pot. He didn't even turn his head as he said, "Zhu Hu, those fish are for you. Don't use your knife or fork—grab them with your bare hands!"

Zhu Di looked up sharply. He stared at the dozen charging Yuan soldiers, then back at the steaming hotpot.

A nameless fire burned in his chest. Without hesitation, he gripped his mace and charged out alone to meet them.

This time, he used no elegant techniques. All that remained in his mind were Fan Tong’s coarse words: "If you can gouge their eyes, don't hit their face; if you can grab their crotch, don't kick their legs."

"Roar!"

Zhu Di let out a suppressed growl, like an enraged bear. He plunged into the enemy formation, his mace whistling through the air with the force of a storm, simple and brutal, sweeping and striking.

A Yuan soldier raised his blade to parry, but Zhu Di didn't even look, smashing his mace straight into the horse’s head. The warhorse collapsed with a mournful cry, pinning its rider underneath. Zhu Di stepped forward and delivered a clean, final blow.

Another Yuan soldier attempted a sneak attack from the side. Zhu Di didn't dodge; he took the blade on his shoulder, sparks flying, and simultaneously struck back with his mace, crushing the man’s skull deep into his chest cavity.

Trading injury for life! Trading life for life!

This was the true rule of battlefield survival that Fan Tong had taught him.

When the last Yuan soldier was pinned to the ground by his mace, Zhu Di was drenched in blood, gasping like an ox. He stood amidst the corpses, a god of slaughter.

He had won, and he had won decisively.

Yet, there was no joy in his heart.

He looked down at his hands, stained with blood and brain matter, then looked toward the distance, where the fat man was using a large ladle to scoop up a pot of boiling broth, savoring it with contentment.

Fan Tong seemed to sense his gaze, raised the ladle toward him, and grinned.

"Zhu Hu, well done! Come on over, the soup is ready—drink it while it's hot!"

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the trees, illuminating Fan Tong’s oily, smiling face. It looked so warm, yet so blindingly harsh.

Zhu Di suddenly felt as if he understood something, yet he felt even more lost than before.

He carried his mace and walked over, step by step, each step feeling as though he were trampling upon his own former understanding of the world. He reached the hotpot, looked at the bubbling chunks of meat and the crimson broth, and asked in a hoarse voice the question that had been circling in his heart for so long:

"Boss, what exactly is the difference... between us and the Yuan soldiers we just killed?"