Chapter Thirty-Seven: The First Defeat

Domlikshava stood there in a daze, clearly at a loss. She desperately wanted to rush forward and fight the bandits—truly, just moments ago she had thought she could dash ahead and bravely fire at them with the gun in her hand. But now she didn’t even have the strength to move her legs. Why was this happening?

She didn’t know. Her mind was a blank. Wounded Russians were carried past her one by one, until a Russian woman suddenly grabbed her arm. “Girl, do you know how to dress wounds?”

Only then did Domlikshava remember she had learned first aid. She nodded vigorously. “Yes, I took a first aid course!”

The woman handed her a roll of gauze. “Great, help him quickly!”

Meanwhile, some of the people wandering about uncertainly were the Chinese laborers. Some were local peasants from the northeast, others were Qing soldiers captured by the Russians. There were even some who had come from the interior, unable to survive there; they had heard the Russian mines paid well and had come in search of a meal.

However they had arrived, once inside their fate was the same. The Russian mines were infamous for letting people in but not out—let alone paying wages.

When the gunfire outside reached their ears, their thoughts stirred. As they watched wounded Russians being carried past, these men—though seemingly docile under the muzzles of their captors—were far from truly submissive.

This was why the mine owners devoted so much force to guarding them. The marauders outside were wolves, likely to take a bite or two. But these men were a volcano; if they erupted, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Qian Yao’s eyes darted back and forth as he inched toward the barracks under the watchful eyes of the guards. He nudged Lu Qiang beside him. “Qiangzi, something feels off.”

Lu Qiang kept his hands tucked in his sleeves and didn’t even look up. He spat out three words, “Let’s do them!”

Qian Yao shook his head. “No, let’s wait and see. Head back to the barracks first.”

Lu Qiang was about to retort when a Chinese guard nearby racked his rifle. “What are you two whispering about? Want me to shoot you?”

Qian Yao looked up at him. “Liuzi, do you remember who your fourth uncle’s wife is? She’s my mother’s cousin. We’re all from the same village. Go ahead, try firing a shot.”

Liuzi’s mouth moved twice, but in the end, he just growled, “The Russian masters said no talking. Behave yourselves!”

Qian Yao said nothing more, and Liuzi ultimately didn’t fire.

A group of men entered their barracks—a room barely forty square meters that had to sleep over a hundred people. As soon as Qian Yao walked in, he scrambled up to his bunk and cleared his throat. The two laborers by the door pressed their ears to it and peered through the cracks. “Boss, there aren’t many people outside the door, just one Russian left!”

Qian Yao had once been a head constable in Shengjing. Life had been decent—not as grand as the officials, but with a steady salary and some perks, it was comfortable enough. Before Shengjing fell, he could have retreated with the magistrate, but for some reason, after a few drinks with his brothers, he ended up fighting the Russians with his gun in hand—and that’s how he landed here.

He stepped on a laborer’s back and climbed up to the ventilation shaft to look outside. The gunfire was getting closer, as if the whole mine was under siege. Russian casualties were mounting, with more and more being carried away.

He jumped down from the bunk and went over to Lu Qiang. “Grab the weapons!”

Lu Qiang had once been a bandit, caught by the authorities—Qian Yao had been the one guarding him. It was strange to think how fate turned: a year ago, Lu Qiang was trying to escape and Qian Yao stopped him, but now they were planning to escape together.

They’d been plotting their getaway for a while and had even prepared “weapons” for the purpose. Lu Qiang dug under his bunk and pulled out a stash of sharpened wooden sticks—more than twenty in all.

Not every laborer could have a weapon. Of the hundred-plus men in that room, only the strong got a stick.

Qian Yao distributed the sticks and took one for himself, then walked to the door. He listened carefully, his expression resolute. “In a moment, those of you with weapons follow me out first—take out the guards at the door! The rest, grab their guns but don’t stop—those with guns push forward, those without open the other barracks. Got it?”

Everyone nodded. “Understood!”

This was a desperate gambit, but none of the hundred-plus men in that room cared anymore. They knew staying meant certain death—fighting out was their only slim hope.

The gunfire outside grew ever closer, and it seemed the entire Russian force at the mine was in chaos. Qian Yao figured this was his best chance—and even if it wasn’t, he had to try.

He gripped his stick tightly, peered through the crack at Liuzi’s position outside, then spat viciously on the ground. “Charge!”

Over twenty laborers flung themselves at the heavy wooden door, locked from outside, with all their strength.

Bang!

The door groaned but held.

“Again!”

Suddenly, gunfire erupted at the door—a hail of bullets shot through the cracks, hitting the men inside. But their desperation was unstoppable: as those in front fell, the ones behind pressed on. When someone dropped their stick, another immediately picked it up.

After three ramming attempts, Qian Yao finally burst out of the barracks where he’d been imprisoned for a year. His heart surged with excitement as he brandished his sharpened stick, charging in the direction where he’d last seen Liuzi.

“Kill!”

Qian Yao shouted, stabbing Liuzi in the shoulder with his stick. Liuzi tried to hit back with his rifle butt, but Qian Yao was trained—a head constable. He yanked the stick down from Liuzi’s shoulder and punched him hard at the temple. Liuzi, in pain, loosened his grip, and Qian Yao snatched the gun.

There were only a dozen guards at the barracks door. After losing more than thirty men, the laborers overwhelmed them—the guards stood no chance and were quickly dispatched.

Qian Yao saw a Russian overseer fleeing in panic, blowing his whistle. Qian Yao immediately raised his gun and fired—he missed, but didn’t care, instead barking orders for the laborers to open the other barracks, and rushing toward the sound of gunfire, hoping to join forces with those outside.

Yang Xiaolin now heard gunfire from within as well and realized the Chinese laborers must have started a revolt. But now he had no choice but to retreat.

“Commander, Russian troops are coming—five or six hundred of them!” The sentry, Biaozi, ran over in panic. As if to confirm his words, a fierce burst of gunfire erupted on the flank, accompanied by the unmistakable roar of Maxim machine guns.

Yang Xiaolin’s face changed. He turned to Tang Yulin. “How did the Russian troops arrive so quickly? Didn’t you say the nearest garrison was dozens of miles away?”

Tang Yulin was at a loss. He didn’t know that, in order to fight Feng Delin, this mine had become a Russian supply base, and the garrison had been newly built to protect it.

Seeing Tang Yulin’s expression, Yang Xiaolin was filled with regret—regret at himself. Before the battle, he’d sent people to scout the surroundings, searching within ten kilometers to be sure. Clearly, some scout had shirked his duty and missed the existence of a huge Russian camp. The caliber of his men really left Yang Xiaolin speechless.