Chapter 227
Chapter 227
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 227
Chapter Title: Liberator (2)
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Li Shiyao, the Governor-General of Fujian and Zhejiang Provinces and Commander of the Zhejiang Naval Forces, gazed down at the British army from his position on Yantang Mountain (near present-day Yueqing City in Wenzhou, Zhejiang Province).
From here, heading northwest led to Hangzhou Bay, and northeast to Ningbo.
No matter which of their targets—Ningbo or Hangzhou—the British forces advancing along the coast had to pass through this area.
It was also a prime strategic location in its own right, nestled amid vast, magnificent mountains and rivers. The towering rocky cliffs of Yantang Mountain offered superb visibility.
Li Shiyao surveyed the barbarian horde arrayed before him. The telescope, 'exported' in that bizarre manner by the Joseon Liberation Force, revealed far more troops than the rumors had suggested.
And most of them were Chinese.
No telescope was needed to tell them apart. The 'Great Ming State' had failed to properly articulate the ideology of Han restoration, so most still sported their familiar queues. The glare from tens of thousands of shaved pates shone like the sun descending upon the earth.
Even the adjutants without telescopes clenched their fists in outrage.
"Are there really this many traitors dancing to the whims of the Westerners!"
But Li Shiyao, more learned than they, saw it differently.
Soldiers rarely went to war for ideology anyway. Even in the 21st century, most soldiers in most wars had no clue what they were fighting for.
Enlistment usually came down to tangible incentives—money or threats.
Peering through the telescope at the front lines' faces, Li Shiyao realized what they'd been promised.
Of course, Admiral Henry Potter, Colonel George Washington, and most of the British soldiers didn't speak a word of Chinese.
Better that way. It let them ignore the curses and pleas vomited up by dying Chinese civilians while relishing their carefree life of plunder.
And the tens of thousands of Chinese gathered here didn't speak English either. Hard to teach when they were opium addicts who could barely manage Chinese anymore.
But none of that mattered.
Henry Potter jabbed his cavalry lance forward decisively.
"Opium!"
That archaic Latin incantation transcended linguistic barriers, piercing straight to everyone's core.
And its effect? Pure, undeniable magic.
Before the expeditionary force arrived, the East India Company had spent over a year crushing Taiwan and smuggling in opium, corrupting some 30,000 addicts. Now they writhed and twisted with grotesque cries as they 'charged' forth.
"Grraaaah!"
"Uwaaaah!"
Mostly barefoot, their footsteps still shook the ground like an earthquake.
Fewer than one in ten had weapons, but their battle frenzy was off the charts. They were already drooling, flailing their arms at thin air.
The Qing troops frantically shook their signal cords, exchanging what amounted to telepathy: 'Do those bastards not see this massive army and our lined-up cannons?'
But compared to opium withdrawal agony, bullets or bayonets were a joke. Henry Potter's dark magic legion of undead addicts overflowed with one thought: smash whatever was in front of them and get the drugs, fast.
In that instant, the Qing front lines clashed head-on with the ragtag mob of green recruits and ragged civilians.
Dreene, the knight on the cliffside, was French.
Henri Bergson was still decades away from his prime, but the vital élan the Chinese had shown—spanning over two centuries—set Dreene's heart pounding.
Fearless bravery in the face of death was, paradoxically, proof of life itself. Stirred, Dreene eagerly took on a support role he would normally have scorned.
"Supporting our Oriental friends. Prepare to fire!"
The Qing heavy weapons were locked on the zombie horde. Point-blank shotgun blasts—the kind Paris mobs would face in thirty years—spewed horrific sprays of blood.
No means to counter the French artillery.
Dreene unleashed a barrage straight at the tangled frontline of undead and Qing troops.
Qing barricades splintered, warhorses bolted, and cannons and powder crates erupted in flames.
French and Qing alike fired simple iron balls. But accuracy always trumped raw power, making the shelling evoke the shrapnel rounds that wouldn't be invented for another century.
The same fate befell Potter's undead legion. The French gunners had no intention of wasting their precision on avoiding friendly fire.
To them, this was the most fitting end for Chinese. The racial prowess that Hitler would later see as his top rival to eliminate swiftly.
Jean-Jacques Blaise d'Abbadie—who'd turned down a nonexistent Louisiana naval command to serve as Le Dragon's adjutant—chuckled merrily.
"The British will thank us for cutting down their opium tab!"
Dreene smirked.
"True enough. But the one who'll be most grateful is someone else."
"Who?"
"That Virginia bumpkin bragging about beating Montreal fur trappers. Let's see what glorious results his 'main assault' under that British admiral yields."
d'Abbadie burst into laughter.
