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

Zhao Sheng spurred his horse up the gentle slope on the northeast side of Nangou, reined in his horse, and looked back.

The warhorse paced restlessly at the top of the hill, puffing out puffs of white steam.

From this spot, the battlefield below the slope can be clearly seen. A dozen or so black dots are clustered together, like a disturbed ant colony, but surprisingly... they haven't completely dispersed.

Chen Feng stood at the very front, shouting something at the top of his lungs.

The burly Hao Dadao was kicking and punching several fleeing soldiers who were trying to escape back into the formation.

A few defeated soldiers, carrying long branches and broken spears, somehow managed to gather together and form a crooked and ridiculous circle.

Zhao Sheng's brows furrowed into a knot.

He doesn't understand.

He really didn't understand.

Just half a month ago, he personally witnessed how General Wu Xiang, upon seeing the Tartar banner on the outer battlefield of Dalinghe, abandoned the central army and rode off with his personal guards and servants without looking back.

With the commander-in-chief fleeing, several battalions of soldiers collapsed instantly. They were pursued by the Tartars for thirty miles, and of the six thousand troops, only a little over a thousand managed to escape back to Jinzhou.

That was the Liaodong he knew; the higher the rank, the faster one could flee; the more soldiers one had, the more gruesome the deaths.

But this Chen Feng, wearing cloth armor of unknown origin and bearing a title of "Chief of the Army" whose authenticity is hard to discern, with only a dozen or so half-dead and defeated soldiers under his command, actually chose to form a battle formation when faced with a hunt by six riders capturing survivors.

What puzzled him even more was that, even with someone leading the escape, a few of the fleeing soldiers actually listened to Chen Feng's shouts and tremblingly raised the tattered items in their hands.

Zhao Sheng's thoughts drifted back to the woods during the day. He saw Chen Feng tying those lousy leg wraps around that soldier named Liu something, personally distributing meat to the big soldiers, and chatting and laughing with them.

When the soldier helped him put on his armor, he thanked the soldier. A centurion who doesn't drink the blood of his soldiers and thanks a soldier? That's unheard of.

This is what made Zhao Sheng realize that Chen Feng was an imposter.

However, Chen Feng's marching arrangements were well-thought-out, taking into account the burden of those with night blindness, and even ensuring that they were not abandoned when pursued by the enemy.

"Stupid!" Zhao Sheng squeezed out a single word through gritted teeth, unsure whether he was cursing Chen Feng or the inappropriate stirring in his own heart.

Comrades-in-arms? In this world, only those who survive are comrades-in-arms; those who die are just dogs on the street.

His own gang of night spies, their remains still rotting in some ravine somewhere.

He gripped the reins tightly, turned his horse around, and prepared to leave.

He had already sentenced the defeated soldiers to death in his heart; the outcome of the battle was a foregone conclusion.

Just then, a sharp sound rang out!

Zhao Sheng looked back and saw an arrow, with a mournful whistle, limply landing on the slope twenty or thirty paces away from him, its fletching trembling slightly.

A Mongolian man was looking in his direction and talking to his companion beside him.

"You damned Tartars (a derogatory term used by border troops to refer to Mongols)! How dare you shoot your grandfather!" He spat viciously and took the horse bow from his back.

He suddenly spurred his horse, and the warhorse neighed loudly, charging wildly down the mountain towards the chaotic battlefield!

"Idiots! They're all fucking idiots!" Zhao Sheng cursed under his breath, but it was unclear who he was referring to.

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At the bottom of the ditch, Chen Feng and his men had already engaged the enemy in battle.

Another person was shot in the face and fell backward without uttering a sound. Another person was hit by an arrow and was clutching his wound and howling in pain.

The rudimentary circular formation was on the verge of collapse. No matter how much Chen Feng shouted, the people behind it refused to move an inch, only turning to dodge the incoming arrows.

Chen Feng felt his left shoulder and right rib tremble repeatedly. With two "clangs," the arrowhead struck the iron plate under the cloth armor.

On Hao Dadao's side, there were muffled "thuds" as he used his strength to protect his head and face with a broken shield he had snatched. His iron armor took several arrows, but his movements did not slow down.

The enemy did not use armor-piercing heavy arrows, which allowed them to survive the first two rounds of ranged attacks by sheer luck.

But Chen Feng's heart sank. These cavalrymen were very cunning and did not charge directly into the enemy lines.

The four men were scattered thirty paces away, trotting on their horses and circling the formation. Every now and then, they would fire an arrow from the shadows. Each time the bowstring twanged, it caused a subconscious huddle and commotion within the formation.

The other two riders pursued Aji and Meng Changgeng, who were attempting to retaliate with arrows from the flank, forcing them to retreat and preventing them from providing effective support.

This is standard grassland hunting tactics: slowly draining the prey's blood through fear and continuous casualties until they are completely broken, and then it's time for a relaxed and enjoyable chase.

Chen Feng's forehead was covered in sweat. He knew how to deal with cavalry charges and had learned to use the terrain, but this kind of patient and cruel mounted archery strangulation was beyond his past experience.

They lacked decent ranged weapons, had insufficient rattan shields, and were poorly equipped. If the enemy continued to harass them from a distance, it was only a matter of time before their morale collapsed.

What to do? Charging out would be suicide, holding out would be waiting to die, and because of the enemy cavalry's roaming and their own continuous casualties, the original plan to slowly retreat had also fallen through...

"Boss! Gun!" A trembling voice rang out from behind.

It was the soldier he had ordered to load the ammunition. He actually completed the loading in extreme fear, trembling as he handed over the musket, his eyes filled with terror.

Chen Feng's eyes lit up. He grabbed the musket. The muskets from the late Ming Dynasty were already quite accurate. Moreover, this kind of musket was previously used by the Bayara people, and its manufacturing was even more exquisite. Hitting the enemy within thirty paces was not a problem!

He took a sudden step forward, almost breaking out of the protective range of the circular formation, and aimed at a cavalryman who had just fired an arrow and was turning his horse to the side.

"Bang--!!"

The loud explosion echoed at the bottom of the ravine, and the projectile shot out accompanied by white smoke and flashes of light. The thick white smoke obscured Chen Feng's vision.

The cavalryman's leather robe burst open in a spray of blood, and he screamed as he fell off his horse.

Chen Feng heard the sound of the enemy falling from their horse and knew that the shot had hit.

Before Chen Feng could even feel joy, a sudden change occurred!

The instant he fired his gun and his figure was exposed, a rope noose was thrown from the smoke on his side and precisely snagged his neck!

The rope tightened suddenly, and a tremendous dragging force came!

Chen Feng felt a chill on his neck, and a feeling of suffocation instantly overwhelmed him.

He lost his footing and was dragged forward, then pulled to the ground by the force of the galloping warhorse, and dragged out of the formation!

"Boss!!" Hao Dadao roared, his eyes wide with rage, and was about to rush out to rescue him.

Just as he was about to swing his knife to cut the hemp rope, a long, sharp, armor-piercing arrow pierced through the gap between the armor plates and struck his left shoulder socket!

Hao Dadao's massive body trembled violently, and he let out a muffled groan as his sword-wielding motion was interrupted.

In that brief delay, Chen Feng had already been dragged more than ten steps away, his body scraping violently against the gravel.

He felt his vision blurring, his feet kicking wildly on the ground, his hands futilely trying to pry at the tightening noose, a chilling despair washing over him.