Chapter 248
Chapter 248
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 248
Chapter Title: One Hundred Slashes Sword Technique (1)
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Virginia Militia Vice-Captain John Stark was fortunately not badly hurt.
But mentally, he appeared to be in worse shape than any of the groaning wounded comrades around him. Stark stared blankly at the campfire and muttered.
"Even after going this far, will the Joseon army keep their promise?"
Washington made a resolute declaration he himself didn't truly believe.
"They will."
"I still can't trust those God-mocking bastards."
While the militia hauled Kim Ihwan's luggage on Ulleungdo, they'd witnessed such depravity that rumors now swirled among the Virginians about Joseon men and Japanese rutting like beasts. Well, Joseon folk believed Westerners indulged in sodomy, so it was six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Washington didn't snap at the pointless griping.
This unyielding resolve, more than any tactic, was why he was the Father of the Nation. Through the Revolutionary War's endless defeats, retreats, and even mutiny threats, Washington had never surrendered.
And it was the same now, even as a slave.
"I've told you a dozen times—it's a win for Joseon too. The only wildcard is..."
"What?"
The campfire's fierce glow cast brooding shadows across Washington's face.
"How Joseon wipes out the Royal Navy's main force still lurking in Tianjin. Word is the Tatar interceptors number around thirty thousand—not nearly enough to overwhelm the British now that the seas are open to them."
Neither man noticed that no one called the British "us" anymore. After gazing at the flames' wild dance for a long stretch, Stark suddenly snickered.
And offered an unexpected reply.
"We're in this mess, so those stiff-necked homeland officers are bound to swallow the bait. Callous as it sounds, all I see is them falling for that wild dog butcher's devilish ruse and crumbling from within."
Pride as colonists laced his words.
Frail homelanders could never outmatch Virginians forged in the savage frontier.
In that pride, Washington saw the spark of independence reignited.
His trusted friend and aide, John Stark—the man who'd stoically endured Indian captivity. He wasn't one to shatter so easily.
So Washington grinned broadly.
"Exactly."
The clash between the British and Mongol forces at Tianjin was unfolding, in the end, just as the Mongols had hoped.
In other words, carbon emissions had plummeted.
Months of brutal fighting had yielded no decisive edge for either side. All that piled up were countless corpses.
Still, if pressed, the British—fighting far from home—were in deeper trouble.
Admiral Henry Porter, fidgeting amid the ever-cleaner environment, one day received a letter from Mongol Supreme Commander Zheng Huangqi, Dudu Saekgeuksin.
"If we withdraw now, you won't be harmed?"
The missive came with a knowing subtext anyone could grasp.
Simply put: for the sake of face, let the world see the Mongols driving out the British. The Mongols would hold back during the retreat—no attacks from either side.
"Lucky for us the Tatar generals are corrupt."
Admiral Porter let out a sigh of relief.
"No sense bleeding more men dry. We'd never have enough left to sail these thirteen ships home anyway. Worth considering. Relay it politely to our Joseon Navy officers in camp. Say we're pulling back temporarily due to the tide of battle, then returning."
The Joseon forces had diligently supplied the British to keep their fight alive.
But pegged as lovers of bland fare, they'd gotten subpar rations. Prime British powder and shot? Already looted by the Liberation Squadron in Taiwan. The Joseon substitutes were riddled with duds.
That erased any lingering pangs of conscience the British officers might've felt, paving the way for their unilateral exit from the pact. Admiral Hong Yak-su of the Western Seas Naval Command had protested, but meekly withdrew his men— a pity, as Porter had a retort ready.
With Hong's crew gone in a flash, things proceeded smoothly. The British recalled all forward troops.
It was a cautious retreat spanning nearly ten days—the time it took to drag off Tianjin civilians for future Chinese negotiations and comb the near-empty city like a fine-tooth comb.
The Mongols drew close, naturally, but no cause for alarm. They knew better than to test the broadsides of the anchored ships of the line and frigates.
As the elegant peace talks wrapped up and the admiral was about to order boarding, Roebuck's captain Thomas Lynn came sprinting.
"Admiral, disaster!"
Porter couldn't muster a quip about a Chinese sneak attack. No such luxury would have the captain running himself.
After hearing Lynn out, Porter bolted to the lookout, snatching the telescope. He'd heard the gist, but needed his own eyes to believe it.