"Oh, heaven forbid that 'flank raid' flops so badly he gets captured, leaving British hesitating over hostages and forcing us to charge through tears instead!"
"Couldn't agree more. No such tragedy. Ha!"
Of course, George Washington had zero intention of granting the Frenchmen's ironic wish.
The army arrayed here numbered 120,000 on paper—a force rivaling a major city.
Its formation could only be 'natural,' inevitably fractured by terrain.
Washington was fully prepared.
He'd pulled aside 200 elite Virginia militiamen from his direct command, dressing them in captured Chinese garb. The queue demand sparked Neo-Confucian outrage from his men—"outrage upon hair, outrage upon parents"—so they compromised with cloth turbans over their helmets instead.
He'd also commandeered the Heaven and Earth Society's canal boats meant for assaults. Thus plausibly disguised, the Virginia militia followed the streams converging on Yantang Mountain, probing for the Qing army's vitals.
Li Shiyao's flouting of all legal procedures meant his army lacked any rule of law.
Washington figured such a hastily assembled force couldn't have tight security. Spot on.
No joint training, not even a clear org chart. Unified supply or comms? Laughable.
Rear troops, too distant to see the front's bloodbath, were plenty busy surviving. Fishing, hut-building, foraging—they hustled to endure the night.
This was just a mob of 100,000. Less 'army garrisoned in mountains' than 'folks living in a mountainous village.' Washington wondered if he could have marched right in drumming a tune.
'Only the front units are a real army. A little noise here sparks total chaos.'
As Washington scanned warily, his trusted adjutant John Stark returned, leading the rest of the split infiltration squads.
Impossible without his Indian warrior upbringing and legendary Rogers' Rangers exploits on the Great Lakes front.
Washington gripped Stark's hand firmly and issued orders.
"Scale that cliff now."
"Prime sniper perch."
"Exactly. Hardly any proper camps, so easy to spot. Fancy flags mark senior officers. Drop a few, then relocate. After that, your call. I'll head that way."
"Understood."
A colonial militia specialty, unburdened by noble traditions: officer assassination.
Europe's aristocrats prided themselves on leading charges—captured nobles weren't killed. Europe's noble class was one big family of kin and cronies, guaranteeing mutual safety.
But America, self-proclaimed eternal democratic deliveryman (no returns), rejected such antiques. Continental Army hunter-snipers openly picked off preening British officers, sowing chaos.
Same here. The only difference: no one mistook Chinese for nobles, so they could shoot guilt-free.
Virginia snipers nestled between Yantang's cliffs lined up multiple pre-loaded rifles and took careful aim with their first shots.
Half were British muskets; the other half, suspiciously Brown Bess-like Asian muskets seized from the Heaven and Earth Society. Whatever their smuggling origin, the familiarity won over the expeditionary troops.
Washington whispered to his men around him.
"You've all heard the rumors: the homeland taxing everywhere to cover the last war and this expedition. Our land grievances trace back to that too. Rather than wait for someone to fix it, we took up arms to prove our worth."
The militiamen listened in silence. Washington's quiet speech ended abruptly.
"Win this fight, and we rescue the Europeans trapped in Joseon. The expedition brass won't ignore us then. We're the liberators of Christians—and of Americans."
The militiamen voiced assent in sniper fashion. They pulled their triggers.
Expecting the zombie-battling Li Shiyao to detect a minor rear disturbance was asking too much.
He caught on only after it ballooned into 'major chaos.' Sending scouts amid the blasts and smoke, he recoiled at the shambles of the rear camp.
"What the hell happened back there!"
Snipers prioritized easy powder keg targets. Explosions everywhere shattered the militia's will to fight.
The officers barely holding them together dropped to mystery bullets.
Folks without soccer experience fixate on the ball in front. The Qing troops, vision tunneled by shock and terror, had no trouble concluding 'massive enemy flank assault.'
Even units too far to hear gunfire panicked at the fleeing masses. Desertion spread like plague; Yantang turned into an exodus in seconds.
Competent general Li Shiyao dimly sensed the deception.
But seeing through it didn't mean he could counter.
Gritting his teeth, he watched British and French main bodies advance, trampling addict corpses.
'However!'
He battered down despair in a frenzy.
Stay calm. It was still a 120,000-strong army.
Even cherry-picking actual troops, they outnumbered the enemy several times over. Collapse now was exactly what the barbarians craved.
For the first time, Li Shiyao thought not of the Emperor, but of others.
