Late Ming Dynasty: From the Defeated Soldiers at Daling River to Ascending the Throne

"Rocket launcher! Take cover!"

Chen Feng was engulfed by the shockwave of the explosion. His last remaining consciousness consisted of his comrades' distorted roars and the weightless feeling of being lifted into the air.

When he regained consciousness, one thought that came to his mind was that the jeep was really sturdy; it had taken a rocket head-on and was still unharmed.

Then, Chen Feng heard the rumbling of cannons all around him, but strangely, he had never heard such cannon sounds before and could not tell the caliber of the cannons.

Moreover, there was no whistling sound of shells cutting through the air, nor the feeling of fragments flying everywhere.

He opened his eyes in confusion, and a jet-black shell rolled right in front of his face, wisps of white smoke rising from its round shape.

Thick, pungent gunpowder smoke filled the nostrils, mixed with a nauseating smell of burning hair and grease.

Chen Feng's mind froze for a second. A solid cannonball?!

Peacekeeping missions in Africa, rebel groups, and rockets... all fragments of memory were shattered at this moment by the ancient cannonball before them.

He instinctively reached for the pistol at his waist, but there was nothing there except a linen belt.

Chen Feng was increasingly confused. What happened to me? Did I time travel?

Another burst of artillery fire rang out. Chen Feng pressed his body firmly to the ground, but he didn't hear the whistling of the shell cutting through the air. He could feel the fragments flying everywhere, and the shape of that shell reappeared in his mind.

What was going on? Chen Feng's mind was in complete chaos.

"Arise! Form ranks!!" A hoarse roar exploded in his ears, and a whip lashed across Chen Feng's back.

The thick clothing shielded him from the whip and pulled him back to reality. He staggered to his feet, stunned by the sight before him.

The sky was overcast, with a faint glimmer of the setting sun on the western horizon. A thick fog enveloped the area, reducing visibility to less than two hundred paces. A river flowed silently through the mist not far to the east.

The densely packed figures were either screaming or fleeing. Some people rode horses back and forth in the crowd, giving orders to form ranks and cracking their whips incessantly.

The red armor worn by the rider was so striking that Chen Feng paused for a second... Armor?

Chen Feng looked down at himself: he was wearing a tattered cotton armor with several holes in the chest, revealing rusty iron plates underneath. In his left hand, he gripped a flintlock pistol, its metal parts covered in dark red rust.

Wasn't he on a mission in Africa? Was this a prank by his comrades after he was hit by artillery fire? But how could his comrades possibly pull off such a large-scale prank with such terrifying details in a war zone?

"Tartar cavalry! To the west!" someone shouted.

Chen Feng looked in the direction of the sound, and the scene before him made his heart skip a beat.

In the mist, several hundred cavalrymen, led by a general in bright yellow armor, charged toward them, the ground trembling slightly from the hooves of their horses.

Those were cavalry?

The riders, their bodies pressed against their horses, had already begun their charge, the tips of their lances gleaming with an unsettling cold light. Even more striking were their heads, each with a long, thin braid trailing behind them like a rat's tail.

Chen Feng's brain refused to process this utterly absurd scene, and his body instinctively trembled with fear.

After that shout, the once orderly line instantly fell apart. People began to run away, first one, then ten, and eventually the whole group retreated.

The sound of hooves grew closer, like drums pounding on everyone's back. The clatter of armor plates colliding and the neighing of warhorses created a chaotic cacophony that drowned out the officers' desperate shouts: "Hold your ground! No retreat!"

Rout is contagious, like a plague on the grasslands. The fleeing crowd was like a swarm of wasps whose nest had been disturbed, pushing and shouting aimlessly. The soldiers threw down their weapons and shields, scattering in all directions—towards the river, north, south.

Chen Feng was also swept up in the fleeing crowd and fled eastward with his back to the setting sun.

He gripped the musket tightly, his throat tightening. Reason told him: he couldn't turn his back on the enemy; he had to observe their movements and retreat when the opportunity arose. But his body's instincts told him: Don't turn back!

"Form ranks! Form ranks to defend against the enemy!" A man who looked like an officer waved his waist knife in an attempt to organize a defensive line, but no one paid any attention without his order.

