Chapter 81: Everyone a Soldier

Yang Xin did this on purpose. He wanted to leave these men with no other choice.

Defend Shenyang.

After victory, he would use his special connections in the Imperial Palace to make them look good to Wanli…

For that, he supposed he should thank the rumors. Though he was just a commoner without any official position, not only did Xiong Tingbi trust him, but even the Li Family brothers listened to him. Rumors had been flying everywhere recently, filled with guesses about his real identity. These rumors were exaggerated, some even suggested he was the Imperial Noble Consort’s kept lover. When he left the Capital City, Wanli himself had personally beaten the drums to see him off. All his tales from the Capital, amplified by distance, had turned him into some kind of sorcerer corrupting the Imperial harem with evil arts.

Of course, the wilder the rumors, the more intimidating they made him seem.

So, all the Shenyang garrison commanders were convinced of his influence within the Imperial Palace.

Therefore, Wanli would surely compensate them for their losses. That was practically guaranteed. Wanli wasn’t so old and foolish as to miss that. Plus, Wanli would see their loyalty and reward them with promotions and titles. They stood to recoup their losses double-fold.

But if Shenyang fell, or if they surrendered to the Jiannu…

Then they would lose everything.

Wild Boar Skin wouldn’t compensate them. In fact, sparing their lives would be a mercy, something they knew very well. At least until now, Wild Boar Skin hadn’t been a particularly appealing master. Li Yongfang and Tong Yangxing weren’t examples they envied. The former had no choice but to surrender or die, the latter had long been close to Wild Boar Skin. Weighing these options, defending Shenyang became the garrison commanders’ only real choice. Holding Shenyang meant they might keep their lives and their wealth, even gain rank and title. Not defending it meant, at best, maybe saving their lives – and that was far from certain.

After all, Wild Boar Skin had lost a son.

Whether Wild Boar Skin would rage and slaughter everyone in the city remained unknown.

Besides, they couldn’t oppose Yang Xin now. Their reliance was their private retainers, the Household Troops, but those who had witnessed Yang Xin’s ferocious madness on the battlefield – which among them dared to stand against such a monster of a warrior?

Thus, the outcome was set.

The two enforcers, Cao Wenzhao and Huang Degong, leading Capital Garrison soldiers with no local ties, swiftly smashed down the gates of the wealthy estates. They brazenly seized all livestock, carting out every piece of gold, silver, silk, and similar valuables they could find.

Soon, the scent of roasting meat filled Shenyang.

Soldiers and townsmen, their bellies full of meat, looked at their likewise well-fed wives and children. Instantly energized, they threw themselves into repairing the city walls. It was only some collapse; mud could patch it. In fact, before it dried, mud made scaling harder. Embedding some iron spikes within the mud would be perfect. While mending the walls, they also rapidly constructed small catapults, or ‘composite trebuchets’…

Simplified versions, naturally.

Imagine building a shed: two crossed wooden frames lashed together, buried base-down in the earth, with a beam across the top. A long lever was crossed over this beam, one end short, one end long. The short end had dozens of short ropes tied to it; a crowd of townsfolk, even women, would grab these ropes. The long end had a pouch stitched from strong fabric tied to it. They placed a brick or stone into the pouch. The people on the short end pulled down with all their might—whipping the long end upwards—and hurled the stone skyward.

This thing was actually called a ‘composite trebuchet’.

A small, battlefield-expedient catapult used during open-field warfare.

Its quality was abysmal.

Durability? Equally poor.

But regardless, it could hurl a five-to-six-pound brick some thirty to fifty meters. When enthusiasm was fresh, sometimes they managed to throw over a hundred meters away.

That was enough.

Just throwing something beyond the wall was sufficient.

The main problem for these townsmen was fear. They dreaded facing the Jiannu head-on. Forcing them into bloody combat atop the wall likely meant mass desertion. But this method required no direct confrontation. Unless the Jiannu scaled the wall, these townsmen wouldn’t even see the enemy. They just needed to stand behind the wall, repetitively loading and firing. Aiming? Unnecessary. Just hurl the stones; that was all. As their reward? Five-tenths of a tacel of silver per person.

Per day! Paid daily!

The silver landed in their hands every single day.

Even the women joined in the bustle.

Their job was to re-distill liquor confiscated from the city stores, producing high-proof alcohol for treating wounds, especially minor ones. Arrowheads were dirty affairs back then; infection killed as many as the arrow itself—like when Li Rumei shot Ono Naruyuki, and Japanese insisted he’d used poisoned arrows. The women also bound stretchers, set up massive cauldrons, and sterilized cloth bandages. Proper sterilization meant most minor wounds wouldn’t affect fighting capability. Yang Xin had barely five thousand truly battle-ready troops; the lightly wounded had to keep fighting.

Even children were put to work, going door-to-door collecting… waste.

They needed to brew ‘liquid gold’.