Yielding before these inhuman maniacs meant the entire continent becoming fodder for the goblin spawn from across the sea.
Since his Liangguang governorship days, proposing anti-smuggling edicts, Li Shiyao had been the empire's shield against the Western plague. He couldn't run—even if everyone else did.
Li Shiyao drew his sword.
Not for some idiotic suicide charge.
With the petition already submitted, I was free to depart anytime.
I boarded personally. I shut down the likes of Jin Hoe muttering, "Kim Chunsik heading to the front lines himself?"
But we hadn't crossed the sea yet.
The activation condition 'become Joseon forces' apparently required the king's edict.
Word games like declaring all Qing troops Joseon forces wouldn't fly. No rush—I had investigating to do.
While prepping, I decided to meet Joseon's top naval ace, Han Jung-ryang, as specified in the petition.
Han remained Nambyeon Naval Commander. Truth be told, I was the odd case; even vital missions rarely expanded command that far. Yi Sunsin topped out at Three Provinces Naval Commander.
But Han's fleet outclassed even the West Sea command for this region. That's why he was tasked with ferrying me to Shandong.
Entering my command tent, Han held two thin letters.
"What's that?"
"Hard to say. Take a look."
One was an official Qing document via official channels; the other, from the British via Jeju Island.
Ten years as an international pirate admiral made English no big deal for a naval commander. I skimmed the British missive.
Then burst out laughing with Han.
"No clue what they want from me."
"Right? Both claiming victory."
Post-Yantang battle, their fastest move was contacting Joseon.
The Qing boasted of gloriously smashing the barbarians at Yantang, demanding Joseon send the promised fleet to Shandong to handle the White Lotus rebels.
The British crowed of their 'glorious triumph' securing Hangzhou and Shanghai under their sway, stridently requesting POW releases and 'mighty Joseon navy' reinforcements.
Proof both were desperate.
For the Qing: if they'd won, why need more troops in Shandong? Crush British remnants with Li Shiyao's army, handle Shandong with direct capital garrisons. No political heat from landing foreign forces.
But they did need Joseon troops.
British same: occupy key ports, why kowtow to Joseon hostages? Just sail the grand fleet to Ganghwa, bring cannons to bear, and scoop up POWs and reinforcements in one go.
They'd mutually wrecked each other. Royally.
I glanced around.
"The plan might as well be done."
That 'plan' naturally included rescuing the White Lotus. Maeng Chan, eyeing me sidelong, spoke up.
"Our brethren are scattered across Shandong, led by the Eighteen Protectors. Even I don't know all the spots—how do you plan to save them?"
That's for mortals.
I replied confidently.
"Never heard of strategists in tents winning battles a thousand li away? True wisdom infers the unseen. If you need eyes on it, you're no sage."
Even Han eyed me dubiously, so I elaborated.
"Herbalists spot herbs by terrain; hunters find beasts by forest shapes. Gauge the mountains' sprawl, river courses, villages, roads—human haunts reveal themselves naturally."
Han looked like he had plenty to say but schooled his face. He wasn't some green kid blurting everything.
"If Chunsik of the Hundred Stratagems is scheming, no need for more words. Have faith."
Aimed at the assembled generals, really—phrased like advice for Maeng Chan.
Pre-expedition, command trust couldn't waver. Seasoned general.
Of course, I'd deliver on expectations.
Kim Chunsik's name would echo as liberator of White Lotus faithful and Christians alike.
Author's Notes
1. Yantang Mountain remains a famed tourist spot even in the 21st century. It truly boasts massive, beautiful rocky cliffs and rivers.
2. The Latin 'opium' derives from ancient Greek 'opos' (plant sap/juice). With such ancient history, it entered Hanja script as 'a-bu-yong' or simply 'opium' via phonetic borrowing.
3. Élan vital is originally a philosophical term unrelated to war. Henri Bergson coined many unique concepts, but shallow as my scholarship is, he strikes me as one of philosophy's tougher reads.
4. Jean-Jacques Blaise d'Abbadie historically coordinated between American natives, British, Spanish, and French in Louisiana at this time, dying in New Orleans. He served under Le Dragon but, unlike the story, held high naval rank by 1765—higher than Dreene.
5. Europeans weren't big on 'body hair from parents' philosophy, but they mocked the queue as a 'pig tail' too.
6. John Stark was a veteran of the French and Indian War and Revolution. As a boy, he fought native raiders, was captured and raised by impressed tribes, then ransomed back to become a soldier.
7. Li Shiyao proposing anti-smuggling edicts to curb British trade appears in chapter 178's 'Shrimp Bursting' part too—but it was historical fact.