Chapter Thirty-Five: I Am a Han

Hiss!

The gruesome death of the Tartar soldier made Lu Qing involuntarily suck in a cold breath. Looking across, the Tartar soldiers had already reacted; several officers shouted curses, and a dozen soldiers surged toward Shi Dayong.

“Brothers, kill! If you kill one, you break even; kill two, you make a profit!”

“A Tartar has one head and one stick, brothers have one head and one stick too, what’s there to fear? Kill them!”

“The court has fed us for a thousand days; now is the time to risk our lives! Kill them, chop off their heads and trade them for wine!”

Shi Dayong charged ahead, his saber whirling fiercely, and with reckless valor, he slew another Tartar soldier. Faced with this fearless man, the Tartar soldiers before him felt a flicker of fear.

This Shi Dayong, truly a hero!

Lu Qing saw everything clearly and felt his blood surge; though Shi Dayong looked as if drunk, his steps unsteady and seeming ready to collapse at any moment, it did not diminish his towering image as he fought the Tartars with reckless bravery.

From afar, the Tartar officers heard Shi Dayong’s shouts and saw him leading men in a death-defying charge. The front ranks could not hold them back, and the officers frowned deeply, some glancing back toward Dushi Fort. Hearing the thunderous sounds of the army attacking outside, their brows relaxed, and as they looked again at Shi Dayong and the Ming soldiers, their eyes glinted with ferocity.

“Slaughter all the Han dogs!”

“The commander’s army will soon break in—follow me! Kill all these Han dogs, and the commander will reward you handsomely!”

A Tartar officer who had not yet acted suddenly shouted loudly; the other officers, hearing him, were invigorated and ordered their men to charge at the Ming soldiers.

The men who had followed Shi Dayong into the fray were equally fearless, shouting as they fought Tartars with all manner of weapons. The fiercest were Shi Dayong’s dozen subordinates, each fighting like a warrior possessed, determined to kill or be killed.

Yet, though these men were brave, their weapons were inferior and most were auxiliary troops unfamiliar with battle. Their momentary courage could not overcome their lack of skill in killing. Under the Tartar counterattack, dozens soon fell dead, but the survivors did not retreat. They shouted loudly and fought to the death, though their numbers dwindled, slowly becoming encircled by the Tartars.

“Damn it, even the cooks have gone in—if we men don’t follow, are we still sons of our parents?”

A Ming soldier with singed hair, shaken by Shi Dayong and his men’s reckless charge, cursed loudly and, with no hesitation, grabbed a blade and rushed at the Tartars.

With someone leading the way, the Ming soldiers who had just been thinking of escape were suddenly stirred. The men they had always looked down upon were now fighting the Tartars to the death, while they, trained soldiers, cowered—were they still men, did they still have any pride?

“We die, our sticks point to the sky, brothers—kill Tartars and earn rewards!”

“Damn it, they chased me like a dog earlier—now it’s time for me to show my mettle! Everyone, charge! Early death or late, it’s all death—better to fight these ungrateful wolves!”

“I, Song Bingde, cannot stand to see brothers die in vain! Up, brothers! Anyone who doesn’t help is a bastard!”

One after another, Ming soldiers roared and charged into the melee. Zhou Yunyi and the Night Raiders were not to be left behind; some spurred their horses forward, others threw aside crossbows and leaped from their mounts, blades in hand, rushing the Tartars.

So many men unafraid of death—how could anyone run now and still call himself a man?

Lu Qing stomped his foot, banishing thoughts of flight, eyes reddened as he raised his blade and joined the charge.

With the Night Raiders and the Wanquan Left Guard joining in, the Ming soldiers trapped by the Tartars suddenly felt their burden lighten. Seeing their fierce reinforcements, the Tartars began to fall back. The Ming soldiers, spirits lifted, shouted and charged recklessly, pushing back the Tartars encircling them by dozens of steps.

The tide began to turn in favor of the Ming army. The Tartar officers had never intended to fight the Ming to the death—their goal was simply to scatter the Wanquan Left Guard troops and prevent them from escaping into Dushi Fort. Earlier, with fires everywhere, they had caught the Ming by surprise in their sleep and slaughtered them with ease. Now their objective was nearly met: the remaining Ming soldiers had not escaped, but could not break into Dushi Fort either. The Tartars relaxed, believing that once the commander’s army arrived, everyone would share in the rewards. But unexpectedly, a flag officer appeared from nowhere, leading a band of fearless men in a desperate fight. The Tartar officers were suddenly troubled—if these Ming soldiers broke through to Dushi Fort and blocked the commander’s army, they would be doomed.

Seeing nearby Ming soldiers who had previously fled now returning, and the opposing hundreds of Ming soldiers charging forward desperately, the flag officer leading them was formidable. Under his command, the Ming soldiers’ morale and spirit were nothing like before. If this continued, who knew if they would break through and ruin the commander’s plans. The highest-ranking officer among the Tartars, a centurion, grew anxious. He snatched a bow and arrow from a nearby soldier, drew it, and aimed at the flag officer at the front.

As the Tartar centurion drew his bow, Lu Qing happened to see it. He saw the officer aiming at Shi Dayong’s direction and felt a chill—this was bad. Before he could shout a warning, the centurion released the string, and the arrow shot straight at Shi Dayong.

“Ugh!”

In the midst of the battle, Shi Dayong suddenly felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. Looking down, he saw he had been struck by an arrow. He cursed in the direction of the shot: “Damn you, cowardly sneak attack!” With a surge of blood, he ignored the arrow lodged in his flesh, grabbed it, and yanked it out, flinging a chunk of bloody flesh along with it.

“Tartars, I’ll fight you to the death!”

Shi Dayong, eyes blazing, his face twisted like a butcher, glared at the Tartar centurion who had wounded him, grinding his teeth. He blocked an oncoming Tartar soldier with his blade and turned to charge at the centurion.

Just as he was about to rush forward, another pain struck—another arrow hit him, this time in the belly. Before he could utter a furious roar, yet another—one, two… seven arrows in quick succession flew toward him.

Four of the seven arrows struck vital spots; one pierced straight through his heart!

“Damn you!”

Shi Dayong, struck by multiple arrows, could no longer stand. His knees buckled and he fell heavily to the ground, but his blade remained poised, ready to strike.

He was not dead yet, his eyes wide with fury, staring at an approaching Tartar soldier wielding a knife. He snarled, “You Tartars will die miserable deaths!”

The Tartar soldier, enraged, shouted back, “We are not Tartars—we are descendants of Genghis Khan! We are warriors of the grasslands!”

“Tartars are Tartars—let me tell you, in my eyes, you’ll always be Tartars!” Shi Dayong’s lips bubbled with blood, his face filled with contempt.

“Rubbish, I’ll kill you!”

Infuriated that a dying man dared to scorn him, the Tartar soldier swung his blade at Shi Dayong’s neck.

As the blade fell, Shi Dayong’s lips moved; though his voice was faint, the Tartar soldier heard clearly: “I am a Han!”

A spray of blood shot skyward, and a noble head rolled upon the earth.