Chapter 163: The Funeral

Four weeks of basic training culminated in the official establishment of the Army Training Battalion. Despite the modest name, this demonstration unit was a highly integrated force comprising infantry, skirmishers, artillery, and logistics elements—a complete military organism in miniature.

The Military Committee had modeled its organization on European armies from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The battalion served as the fundamental combat unit, with each infantry battalion consisting of six companies. A squad held nine men, three squads formed a platoon of thirty, and three platoons assembled into a company of one hundred soldiers. Each company also maintained a standard-bearer, a drummer, a fifer, and a five-man cooking squad to keep the men fed in the field.

The current Training Battalion fielded three infantry companies, one skirmisher platoon, and a "grenadier platoon"—the term used in its original historical sense rather than the later meaning of "elite infantry."

The Chemistry Department's No. 1 grenade had proven woefully lacking in lethality, prompting the development of the larger No. 4 model with a cast-iron shell. Insufficient materials and the absence of suitable high explosives forced compromises: they compensated by increasing the device's size and packing it with additional black powder. The resulting No. 4 grenade rivaled old-style defensive mines in its dimensions.

The thing was heavy enough to require a hammer-throw technique, and even a powerful arm could only hurl it a dozen meters. Without access to friction fuses, designers opted for the safer slow-match ignition method. Throwers carried burning cords to light their weapons—exactly like the original grenadiers of history. Officers maintained a love-hate relationship with this awkward contraption. Still, something was better than nothing. Soldiers blessed with strong arms and long throws were selected for grenadier duty, each man carrying four grenades in specialized backboxes.

Then came the training accident. A thrown grenade detonated mid-air, its shrapnel killing one soldier and wounding several others. The subsequent investigation pinpointed the cause: a fuse quality failure that had accelerated the burn rate catastrophically.

Manufacturing fuses was technically simple—just paper and powder—but producing them by hand demanded skill that no one possessed. Without experience in pyrotechnics, the team had relied on book learning alone, resulting in fuses of uneven density and wildly inconsistent burn rates. Previously, this had only caused timing errors easily addressed by cutting fuses longer than necessary. But grenades couldn't tolerate excessive delays; enemies might pick them up and throw them back, or simply extinguish the slow-burning cords. The result had been tragedy.

The problem was significant but not insurmountable. The Chemistry Group spent days testing process improvements, searching for a solution. Unexpectedly, an easy answer appeared of its own accord. One day, a peddler arrived at the East Gate Market selling something never before available there: firecrackers. Recognizing their value immediately, Dongmen Chuiyu bought the entire stock. Test results proved satisfactory. The following day, the firecracker craftsman found himself "escorted" at bayonet-point—along with his family and tools—to the Bairren Commune.

Winter crept into Lingao almost imperceptibly. Despite the Little Ice Age gripping the wider world, subtropical Lingao's daytime temperatures held steady above 20°C—cooler than D-Day had been, but still pleasant. The dry season had settled in: rain grew rare, and sunshine became a daily constant.

On this particular day, barren land more than ten kilometers outside Bairren Fortress stirred with unexpected activity. Villagers from every direction, local gentry, town merchants, idlers—anyone without pressing business made their way toward this normally deserted plateau. Today marked the "bald people's" grand funeral.

Lingao was a backwater where year-round entertainment, aside from executions at the county seat, was virtually nonexistent. Gentry funerals and weddings served as the common forms of public spectacle. These mysterious overseas visitors warranted special attention.

Deputy Magistrate Wu Ya changed into plain clothes and melted into the crowds. Unlike his superior, he harbored an intense curiosity about these newcomers that he couldn't suppress.

Following the procession of onlookers for about an hour, he reached an elevated plateau west of the Wenlan River. The high ground proved difficult to irrigate and had always remained wasteland, but its surroundings offered flat terrain with a gently raised central knoll. Soldiers stood guard around the hillock. On its slopes and the surrounding grounds gathered what local observers recognized as the "bald people's" prominent figures, all wearing neat uniforms.

Beyond them stood many common laborers in the visitors' employ, along with the freshly organized Army Training Battalion Demonstration Company in their starched, crisp uniforms. Oiled Minié rifles gleamed in the sunlight, and bayonets glinted coldly beneath the winter sky.

At the entrance to the hill's base rose a large rectangular black stone wall pierced by a small arch. A path wound through it toward the central knoll, where a black granite semicircular wall crowned the summit, decorated with simple carved lotus pedestals. Across the top of the stone wall, carved in Han clerical script, ran the words: "Cuigang Martyrs' Cemetery."

Wen Desi descended from his vehicle and walked slowly toward the central hill. As the representative of the highest authority, he would preside over the first transmigrator funeral. The deceased was an ordinary soldier killed days earlier in the grenade training accident.

Li Shisan, in his brief and unremarkable lifetime, had shown nothing suggesting historical significance. Yet the honor wall of Cuigang Cemetery now began with his name.

