Chapter Fourteen: Martial Arts vs. Firearms

“Over four hundred provinces raised armies, and more than one hundred thousand cavalrymen advanced as the enemy.”
“At such a time of national crisis, it was the summer of the fourth year of Hong’an.”
“No matter how terrifying the situation, as long as men of Dongyang stand here.”
“Brandishing the name of righteous might, let a single roar shake the world!”

The resounding song, sung loudly from the mouths of Dongyang’s soldiers, stirred a fervor and a sense of awe in all who heard it. For those unfamiliar with its meaning, the lyrics were baffling; for those who understood, their faces were twisted in anger—enraged by the way this ominous military anthem twisted truth and reason, dripping with bestial logic.

This army of wolves and tigers, as they set out in formation, cast the entire city into a state of panic.

War was coming.

What could be more dreadful than that? War meant fire and slaughter, looting and chaos, rivers of blood. It meant countless families torn apart, people fleeing for their lives, husbands and wives separated, and even this bustling city might be reduced to ashes overnight, leaving hundreds of thousands as refugees, fallen to a state worse than beasts.

How could anyone not be afraid?

All the more so when the aggressors were foreign troops.

The wind carried every rumor; every blade of grass seemed an enemy. Without need for urging, the citizens near the International Press Club realized the danger and fled, gathering their belongings and vanishing into the night. This, in turn, left Captain Katsuragi Ryuuji of the army’s mid-level squad with a sense of frustration.

His men had been pent up too long.

He had hoped that, while punishing the rebels, his soldiers could also release their tension, just as his predecessors had done at Lion’s Mouth—venting their frustrations while also boosting morale. But that plan crumbled.

All he could do was make vague promises.

All the main roads surrounding the Press Club were now sealed, the area deathly silent, not a single local in sight.

“The despicable and shameless Chinese ambushed and blew up our warship! Men of Dongyang! What should we do?” Katsuragi shouted.

“Cut off their heads!” came the unified reply.

“Excellent! Such spirit!”

“They claim the Chinese gods are inside!”

“Gods who can sink battleships and hurl thunderbolts—ha!” Katsuragi waved his katana with feverish enthusiasm, his tone bordering on mania. Clearly, he had not witnessed the awe-inspiring might of Lan Yi the day before, nor seen him soar over the city. Arrogant and conceited, he dismissed the “cowardly” words of his more cautious comrades.

Some of the soldiers, however, had seen it.

But in this strictly hierarchical army, where a single careless word before battle could mean death, these men—hardened into unfeeling machines—wisely chose silence.

The clever ones thought to themselves: Even if he can fly, that doesn’t mean he’s bulletproof. And even if bullets can’t harm him, they still have superior numbers. Aside from that dangerous so-called Thunder God, no one inside the Club could hope to resist an army. They would just avoid him, eliminate the others, and retreat if needed.

The clever ones were not wrong. The hastily assembled observation team from the great powers nearby thought much the same. They believed they were quite safe.

“Prepare to attack!”

“Kill all the assailants inside!”

“Thoroughly search the area for collaborators. For today, you may relax as you please!”

Katsuragi’s final incentive was the oldest, most effective tool of a feudal officer: seize the target, slaughter the resistors, and the empire would overlook any massacre, dismissing the world’s feeble protests.

If protests worked, why would we need machine guns and cannons?

“Savage yellow apes,” remarked one officer in the observation team, peering through his binoculars and speaking as though uninvolved.

“Hey, Marco, want to make a wager on how long these Dongyang brutes take to capture the Club?” whistled another.

They knew far more about this enchanted place than the brash Dongyang troops. Besides the mysterious Angel of Thunder, there were others inside—quick, strong, almost impervious to pistol rounds—who called themselves martial artists. They would need rows of rifles, heavy machine guns, and artillery to deal with them.

As for the Angel of Thunder, something seemed amiss. Several probing attempts during the latter part of the previous night had yielded no sign of him.

“I bet an hour,” said Kent, mingling with the observation team.

“An hour? This Dongyang unit is disciplined and well-armed; I say twenty minutes will do it,” Marco shrugged.

“Maybe the Dongyang will fail…” Albert blurted out a thought that everyone shared but dared not voice for fear of losing face. “The Dongyang are attacking—wait, what is that? A leopard? How did he leap so high in an instant!”

The Dongyang soldiers had just launched their assault on the Club’s main entrance.

Suddenly, the front line of rifle-wielding Dongyang troops went mad. One after another, they howled like demons, as if confronted by some invisible horror, firing their guns wildly in all directions and slaughtering their own comrades in the chaos!

It was as if a signal had been triggered.

As the front rank fell into madness, from rooftops, dead angles, beneath eaves, and even straight through walls—like some conjurer’s trick—countless figures burst forth!

Fast!

Faster than leopards! More ferocious than tigers! More savage than charging elephants!

Before the Dongyang could turn their guns, they were doomed.

Stones? Bricks?

No—these berserk martial artists were hurling entire walls through the air! The soldiers in formation were instantly crushed to pulp. Even those only glanced by the flying debris had their flesh and bone ripped away with dreadful ease!

The way bodies burst into bloody mist beneath these bricks and stones was unspeakably tragic. In the first wave alone, these martial artists—some at the peak of their craft—annihilated over forty men from the Dongyang squad.

The wings of the formation were decimated.

Those stationed at vantage points fared even worse. Having just taken aim and fired a couple of shots at the lightning-fast figures below, they were instantly targeted in return.

Their attackers wielded only fistfuls of crushed brick and stone.

No need for careful aim. At fifty meters, the strength of a martial artist could hurl those jagged projectiles with such force that they embedded deep in flesh—even through uniforms.

Of the dozen Dongyang soldiers on the rooftops, not one survived the barrage. In moments, they were surrounded, torn apart, and their bodies tumbled to the street below.

“They’re so fast! I can’t even see their movements!”

“My God, I just saw someone get shot—but he only stumbled and got back up!”

“They’re toppling the building!”

Albert exclaimed in shock, as if he’d been plunged into a battlefield of madness, his understanding of reality shattering before his eyes.

Ratatatat!

The heavy machine guns blocking the street roared in fury. The Dongyang, shouting in rage, wheeled their artillery into position, finally managing to mount an organized counterattack.