Chapter 246
Chapter 246
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 246
Chapter Title: Chapter 246
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 246
Chapter Title: Sejong's Territory (2)
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Among the Six Garrisons, the Bureung Office in Hamgyong Province—its southernmost point—holds a particularly crucial position.
If the five garrisons of Hoiryong, Jongseong, Onseong, Gyeongwon, and Gyeongheung are the flowers of destruction bloomed by Sejong, then Bureung is the calyx gathering those five petals into one.
It serves as the bridge and vital pass linking the other five, which are nearly pure military outposts, to the interior. Without capturing Bureung, there's no path forward anywhere.
That was why Northern Defense Commander Jang Jihang of Hamgyong Province had planned to retreat no further than this.
Jang Jihang was an experienced general. Without relying on any skills, he had successfully rallied the "tactically routed" troops from all five garrisons at Hoiryong and pressed southward with them intact.
The people of the Six Garrisons had nothing to fear. At the war's outbreak, nearly all of them had packed up their grain and possessions and fled to Bureung. Merchants like that Gilsang fellow had pitched in greatly.
The denizens of the Six Garrisons lived with war ever in mind anyway. And since this was an order from "Earth Marshal General Kim Unhaeng," the man who had saved them from natural disasters, the lack of any major panic was a blessing.
All they had to do was hold Bureung, and Kim Unhaeng would send reinforcements.
That was the full extent of the operational plan Jang Jihang had been briefed on.
As he spurred his horse southward, Jang Jihang furrowed his brow.
"Fine words... but I wonder if this isn't just armchair generalship."
Reinforcements weren't going to arrive with such pinpoint timing.
This was the army—where sending a man to take a shit could spark a war, and even telling soldiers to just breathe might unleash unimaginable mishaps. How could anyone execute such a delicate plan with men like that?
And if the reinforcements were late? These paltry supplies scraped together from the five garrisons—by now, the grain folks had brought from home would be gone—would have to sustain Bureung's refugees.
To make matters worse, the spring lean season was just beginning. Botch it, and they might end up gift-wrapping the starving civilians and troops at this key stronghold, handing the whole package straight to the Qing army.
No—the odds leaned heavily that way. Jang Jihang, who hadn't yet heard the name Gudu Ryong Island, even wondered if this civil official Kim Unhaeng was just spouting nonsense out of ignorance.
He'd boasted to his men that Commander Kim Unhaeng would shoulder the blame, but a man of Jang's stature knew the ironclad truth of bureaucracy: credit to the bosses, responsibility to the underlings.
Especially against Kim Unhaeng. For him, turning an independence activist's excuse—"Not my fault, the subordinates'!"—into cold reality was child's play. Jang Jihang sank into worried contemplation: maybe he needed to take matters into his own hands now.
That was before he laid eyes on the massive fleet that had beaten him there, already disembarking south of Bureung.
The teeming masses of men, the raucous shouts, the towering stacks of grain and firewood, the greedy gulls wheeling over the rocking ships, the soldiers darting about with tireless energy—it was a scene bizarre enough to feel alien in this barren stretch of Hamgyong Province.
Jang Jihang could barely muster a single word.
"The late ones... were us."
Chongjin in North Hamgyong Province ranks among modern North Korea's top five ports.
But right now, it was just a nameless fishing hamlet south of Bureung. It had never been fit for mooring a fleet this size—comprised of countless frigates and fluytes (they'd left the sluggish ships-of-the-line behind in Pyongan Province).
Kim Ihwan spoke brightly.
"Back when Father served as training commander, he once used his shrinking-earth technique to nab Western instructors. He had Hamgyong's trees felled to supply the Hun Kingdom's ships. The ports used for hauling them were Dukwonbu to the south—that's Wonsan now—and this very Bureung to the north."
"I see. Those ferries and warehouses from back then have proven a godsend now. Truly Yi Baekcheolchun's foresight at work. A mere mortal like me could never match such distant vision."
"How can you, the nation's great pillar, call yourself a mere mortal? Father's a civilian at heart—what the court leans on in this turmoil are men like you."
Trusting a general who'd embezzled fifty thousand nyang? That spoke volumes about the state of the realm.
Yet as the saying goes, praise makes even whales dance. The supplies were woefully thin, true—but Jang Jihang, who hadn't skimmed a thing while herding the Six Garrisons' troops in retreat, felt a flicker of desire to live up to that reputation.
To preserve one's good name, one must befriend those who bestow it. Jang Jihang cleared his throat and asked,
"In any case, arriving by sea ahead of us is nothing short of miraculous. You must have inherited your house's secret arts, wielding Chun Bujang's shrinking-earth technique with mastery."
Regrettably, those words rubbed Kim Ihwan the wrong way.
His father hadn't passed down the family secrets, even now that Ihwan had racked up clear merits and reached adulthood.
He'd broached the subject obliquely several times, only for Father to snap about "not transmitting to the unworthy [非人不傳]" and such.
