The cavalry of the Wushen Tribe burst out from concealment, hooves pounding like thunder.
They were fierce, fast, and confident—an overwhelming force that seemed impossible to stop.
They feared infantry least of all.
Especially infantry like this.
From their perspective, the Ming unit ahead looked completely unprepared, its attention fixed entirely on Wangjia Fork fortress. Musketeers standing idle, artillery crews focused forward—everything suggested negligence.
A sudden flank charge like this was guaranteed to succeed.
The instant the cavalry appeared, Luo Xi's face drained of all color.
"Mongol cavalry!" he screamed hoarsely.
"It's Mongol cavalry! We're finished—completely finished!"
"Finished?" Shi Jian laughed lightly.
"What's finished? We've known they were here all along."
As he spoke, Shi Jian raised his hand.
"Right turn!"
The command rang out.
The thousand soldiers moved as one.
In perfect unison, they pivoted to the right, their formation shifting smoothly from facing Wangjia Fork to facing the Mongol cavalry charging toward them.
Not a single man hesitated.
What Luo Xi did not realize was that every musket had already been loaded.
Shi Jian's voice followed immediately, calm and steady.
"Tiered volley fire. Then—open fire at will."
At the same moment, Zheng Gouzi roared,
"Tiered volley fire! Then, open fire at will!"
The order rippled outward.
"Tiered volley fire! Then, open fire at will!"
Mid-ranking officers shouted it.
Low-ranking officers shouted it.
The words echoed through the formation as if the army itself were speaking.
Luo Xi stood there, stunned.
When did they prepare?
No discussion, no scouts reporting back, no visible signal…
How did they know the Mongols were here?
He could not possibly know.
High above, the Heavenly Lord hovered in the reconnaissance balloon, long since having spotted the Mongol cavalry. Through the subtle co-sensing link, the information had spread quietly—like ripples through water—to the Cotton Thread Heavenly Lords embedded in the soldiers' armor.
Orders were transmitted in voices so low that only those nearby could hear.
Li Daoxuan understood infantry's weakness well.
Musket units were slow. They could not charge. They could not pursue. If cavalry discovered them too early, the riders would simply turn and leave, and the infantry could do nothing but watch.
So long ago, he had set down a tactic:
Feign ignorance.Feign ignorance.
Lure the cavalry into a charge.Lure the cavalry into a charge.
Then annihilate them with gunfire.
The militia soldiers performed their roles flawlessly.
They pretended not to see the Mongols.
They pretended to be engrossed in the artillery barrage.
Yet beneath that act, cartridges were already being slid into chambers, and firing lines had been quietly aligned toward the Mongols' concealed approach.
By the time the cavalry burst out, the trap was complete.
The Mongol riders saw the Ming formation turn—perfectly, simultaneously.
Then the muskets rose.
"Fire!"
A deafening volley erupted.
Gunfire cracked through the air like tearing silk.
In northern Shaanxi, sandstorms were fierce. Traditional matchlock muskets were notoriously unreliable—priming powder blown away the moment the pan was opened, ignition failing, reloads painfully slow.
That was why Mongol cavalry feared such weapons so little.
But now—
They realized they were wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Not a single musket misfired.
Every weapon discharged instantly, cleanly, decisively.
And the range—
It was far beyond what matchlocks could achieve.
The Mongol riders still believed themselves safely out of reach.
Then the front ranks collapsed.
Men and horses fell together, crashing into the ground.
Those behind roared in alarm.
"While they reload! Charge!"
But during that single shouted sentence, the Chassepot riflemen were already moving.
Breeches snapped open.
Spent paper scraps were flicked away.
Fresh cartridges slid in.
Breeches snapped shut.
Muskets rose again.
Another volley thundered out.
More riders fell.
The Mongols were stunned.
What kind of cursed weapons fire this fast?
Before, Ming armies fired once—once—and then we cut them down!
How have they already fired twice?
Before the thought could finish—
A third volley erupted.
Gunfire tore through the charging mass.
More riders pitched from their saddles.
In just moments, three thousand bullets had been fired.
Three to four hundred Mongol warriors lay dead or dying.
For the Wushen Tribe, this was not a loss.
It was a disaster.
Their tribe was not large. Losing hundreds of young, able-bodied men in the span of a dozen breaths meant only one thing: annihilation.
The tribe leader's eyes burned crimson.
"Retreat! Retreat immediately! We can't charge any farther!"
A fourth volley roared.
Another wave of riders fell.
At that moment, the chief understood.
The Wushen Tribe was finished.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
The surviving cavalry reined in their mounts and fled northward in chaos, not daring to look back.
"Tch."
A Cotton Thread Heavenly Lord muttered softly.
"Too many escaped. Infantry can't pursue cavalry—an unavoidable flaw."
Luo Xi finally snapped out of his stupor, laughter bursting from him.
"They're finished! The Wushen Tribe is finished! Hahaha! Four or five hundred men lost in one battle! Their tribe is ruined! They'll be swallowed by other tribes for sure!"
Shi Jian glanced at him.
"What's so interesting about them being absorbed by other tribes?"
"It's only interesting if our Great Ming absorbs them."
Luo Xi blinked.
"Huh? Why would we absorb Mongols?"
Shi Jian shrugged.
"You wouldn't understand."
He turned back toward Wangjia Fork and pointed.
"The Mongols are dealt with. We continue. Eliminating the rebels is the priority."
The soldiers chuckled softly, then turned back in perfect order.
Their guns lowered.
Their attention returned to the fortress.
Luo Xi stared in disbelief.
So many Mongols lay dead nearby—yet not a single soldier rushed forward to loot, to claim heads, to cut ears.
No greed.
No excitement.
No disorder.
Only obedience.
Such discipline was priceless.
Just then, from within Wangjia Fork fortress, a burly, rough-faced man emerged.
He ran forward several steps, raised his saber high with both hands—
—and knelt.
He remained there, unmoving.
Luo Xi sucked in a sharp breath.
"That's Wang Chenggong! Is he… surrendering?"
From inside the fortress, voices rang out clearly:
"We surrender!"
"No more fighting!"
"We surrender!"