What filled his view was a gleaming golden orb. The chance for total reversal hovered above the waves.
"French ship of the line Le Dragon! Beside her, Dutch Nassau Weilburg! It's them—no doubt! Our allies have withdrawn from the south to aid us at last!"
Even Washington, hunkered down chasing that ball on land, had run out of options.
Porter gripped the chilling spyglass tight.
Time to return as "British."
He chucked the withdrawal pact with Saekgeuksin into the trash like a bogus Israeli real estate lease. No memory of promises with stinking Tatars.
"Whole fleet—about face! Ships with crews aboard, open fire! Mow down those idiot Tatars who got too close!"
As Porter figured, Saekgeuksin had no appetite for squandering more Mongol lives on a futile war.
From Dzungaria to Kyushu to Tianjin, every clash under the "lord of humanity" had ended badly. No wonder.
But Supreme Commander Saekgeuksin was no fool.
He'd gamed it out just like Porter: lure the foe by feigning folly, let the Mongol troops close in, then strike during the most vulnerable boarding phase, sacrifices be damned.
Victory odds would soar.
Not from grand tactics, but because the retreating British would sooner flee than fight. No strength left to return.
And if they did? No guarantee the "Great Khan of Mongolia" would still be that Qianlong pretender.
Thus, Saekgeuksin met the British ambush with fury, not panic.
He hurled his hat aside and bellowed.
"Knew those filthy barbarians would pull this. Slaughter them all!"
The Mongols were primed, so even vague orders stuck. Banner captains unleashed the nomadic hordes' signature skirmish swarm on the British.
Mayhem erupted in Tianjin's harbor.
Admiral Porter's valor swelled as vast as the "allied" ships of the line astern.
"Troops will disembark from our ships soon. Hold! What are you waiting for with support fire? Target the Tatar rear!"
As if on cue, smoke bloomed from distant Le Dragon and Nassau Weilburg. Porter marveled at the Christian coalition's flawless sync, offering prayers skyward.
But the timing lagged. Moments later, he shot to his feet.
"Joseon? No—no. What the hell are they doing! Why fire on our allies too? Signal with flags!"
Even if French and Dutch loathed British guts like any others, this was overkill.
The two ships of the line, trailed by other British vessels, unleashed indiscriminate hell.
No sign of marines landing either. Outnumbered, locked in close quarters, now pelted by shot—the British sailors' line crumbled in seconds.
Porter screamed.
"Any senior officer—someone row out to those ships! Stop those lunatics!"
Roebuck's Captain Thomas Lynn scrambled into a boat.
And never returned.
No reply, no flags.
Instead, the flotilla crept closer, answering with hulls. Soon, the deck swarmed with figures clear enough.
Not one European among them.
Realization hit Admiral Henry Porter like soul-theft. He slumped, hollow-eyed.
The past months? A dream within a dream.
He'd fought, puppeteered by deception's spell.
The Mongols fared little better.
The British sailors' surprise cost them dearly, and the barrage hit their larger numbers hardest.
This mangled, it wasn't an army anymore. Western Seas Marine Commander Hong Yak-su thrust an arm skyward.
"Show them South Seas Fleet Marines aren't the only ones! Hoist the enemy colors!"
Fewer in number, but Liberation Squadron pride burned equal. A Tianqi-storm strike ravaged the harbor.
The "not mine, so who cares" mindset thrived here too.
British sailors never dreamed it, but the marines rammed frigates with their massive ships of the line (no skill or slack for finesse).
Zero-range broadsides followed—the Liberation Squadron's specialty.
Bad luck: most slammed into flagship Hercules. Blasted by powder blasts, Admiral Henry Porter vanished around the nine-and-three-quarters mast mark.
His snap ambush had no backups; command collapsed instantly. The British folded without resistance.
The squadron took hits too, but attackers always hurt less than victims.
And like any navy of the era, the Liberation Squadron fretted little over casualties.
Leaping boatless from French ships of the line to British frigates to shore, the Joseon troops finally licked their chops and landed.
Each sported cutlasses Crown Prince Yi Hwon deemed naval-worthy, several per belt.
The Mongol remnants, half-collapsed and speechless, could only gape at the Joseon forces.