Frankly, what right did a man prattle on about classic cultivation when it came to military matters? Kim Ihwan could feel his filial piety blazing like wildfire.
Was it a hint to marry? He'd even confessed to Mother that he wanted to take a wife—tough for any Joseon man—but this household marched as one.
"You're still young. To aid your father and exalt the clan, you can't pick a bride lightly. Watch the court's winds and bide your time. Until then, ditch those lewd playthings and mind your conduct. Start by acing the exams like your father—no shame to onlookers."
Kim Ihwan felt like a chaebol heir being told to grind through his dad's company recruitment test.
Shouldn't Father at least parachute him into a department head spot? If Mother hadn't brought up his pervy habits, he could've pushed back—but he'd fled the room like a scalded cat.
In any event, he hadn't buckled down to exam prep.
True to form as Kim Unhaeng's son, he'd thought his way around it.
Through this Japanese diplomacy business, bolster the "supply overseer" crown prince—the nominal project head—gain his backing. Then rack up merits here in the Hamgyong defense that even he couldn't erase.
Family secrets and high office, both secured.
To Kim Ihwan, this beat the exam's uncertainties. As his bastard-genius pals griped, the exams couldn't truly test a scholar's mettle.
Kim Ihwan steadied himself and replied,
"I'm still too green for the family secrets. This is all thanks to Father's predicted southeast wind."
Wind divination was small potatoes after shrinking earth. Jang Jihang slew common sense with a single stroke and nodded.
"Worthy of Grand Secretary Kim Chunsik. There must be a follow-up stratagem, then? My guess: block the barbarians in that long valley from Bureung to Hoiryong. Pool our Bureung forces with mine to hold it?"
The roughly fifty kilometers from Hoiryong to Bureung lacked decent relays, threading a single treacherous path through rugged highlands at the eastern tail of Samsu Gapsan. Textbook defile terrain.
"You've seen it exactly. Though there's no need for the general to trouble himself in person."
Jang Jihang cocked his head.
"Send out the Liberation Vanguard troops? Granted, they rule sea and deck—but they'll falter in ravines and fields."
"Precisely. And no need for thirty thousand apiece. A narrow pass takes few to hold. Everything per Father's design..."
Kim Ihwan smiled enigmatically and glanced behind him.
There, Yeonggilli slaves grunted under loads of Japanese grain—the lifeline of Bureung's folk.
Zheng Hai, holding the rank of Yeonggotap Budotong as a trusted direct subordinate of General Gilim Hongnok, hailed from a distant branch of the Aisin Gioro imperial clan—Joseon's Liu Bei, if you will.
Still, his honor outshone street peddlers or local thugs. He led the most prestigious vanguard cavalry of three thousand from Gilim's forward contingent.
Dubbed the Gyeongheung "Highway," poor road conditions had delayed them—but past the garrison zone southward, proper routes awaited for the sake of livelihood.
One subordinate, uncharacteristically literate for a Manchu, piped up.
"This is the 'siege terrain' from the classics. We should beware enemy ambushes, no?"
Three Kingdoms-era drivel. Zheng Hai shot down the lowly ploy.
"In the Jeongmyo and Bingja years, Joseon troops lurked in scattered hillforts lining the Yiju road—that was ten-sided burial alive. Did it halt our Taizong Hong Taiji's heavenly host? Hidden forces weaker or slower than the assaulters are worthless."
His men swooned over Zheng Hai's sermon on modern maneuver warfare's essence. He spurred them on.
"Our vanguard's task: press ahead, smash the foe first. Between us, word is the Black Dragon River general's already crossed the Tumen chasing glory. We've lagged enough—can't stain our general's face further."
Then the advance scout galloped back.
"Joseon troops ahead, hundreds strong, dug in. But..."
"But?"
"Not Joseon. Ragged red robes—telescope shows official headgear, faces hideous and grotesque like the Arasa. Southern barbarians, looks like."
Zheng Hai stayed cool.
"Hmph. Same as the Nikkan Ming in the old Japanese wars. Useless fighters, so they bought southern mercs. I've heard Joseon cozies up with the Yeonggilli too."
No need to fuss to General Gilim over that lot. The Qing vanguard, ten times their number, charged on undaunted and spry.
The Virginia militia posted to the Hoiryong-Bureung defile had been issued the latest weapons and fresh ammo pilfered from the British in Taiwan.
But Adjutant John Stark couldn't rejoice over such trifles. He cried out in anguish.
"Let's bolt now! Why must we play suicide squad in someone else's war?"
George Washington fell silent a moment. Then repeated himself for the fifth time.
"Flee where, how? Chinese ahead, Joseon behind. And if my intel on their plan holds, Joseon's odds of victory are strong. Cooperating here's the smart play."
"Joseon wins, we're still dead!"
"But the gains if we survive are huge. What's to fear? We dove into twenty times our number of Chinese in China proper. This is paradise by comparison."
Stark knew the "gains" well enough. But he couldn't agree.
