Chapter Thirty-Seven: Clash

A three hundred and eighty kilogram shell, with an initial velocity of eight hundred meters per second and a firing rate of about two rounds per minute—when it soared through the sky in a parabolic arc, the sheer sound it made slicing through the air was like a steel blade grinding fiercely against a skull through an iron helmet!

This was the terror of naval artillery in this era, the crystallization of its industrial might, the pinnacle of firepower delivery for its time.

Forget martial artists. Even if a locomotive were to take a direct hit, it would be pulverized to dust, with not a single intact part left to be found in the crater.

Right now, such shells were flying across this stretch of sea, hurled from ironclad warships twenty thousand meters apart, each side unleashing a savage barrage upon the other. The very air seemed ripped and shredded, emitting a nerve-racking, tormenting thunder as the wind howled and the shockwaves burst.

From a distance, it might look almost comical—heavy shells tracing their arcs through the air, creating shockwaves, plunging into the sea, and sending up towering columns of water. It would seem as if neither fleet could hit the other, every shell falling harmlessly into the ocean. At such extreme range, the ironclads could easily maneuver away before the shells landed.

Thus, scoring a hit was a matter of luck as much as of numbers.

That was the detached perspective of an observer. But to be within the barrage was no casual matter—it was utterly harrowing!

Boom!

A shell exploded twenty meters from the ship, a water column erupting skyward. Even without a direct hit, the shockwave and trembling left all aboard breathless, dizzy, and filled with dread.

Geng Liangchen's face was ashen. He no longer stood at the bow, having retreated to the command cabin for the time being. Now was not the time to show off. As a martial artist of the Divine Practice, his usefulness before close engagement was limited, but not nonexistent. Thanks to this advantage, these few ironclads dared charge headlong through the enemy’s artillery barrage despite their overall inferior performance.

Martial artists possessed reflexes far beyond those of ordinary men. They could thread needles through mosquitoes, strike ten times in a blink, and predict movements with a glance. They could even sense the trigger being pulled and anticipate the trajectory.

The shell trajectories, impossible for normal eyes to calculate, and the supersonic shockwaves too swift to track, could all be perceived—and even predicted—by martial artists.

“Go to Jixia Academy and brush up on your math.”
“It might not help.”
“But, in a life-or-death moment, it could save you.”

These were the instructions Lan Yi gave to Geng Liangchen and Huo Yuanjia before they set off. As per the Immortal Master’s command, the two, along with a group of Qi Practitioners, rushed through a crash course in advanced arithmetic at Jixia Academy. Martial artists learned quickly, and their innate advantage in calculation meant they didn’t need to master much—just the basics of parabolic trajectories before setting out.

Unfortunately, Lan Yi’s words proved prophetic. That bit of mathematical knowledge was now proving vital. The speed of the ironclads, the distance between them, the time from when the shell left the gun to when it landed, its arc and the turbulence caused by shockwaves—these calculations surged unbidden through Huo Yuanjia’s mind as the threat of being splattered into pulp loomed ever closer!

They all clamored in his mind, not to remind him he was the best in Jinmen, but to warn him whether or not a shell might land squarely on his head.

The other martial artists aboard the fleet were no different. Some predicted accurately, some had astonishing computational ability, and all seemed blessed with uncanny aid, bestowing a forty-percent increase to their ship’s evasive abilities.

A mere forty percent. Yet with the pitiful hit rates of this era, forty percent was enough to turn every ironclad into a miracle ship.

Boom!!!

Though the Xinghan fleet was few in number, their guns roared in retaliation. Hit or miss, fighting back was necessary—if they failed to return fire, the enemy could calculate their barrages with impunity, and their gunnery would only become more deadly. Only when both sides were under fire could the contest be fair.

“Fifteen thousand meters,” a nearby officer reminded Huo Yuanjia.

At these words, everyone in the command cabin grew solemn; death shone in many a soldier’s eyes.

At twenty thousand meters, the duel had begun. At fifteen thousand, they entered the danger zone. At this range, hit probability rose swiftly. Any closer, and the parabolic arc of the shells would flatten; not even martial artists could calculate and direct evasive maneuvers in time.

The Divine Practice martial artists needed to act. But to do so, they had to close to ten thousand meters.

Ten thousand meters—sixteen minutes’ journey.

The good news: the foreigners did not retreat, but pressed forward with equal courage and desperation. Martial artists would be able to act in about eight minutes.

“Eight minutes?”

“The Immortal Master commands: I and General Wu are to strike down this fleet!”

“I don’t care what you do—just get me there alive. If you fail, you’ll face a court-martial!”

Geng Liangchen’s killing intent was palpable; the pressure of his martial prowess forced obedience from all. He had resolved to risk everything—not only to follow Lan Yi’s orders, but to vent years of humiliation suffered by Xinghan under the guns of foreign ships. He would show them that their warships no longer held the power they once did!

Eight suffocating minutes.

For eight minutes, the thunder of guns never ceased.

More than once, a shell’s fiery blast erupted right alongside the hull.

Amid the violence, casualties were inevitable. But martial artists continued to prove invaluable—their superhuman agility and coordination made them peerless at damage control and rescue as well.

Five thousand meters!

“We’re there! I’m off!” A sharp gleam flashed in Geng Liangchen’s eyes. In the next instant, he was like a black tiger unleashed, leaping through a shattered porthole with a roar!

With a splash, he hit the water. But he did not sink. Instead, as the spray flew, his innate energy blazed within, propelling him forward at supernatural speed!

In a heartbeat, two wakes sliced the surface, racing like thunderbolts toward the line of enemy warships belching fire.

Huo Yuanjia and Geng Liangchen charged at full speed.

Five straight kilometers across open sea was a matter of minutes for martial artists who could run atop the waves. Within a few breaths, their assault drew the attention of the observers aboard the enemy’s disciplinary fleet.

The foreigners knew martial artists were formidable. They suspected they would attempt to board. But they never expected such a method—only hurriedly deploying their prepared rifle squads to intercept the two running across the waves.

Farther back, in the safety of the rear, the foreign commander narrowed his eyes.

“Will rifles be enough?”

“Even if we can't kill them, we should at least drive them off—we’re using buckshot,” another officer mused.

But soon after, word arrived, and both men’s faces grew grim with shock.

In less than ten minutes, the two martial artists had disabled eight ironclads. Communications were still intact, but control was lost.