An evocative name, despite the awful subject matter, it was useful stuff. It maximized the damage of any wound. If you got hit anywhere, and that stuff got into the wound? Infection meant almost certain death. Truth was, they had plenty of methods for defending a wall without guns. With gunpowder weapons becoming more common, many forgot the old ways. People instinctively sought firearms when fighting broke out, neglecting non-explosive weapons entirely. Like the Three-Crossbow Platform Ballistae Yang Xin found dusty in Shenyang’s garrison armoury. Unused for decades, they hauled them onto the wall after minor repairs. Arrowheads? Fine. The city had blacksmiths; garrisons had their own weaponsmiths. They could forge new heads out of pig-iron. If hit by one of those things? Having the arrowhead present or not barely mattered.

Even some similarly ancient crossbows were brought out.

“Technological progress catapulted us into the age of firearms,” sighed Yang Xin. “But our stride was too long, overreaching the true extent of that progress!”

The Ming Army’s problem lay in its reliance on firearms, while cold-steel combat skills withered.

This was ironically much like the Great Qing.

Beyond a core of elite Household Troops, the common soldiers scarcely knew how to fight hand-to-hand. They couldn’t draw strong bows, barely used crossbows anymore. Instead, they leaned on an assortment of noisy, often unreliable firearms: Three-Eyed Guns, Tiger Crouching Cannons, Frankish Cannons, Matchlock Guns. Yet firearms hadn’t matured enough to dominate 17th-century battlefields. The slow reload time of matchlocks crippled their suppression power. Cavalry could cross their effective range in moments; even charging infantry could close that gap. Fights inevitably degenerated into brutal close combat. Once the Jiannu pushed past the firearms and closed in, Ming soldiers, unprepared for blade-work, broke utterly.

Conversely, troops like the White Pole Soldiers, steeped in traditional warfare, shone brightly alongside the disciplined Zhejiang Army when combined into mobile wagon fort formations (“chē yíng” or field forts). Together they proved the Jiannu’s deepest pain in open battle. The Great Qing never counted its dead at the Hun River, but the sheer number of Ming commanders who fled without combat revealed the Jiannu’s deep desperation during that fight. What haunted Jiannu memories most from the Hun River? The crossbows.

“That’s not necessarily the case!” Chen Yujie countered.

“Don’t think Europeans rely solely on firearms,” Yang Xin retorted sharply. “Their armies fight half with steel too. The Spanish Tercio has a firearm-to-pike ratio like Qi Jiguang’s carriages. What they excel at? Their longspearmen dare stand face-to-face, stabbing at eyes and throats across ten feet of air, way better than volley-fire. Now, the Red Barbarian Cannon ships? Excellent pieces, but they’re naval guns—ships don’t worry about weight or manoeuvrability! On land, unless sieging a fort, Europe’s field guns are no better than ours. Yes, our Frankish Cannons are junk, but their most common battlefield gun? A light piece throwing two-or-three-pound shot!”

Yang Xin knew precisely what Chen Yujie was driving at.

Their thinking consistently diverged. Yang Xin favoured Qi Jiguang’s mobile wagon forts. Chen Yujie admired the tactics described by Missionaries, especially the Spanish Tercio infantry squares.

“But do their field guns explode in their crews’ faces as often as these Frankish Cannons?!” Chen Yujie argued, unconvinced.

“You should understand,” Yang Xin replied, “their artillerymen generally pray to Yahweh before each firing. They ask Him to shield them from the horror of their own guns blowing apart.”

“Huh?” Chen Yujie stammered, confused.

“It’s an era of mediocrity,” Yang Xin said. “Don’t imagine Europe’s vastly superior to Great Ming. Battles there are still decided by steel. When Spanish Tercios clash? Victory finally comes down to ranks of men plunging spears into one another. Hand-to-hand fighting, cold steel killing… Even two centuries from now, it’ll likely remain the ultimate decider. Firearms are useful, yes, but they won’t make close combat irrelevant before either of us sees the grave. What’s truly wrong? Not lack of guns—we already have too many types, often uselessly complex. What the Ming Army truly needs to fix? The cold-steel combat skills we’ve abandoned.”

As they spoke, the crimson sun rose at the horizon’s edge. Outside the walls, countless Jiannu bearing scaling ladders poured from their camp.

“Wild Boar Skin is in a mighty hurry!” Yang Xin noted, sounding genuinely surprised.

“He knows the state of Shenyang better than we ever could!” Chen Yujie said.

Indeed, Wild Boar Skin truly did understand Shenyang’s internal condition better than either of them—they hadn’t even realized whole sections of wall had collapsed! Even if Wild Boar Skin himself didn’t know the exact state, Li Yongfang, Tong Yangxing, or Fan Wencheng certainly did. He likely didn’t need complex siege engines; simple ladders might suffice. Or perhaps Wild Boar Skin truly was frantic. His grain supplies probably wouldn’t hold out much longer.

“Then let’s give them their battle!” Yang Xin declared, his voice thick with adrenaline.

He snatched the signal horn from a soldier nearby. Facing the dawn sun, he blew hard. The loud, clear blast echoed across Shenyang, tearing open the curtain on the bloody slaughter to come…