There was no mourning music, no gongs or drums, no monks droning sutras, no women wailing their grief. Instead, a plaintive bugle call rang out across the sky. As the notes rose, the noisy crowd fell suddenly silent. The Demonstration Company soldiers marched at seventy-five steps per minute in formal parade, rifles shouldered. When the bugle faded, two drummers took up a slow, rhythmic beat. Two black horses—a breed unseen in these parts—drew a four-wheeled gun carriage bearing a plain wooden coffin. Hoofbeats struck the flagstones in time with the measured drums. Everything was unprecedented—conveying respect, admiration, and solemn emotion that pressed upon the chest until the atmosphere grew nearly suffocating.

The coffin descended into the grave on ropes.

"Present arms! Fire!"

Seven soldiers from the Skirmisher Platoon raised their rifles and fired skyward in unison—three volleys. The crisp shots echoed across the hills. Utter silence followed, and into that silence, Taps sounded slowly. Twenty-four notes, unhurried and mournful. Even the transmigrators who had come primarily for propaganda purposes found themselves moved to tears—the atmosphere proved genuinely infectious.

The burial began.

"At the moment of death, his soul ascended directly to heaven," Wen Desi intoned solemnly. "The Valkyries have come for him. We bid farewell to his body. His soul watches from above..."

Among the distant spectators, gossip rippled through the crowd.

"That dead one must be the bald people's top official."

"I heard he wasn't—just a deputy."

"A deputy? Buried like this? Their emperor probably needs a hundred horses pulling his carriage."

"That soldier was locally recruited—a Fulao man. Enlisted just over a month ago. Killed during cannon practice."

"Such splendor in death—his life wasn't wasted," someone said, genuine envy coloring his voice.

"Indeed. Our village Li Elder's funeral procession stretched half a street—but it was all beggars lining the route. Where's the grandeur in that?"

Wu Ya caught this conversation and pushed forward. "Was it really just one soldier who died?"

The speaker, noting the questioner's refined bearing, answered carefully. "Obviously. My kinsman works for the short-hairs—told me himself. Would I tell you false?"

"I can't understand their thinking. Just one soldier?"

"Winning hearts and minds," sneered a ragged but arrogant scholar nearby. "This counts as a funeral? There's zero propriety! Barbarians will be barbarians!"

"Quit your nonsense. Where does the Rites of Zhou mandate exorcist chariots leading funeral processions?" someone countered sarcastically.

Wu Ya didn't linger to hear more. Fear and admiration warred within his heart in equal measure. The bald bandits were indeed winning hearts—but their methods seemed impossibly effective, striking at the deepest recesses of the human soul. Wu Ya prided himself on being a bureaucratic veteran; he could weep theatrically at the Wanli Emperor's mourning while simultaneously calculating his expense allowances. Yet just moments ago, he had been inexplicably moved to tears. Absurd in retrospect! What reason had he to cry? The bald bandits' manipulation of hearts reached demonic levels. Since the autumn harvest, commoners had seemed enchanted, streaming toward Bairren Beach in droves. Defectors multiplied by the day. Wu Ya was experienced enough to know that commoners held no love for officialdom—but except during famines, they wouldn't defect to bandits either. Lingao's harvest had been decent this year, yet so many were abandoning their lives for these strangers. What future awaited this Great Ming realm?

Returning to camp, the Executive Committee noticed that the New Army's strides had lengthened, their bearing sharpened, their spirits soaring. The soldiers spontaneously broke into a newly learned military song:

Beautiful angel beckons from afar, Brave warriors—go forth and fight valiantly! The hot wind gusts toward us, Stirring our spirits high. On your face—a cold smile, Staring indifferently at the earth. You face death calmly, I see everything clearly. I know—you fear nothing, I know—you're utterly resolute. Someday—you'll discover, Your strength is boundless. Someday—you'll discover, You can create miracles. Beautiful angel beckons from afar, For tomorrow—warriors go fight! Like Death soaring in blue skies, Embrace battle—release all passion! For tomorrow—hesitate no more, Brave warriors—go forth and fight valiantly!

This song—set to the tune of A Cruel Angel's Thesis and sung by hundreds of brawny men with mismatched voices—produced a remarkable "cringe comedy" effect for the transmigrators. Officers wore strange smiles, some suppressing laughter until their faces contorted with the effort.

Wei Aiwen turned smugly to Ma Qianzhu. "Chief of Staff Ma—this funeral was brilliant, wasn't it? Look at that morale!"

"You just copied Arlington Cemetery rituals and added some foreign flavoring. I half expected Scottish bagpipes next."

"We bought bagpipes—but nobody can play them! Little Xiong only knows The British Grenadiers on the flute. Otherwise, the effect would've been even better!"

"Stop praising yourself. Without Xiao Zishan's Cuigang Cemetery proposal a month ago, would any of this have worked?"

"He contributed too—I don't deny that—"

"Good to acknowledge others' contributions." Ma Qianzhu vaguely sensed Wei Aiwen's recent issues. But one thing was certain: the man was beginning to inflate with pride.

(End of Chapter)