"The Tartar camp is to the east! ... " An arrow whistled through the air and pierced the officer's neck with pinpoint accuracy.

His eyes widened, and he futilely grasped the arrow shaft with both hands before slowly kneeling down, only to be trampled beyond recognition by the fleeing crowd.

The last vestige of hope in Chen Feng's mind that "this is a drill or a prank" was shattered completely as the body was quickly trampled beyond recognition. He must have transmigrated.

Chen Feng quickly accepted this fact. As he ran, he forced his chaotic brain to piece together the information: the officer spoke Chinese, which he could understand; the armor style seemed to be from the Ming Dynasty. The enemy was cavalry with queues (braided hairpins); was it the Later Jin? The Qing Dynasty!

Looking around, I saw that I was to the north and the temperature was very low, so I was probably in the Northeast.

The time and place made him inwardly groan. Traveling to Liaodong at the end of the Ming Dynasty was practically suicide. It was a hellish start.

"Form ranks! Form ranks for me!" Ahead, another officer's roar drowned out the clamor of the fleeing enemy.

Several guards beside him flashed their swords, and several fleeing soldiers who tried to run past him fell to the ground.

The bloody scene did have an effect; dozens of soldiers in tattered red uniforms stopped and barely managed to gather together.

Arrows were nocked to bowstrings with trembling hands, and matchlock muskets were hastily lit. Arrows and slingshots flew sparsely at the pursuers, and several warhorses neighed and fell to the ground.

But this feeble resistance was like a stone thrown into a torrent; more Later Jin cavalrymen bypassed their fallen comrades, and their momentum in the charge did not diminish in the slightest.

Chen Feng also reflexively raised the musket in his hand, muscle memory driving him to complete the actions of loading and lighting the matchlock.

Just as Chen Feng was about to pull the trigger, a loud "bang" rang out. A soldier's musket exploded in a burst of fire and black smoke, accompanied by a loud explosion and a piercing scream. Hot shards and bits of flesh splattered all over Chen Feng's face.

Chen Feng shuddered as he looked at the unfortunate man rolling on the ground. The horrific scene caused by the explosion made Chen Feng's throat tighten, and the thought of fighting back was completely extinguished.

He turned abruptly, threw the musket behind his back, and continued to flee for his life with the fleeing crowd.

After running for an unknown amount of time, Chen Feng collapsed behind an overturned grain cart, gasping for breath. His lungs felt like they were about to burst, and his throat was filled with the taste of blood.

The physical fitness honed through modern military training was greatly diminished in this unfamiliar body; the physique was weak, hungry, and seemed to harbor hidden injuries.

Taking a breather, he began to examine his condition: the body's owner was probably in his early twenties, an ordinary soldier, but with little sign of training.

An arrow was embedded in the wooden plank of the grain cart, its fletching vibrating and emitting a sickening buzzing sound.

Chen Feng peered out and his heart sank to the bottom. The Jin cavalry had already charged into the fleeing soldiers. The Jin soldiers were hacking and slashing through the crowd with spears and knives, blood spraying everywhere, and screams rising and falling. It was a one-sided massacre.

He saw a young soldier kneeling on the ground begging for mercy, his skull smashed by a mace.

He saw an old soldier turn around and fight back, slashing the horse's leg with his broken sword, before his head was smashed by a galloping spear.

Where have I traveled to?!

After running for a while, Chen Feng calmed down somewhat and wanted to figure out where he had transmigrated to and what his identity was...

"Run!" Just as Chen Feng was lost in thought, a veteran-looking Ming soldier tugged at him, shouting as he ran forward, "While the Tartars are dealing with those unlucky bastards behind us, hurry up and run! Any more dawdling and we'll be done for!"

Chen Feng followed the veteran forward. He didn't recognize the veteran; the original owner's memories were a blank. But a strange sense of familiarity in his subconscious made him not resist. Perhaps the veteran was from the same hometown as the original owner, or perhaps he was from the same team.

Put aside the chaos of time travel and the search for our identities for now; the most important thing is to survive! Survive!