Chapter Fifty-Four: The Path of Blood

The closer they pressed forward, the heavier the casualties became. Explosions thundered around Yang Xiaolin, relentless and deafening. The Russians’ artillery skills far surpassed those of the former Qing gunners in the rear; each shell burst at the very edge of their formation, some even detonating right in its midst. The roar of those blasts not only deafened Yang Xiaolin’s ears but sent tremors through his nerves, rendering him unable to control his own senses.

Brothers around him fell one after another, those behind stepped up to fill their place, only to collapse in turn. The entire company advanced steadily toward the Russians through a rain of blood.

Yang Xiaolin’s unexpected breakthrough direction had transformed the battle; it was no longer a contest of military skill. No matter how accurate the Russians were, it made no difference. The bandits surged forward over their comrades’ corpses, and once they drew near, their storm of grenades could obliterate any Russian formation. This was a struggle of will against bullets.

After paying a terrible price in blood, Yang Xiaolin finally glimpsed the last Russian formation. Two machine guns stood at its fore, over a hundred Russians awaiting in grim readiness. The retreating Russian soldiers were regrouping behind, and among them a gray-haired Russian elder shouted orders—a clear sign he was the commanding officer.

Strangely, though his arm had long since been wounded, Yang Xiaolin felt no pain at all as the battle raged on.

“Suibing! Follow me, charge!” he shouted.

Suibing’s chest was a mangled mess of blood and flesh. Moments before, a Russian had fired at him, and though he twisted aside just in time, the bullet tore open a large section of his belly. One hand pressed his wound, the other reaching into a comrade’s basket for a grenade. “Alright!”

That brother’s arm was shattered, his left hand hanging by shreds of flesh from his shoulder. He bit down on the bamboo basket slung around his neck, stumbling after Suibing with determination.

By this stage, fear was gone. As long as breath remained, forward was the only direction.

Of the company’s two hundred men, barely sixty remained, most wounded, and some so grievously that even victory would not save their lives. Yang Xiaolin paid these no mind; he only knew the formation lay sixty or seventy paces ahead. Difficult, but not without hope.

“Charge!”

“Rat-tat-tat!”

The Russian machine guns swept the field, and the charging brothers fell as one, some dead, others pinned down, unable even to raise their heads.

Yang Xiaolin hurled a grenade with all his might, but it landed twenty paces short of the machine gun, the smoke offering no cover from Russian eyes.

He clenched his fist and struck the ground. “Crawl forward!”

The gunfire around them intensified, likely another Russian detachment closing in. Yang Xiaolin knew time was running out; if they couldn’t break through now, few of the thousand brothers would escape alive.

Machine gun bullets snapped overhead, yet under Yang Xiaolin’s lead, the bandits pressed on, inching closer to the formation.

Akberil was stunned. The courage of these bandits unnerved him—never had the Russian army faced such a battle. He swore to God, even the vaunted British would be hard pressed to withstand such an assault.

Watching the bandits draw nearer, General Akberil shouted frantically, “Fire! Don’t let them approach!”

The adjutant stuffed all his documents haphazardly into his satchel and trotted over. “General, should we retreat a bit? It would let us use our guns more effectively and keep us safer.”

Akberil glared at him. The adjutant’s suggestion reflected the thoughts of many Russian soldiers—this unfamiliar style of fighting unsettled them, their training offering no answers, their resolve wavering.

But Akberil knew retreat was impossible.

The adjutant, who had served him for years, lowered his head at a single glance, daring not to speak further.

“On the left! Kill those men on the left!”

Just a few steps more and Yang Xiaolin could lob a grenade into the Russian formation. Suddenly, a machine gun swung its barrel toward him, bullets spattering the ground and forcing him to halt.

He glanced behind; Biaozi too was pinned down, unable to move.

Yang Xiaolin’s heart raced with desperation. Just as hope seemed lost, Taihui emerged from a crater, his rifle trained on the machine gunner. A single pull of the trigger, and a spray of blood blossomed from the Russian’s skull as he toppled backward, lifeless.

Yang Xiaolin missed the chance, stunned for a split second. In that instant, another gunner took the position, but before he could fire, Taihui shot again—another Russian fell.

This time, Yang Xiaolin seized the moment. He sprang up, diving forward.

The third gunner ran toward the machine gun, but Taihui’s bullet struck him down before he could reach it. Yang Xiaolin hurled his grenade.

It landed beneath the machine gun; an explosion silenced it instantly. Taihui then targeted the gunner of the second machine gun, and when both guns fell silent, the surviving brothers rose without hesitation and charged. Grenades rained into the Russian formation, a chain of blasts spreading panic.

“Charge, brothers!”

Yang Xiaolin shouted again. With his grenades spent, he picked up a rifle from the ground and led the charge toward General Akberil.

Akberil tried desperately to salvage the situation, but as the bandits, blades flashing, engaged the Russians in close combat, he knew he had been defeated.

Before the Russo-Japanese War, Russian formations still retained tactics reminiscent of their triumph over Napoleon. They scorned bayonets and grenades, nearly removing them from their arsenal—until the Japanese taught them a harsh lesson.

Now, without waiting for the Russo-Japanese War, Yang Xiaolin had shown Akberil the deadly power of grenades and blades.