But it didn't end there. Far outnumbered by South Seas, Hong Yak-su called in kin-favor with Kim Unhaeng, pulling elite reinforcements.
Five hundred stalwarts, far crisper than the Joseon ranks, disembarked flexing mighty thighs.
Topknots absent, but long hair—grown over queues—tied back neatly.
Baekryeon Cult's First Emissary Meng Chan thrust his spear forth.
"Fight with all you've got. Lord Chunsik has promised our milk-and-honey homeland once more!"
Park Jiwon was still in Nanjing, the Ming Second Empire's capital.
Yi Shiyo—former Qing Governor-General of Civil Affairs, now Grand Secretary, Supreme Commander of the Ming Forces, Governor-General of Min-Zhe, Liangguang, Jiangnan rites, and sundry titles—welcomed it.
Yi treated Park Jiwon as Joseon's de facto envoy to the Ming, tacit yet seamless.
Joseon's backing was vital for the Ming.
Fuchabuhang, hunkered in Yun-Gui, hadn't formally betrayed the Qing emperor—and still commanded 100,000.
Fed steadily, the Man-Beast King wouldn't last long, per his record. The ravaged Ming couldn't dream of northern campaigns; they barely watched Fuchabuhang's horde eyeing Sichuan to the Yangtze.
Hence propping up that joke of an emperor, and feting Park Jiwon.
The Ming's shaky credit line? Joseon alone backed it.
Thus, when northern expeditions surfaced (nominally), they tolerated Park vetoing sans title.
"Can't go north?"
Yi Shiyo asked; Park replied readily.
"North from Hangzhou and Shanghai leads to Shandong. That's the land of those unjustly driven from home by Jurchens—the Baekryeon faithful. Even foxes lay heads homeward in death. His Majesty and Supreme Commander Kim Chunsik rightly aim to send them back."
Yi blinked, baffled.
"What bizarre talk? Shandong's folk belong in Emperor Hongwu's embrace too—especially Baekryeon devotees."
"I know the grand cause. But how can every soldier embrace it fully? Marching hordes into Shandong sparks needless fights and suspicions; the people suffer more."
Yi panicked.
Shandong was Ming soil by right, occupation aside.
Yet Park spoke as if Joseon sponsored some new state there.
The hitch: Ming couldn't afford to antagonize Joseon.
But yielding to a "foreign nation"? That shattered the Sinosphere.
Thankfully, Park offered an out.
"Isn't there somewhere more pressing?"
"Pressing?"
Yi feared he'd only echo questions forever, but had no choice. Even Jupiter on his throne eyed Yi as a bit dim.
Just as Park hoped, he praised Yi's wisdom.
"To launch the northern campaign as the Ming Emperor and Grand Secretary intend, settle trifles first. Leave no roots of woe. Conquer Dongning—that is, Taiwan—properly."
Taiwan still hosted the British relay base.
Joseon lacked spare fleets. The logical move fell to the Ming, staring across the narrow strait.
Yi squirmed, sensing a con, but Park landed the clincher.
"Who butchered most Ming subjects? Mere spits away, those Yangguizi burn to re-invade ancestral soil. Ignore foes in plain sight, and where lies the Ming Emperor's dignity?"
Hangzhou elites like Yukbi—finally promoted Joseon allies—cheered.
"Lord Park of Goryeo speaks true!"
"Crush the Yangguizi first, secure our rear, then north!"
Too much momentum for Yi alone. Park's casus belli was ironclad.
Taiwan expedition assembled.
So near, no massive high-tech fleet needed. Jiangnan's thinned populace still outnumbered the strait-crossers tenfold.
With East India Company fleets gone, Taiwan held mere caretakers. Tiny gunboats meant nothing against the swarm.
Tianjin's Mongols, Tumen River's Manchus, Taiwan's British holdouts—all crumbled by New Year's.
Yi Hwon regretted not debuting the One Hundred Slashes Sword Technique himself, but it was never needed.
His blade—Kim Unhaeng—was already carving through armies everywhere.
The duo's One Hundred Slashes Sword Technique rent East Asia, Europe, and even America asunder.
Author's Note
1. Captain Thomas Lynn first appeared in Chapter 241, "Empire Strikes Back." Yukbi and other Hong Daeyong-aligned Joseon scholars debuted properly from Chapter 234, "Rebuilding the Land" part.