"You really buy Joseon's pie-in-the-sky promise of British warships and independence aid? How many more times do we fall for those sly foxes?"
John Stark, ever the steadfast future independence general, backed the cause itself.
Britain seemed unlikely to recompense the Virginia militia. As Washington said, defeated colonial America faced nothing but brutal exploitation—plain as day.
British warships as payoff? Plausible enough (though this crew could man but a couple at most). Asians couldn't handle them, but in America? Game-changer.
But partnering with world-class con artists like Joseon? The scam was too brazen, even if circumstances forced their hand.
"Motive's solid. Joseon lacks the muscle for a second British push. I've explained it plenty."
Couldn't just brush off a tactical commander like Stark. Washington bent effort to convince him.
"This war isn't wholly theirs. Joseon breaking free from Qing vassalage. See it as practice liberating America from the king's yoke? This experience will pay dividends."
Alliance of oppression's victims, thirsting for liberty. What a swelling, noble banner.
John Stark realized it—not that Washington was right, but protests were pointless. He sighed in resignation and reformed the line.
Odds were solid. New kit on mentally frayed European infantry holding terrain of absolute advantage.
Joseon field guns in support, prior lopsided kills against Chinese. Above all, Joseon's scheme was primed.
Stark clenched his jaw.
As Washington foresaw, the Qing sent surrender terms first. A Joseon artillery officer translated.
"You're coin-bought mercenaries—why throw away your lives? The Yeonggilli of Tianjin fall soon. Surrender now; I'll plead to spare you. Reverse your arms, yield flags and drums."
If only they were real mercs.
Veteran Washington knew battlefield protocol. No slaying heralds like some Asian savage.
Instead, he solemnly surveyed his men, then turned to the envoy.
The Virginia militia had started at around five hundred.
Tossed by storms afar, above all Ryukyu enslavement—now three hundred remained.
Those three hundred faced down a horde in the narrow pass.
"Flags and drums..."
Joseon standards amid the British squares caught Washington's eye.
Father of (Joseon) Independence George Washington issued his fervent defy.
"Come and take them [ΜΟΛΟΝ ΛΑΒΕ]."
Washington held one edge over Thermopylae's Leonidas: unlike those Persians, this time the defenders—Joseon—had seized the invaders' rear first.
Mountsides dead silent as Qing passed suddenly bristled with grim-faced fighters popping up.
Their apparent leader murmured low.
"Flashes blazing, cannon thunder rolling. Fight's kicked off per the ploy."
It was Yiju Merchant Captain Gilsang.
Former big Qing smuggler broker in the Six Garrisons. His know-how had shone in evacuating the civilians; now he lurked here with his old crew and local volunteers.
Gilsang addressed those around him.
"Even these Western barbarians—who've scarce heard a sage clear his throat—follow righteousness to fight to the death. Shall we sit idle? Hamgyong louts worse than China-lickers forgetting Dog-Beating Stick Kim Unhaeng the Earth Marshal's grace? The world would jeer."
Hamgyong now cleaved to Kim Unhaeng over the king.
Not just rat-chasing.
If anywhere deserved perks, loyal Hamgyong—yet too near the demon realm, it'd been a convict dump with Pyongan since old times.
Overkill—not Australia. Pyongan had cash; Hamgyong zilch. War meant expendable pawns—victim complex not unfounded.
Yet Kim Unhaeng hadn't ditched it.
Pulled civilians for guerrilla use, showed clear intent to repulse. Sending his "clan heir" above all proved the love.
Gilsang and his guerrillas threw their all into it.
Hamgyong brooked no weaklings; great scholar Song Siyol vouched "even women turn soldiers." Any house slave could pass the military exam.
They rolled boulders to seal Qing rear, Herculean-stacked logs. Burly housewives, manlike in build and mien, pitched in.
"Devils'll torch wood blocks—bury powder underneath too."
No telling how long Westerners held; end it quick. Amid the frenzy, one spoke up.
"Since we're cutting rear anyway, why not wait till Jurchen main force floods our home turf?"
Gilsang wiped his brow and answered.
"No need. That horde'd clear this fast—and there, Dog-Beating Stick Kim's dispatched the young master with the same ploy."
All marveled.
Same rear-cut, details unknown—but Dog-Beating Stick Kim had plans. Qing'd end like past Six Garrison rats: trapped in granaries, torched by Earth Marshal.
Such was the fate of those irking dread sovereign Sejong.
East of the Tumen toward Vladivostok—likely iced shores thick—a vast blob-cluster landing etched sharp beneath my eyelids.
I opened my eyes.
A razor-edge op, but thank heavens for the Russian-made Primorye east coast map they'd slaved over.
Prone before me, Duijuwang prodded.
"Commander, why no word? Qing's scattered like sand—time to wrap Gudu Ryong Island, no?"
Touchy sort. Got it, got it. Good news incoming—no excuses needed. Convenient.
I replied simply.
"No."
"No?"
"Indeed. Just getting started, Your Highness."
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