Chapter Sixteen: The First Battle

A faint smile forced its way onto Sui Bing’s face. “Understood.”

Suddenly, a voice from the side asked, “Captain, why are we staying behind? There are only forty of us left, and there are hundreds of them down there. If they charge, we won’t even have time to run. Why not leave with Big Blade Jin and the others?”

Yang Xiaolin turned toward the voice. The brother who had spoken looked away at first, but then bravely met Yang Xiaolin’s gaze, awaiting an explanation.

Clearly, he was not alone in his thoughts. Yang Xiaolin had let Big Blade Jin and Gu Tianming lead their men away first, leaving this band of brothers who had fought and bled with him to cover the retreat. It was only natural that they felt unsettled by this arrangement.

This battle had to be fought. Having once been a policeman, Yang Xiaolin remembered what his instructor had told him during training: when capturing a criminal, always check if he’s armed. If the criminal has a gun and dares to shoot, keep your distance.

Now, he was the criminal. He needed to demonstrate to the pursuing soldiers that he was armed and willing to open fire. Only then would the Qing troops hesitate, unwilling to press too close. If everyone retreated together, the Qing soldiers would pursue relentlessly, and chaos would ensue.

Compared to Big Blade Jin’s bandits and Gu Tianming’s men, Yang Xiaolin’s own followers at least had some military sense. But he didn’t say that aloud. What his men needed now was not a reason, but confidence.

“If we let Big Blade Jin fight, do you think it will go better? Listen to me: this battle will be easy. As long as you operate the machine guns as I instructed, and use the grenades properly, these soldiers will fall like rabbits before us! Don’t think about anything else. Buck up!”

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. One of the men squatting up front threw his arms back and fell to the ground, a gory hole in his head spurting blood. Panic rippled through the group; several of them raised their rifles, ready to return fire, but Yang Xiaolin urgently hissed, “Hold your fire! Stay down!”

The fallen man was known only as Er Gou—Dog Two. No one knew his real name, not even himself. He became the first of Yang Xiaolin’s men to die in battle against the Qing soldiers. Fighting to suppress his grief, Yang Xiaolin stared at the body. “Drag him aside!”

Was he being cold-hearted? He had no choice. When he’d been a soldier, his regimental commander had once said something that now rang true: Money at the gambling table is no longer money; a man on the battlefield is no longer a man. Once the shooting starts, see neither your enemies nor your comrades as people—and least of all, yourself.

Across the slope, more and more Qing soldiers swarmed up like ants, firing as they advanced. Seeing no return fire from the hilltop, their confidence surged, and they began to shout and curse.

But Yang Xiaolin’s men, curiously, grew calmer. After fighting for over half a year with Liu Yikun, they were no strangers to battle. Their earlier fear had been because their enemy was the Qing army—the court itself.

But with the shooting begun, they realized their fear was futile. When Er Gou fell, they understood this was a fight to the death. Abandoning their last illusions, their nerves steadied.

Yang Xiaolin watched the open hillside ahead; the ground fifty meters away was perfect for an ambush. As a group of Qing soldiers neared, he squeezed the trigger. “Ready!”

Rifles and machine guns were loaded. Grenades, as taught by Yang Xiaolin, were uncapped and set aside, eyes fixed on the enemy below.

“Fire!”

A burst of gunfire rang out. In an instant, more than twenty Qing soldiers fell. Flames spat from the hilltop, mowing down the attackers. The Qing troops had never imagined the bandits’ firepower would be so fierce. Caught off guard, they left dozens of dead in their wake; the survivors, hearing the thunder of the Maxim gun, were terrified—were these really bandits, or foreign troops?

If only Yang Xiaolin’s two machine gunners had been more experienced, they could have wiped out the entire first wave. But Sui Bing and his companion were using a machine gun for the first time. Though they tried to keep the barrel down as instructed, the weapon’s recoil left them unsure where their bullets went.

At best, it had been a show of force—and a bit of practice.

War is a matter of passion, especially for troops with little training. When things go well, their morale soars; when not, they turn and flee. Neither side in this battle was especially disciplined, but fortune favored Yang Xiaolin’s group.

The Qing soldiers were less lucky. With bullets whistling past and their comrades falling, panic seized them. Only one thought remained: Run!

Yang Xiaolin had no intention of letting them escape. Seeing the enemy rout and the machine guns’ effect waning, he snatched up his broadsword. “Brothers, with me—charge!”

They were just over forty, and despite the casualties, nearly ninety Qing soldiers remained in the first wave. Had the Qing troops retained any fighting spirit, a counterattack would have spelled disaster for Yang Xiaolin’s men.

But the Qing soldiers, famed for fleeing, stayed true to their reputation. Not one turned to fight. The bandits charged after them, slashing and stabbing with blades and rifles, chasing them halfway down the mountain. Only when they spotted Zhao Yansun’s main force approaching did Yang Xiaolin call the retreat.

A quick tally showed that at least a hundred and fifty Qing soldiers had been killed in this engagement, while Yang Xiaolin’s side had lost only Er Gou, who had not ducked in time and was struck by a stray bullet. It was a resounding victory—not only was Yang Xiaolin pleased, but his men were elated.

Sui Bing looked down at the Qing soldiers regrouping below and scoffed, “Captain, they dare to come again? This time, let’s wait until they’re even closer. We didn’t use the iron lumps just now; let’s give them a taste.”

Yang Xiaolin noticed someone below reorganizing the fleeing troops—a leader, by the looks of him, preparing another assault.

But Yang Xiaolin was no fool. Weapons aren’t the only key to victory; it’s people who win wars. There were nearly two thousand soldiers at the foot of the mountain. If they all rushed up at once, each firing a single shot, they would unleash more bullets than the machine gun could ever return.

His purpose in fighting this battle was to make the government troops wary of pursuing too closely in the future. That goal was achieved; there was no need to test if a single machine gun could withstand two thousand attackers.

Yang Xiaolin shook his head. “No more fighting. Bring me that little cannon. I’ll fire off a couple of shots, and then we’re pulling out!”