Chapter 1256 - Ambush

Qian Shuixie crouched in the underbrush near Puzhao Temple, watching the mountain path below.

His "Wasp Team"—a special reconnaissance squad drawn from the elite of the expeditionary force—was spread out along the ridge, invisible in the dense vegetation. They had been in position since before dawn, based on intelligence that Zheng Zhilong would attempt to cross the island at this point.

The temple marked the beginning of a hidden path over Wulao Mountain—a path known only to locals and smugglers, perfect for a fleeing lord seeking to avoid pursuit.

Qian Shuixie checked his weapon again: an M240 medium machine gun, one of only three in the entire expeditionary force. The weapon was absurdly overpowered for this timeline—a fully automatic belt-fed machine gun against men armed with swords and matchlocks. But the mission called for absolute certainty. Zheng Zhilong could not be allowed to escape.

Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist. Qian Shuixie remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the path, ignoring the insects that crawled across his face and the ache in his cramped muscles.

Then—movement.

A column of men appeared around a bend in the path—perhaps twenty in all, moving quickly but warily. At their center, in clothes splashed with mud and blood, walked a man who matched the photographs they had been given.

Zheng Zhilong.

Qian Shuixie's finger found the trigger. He waited, barely breathing.

The column moved into the kill zone. They were spread along perhaps fifty meters of path, with no cover on either side. Perfect.

Qian Shuixie opened fire.

The M240 roared, its muzzle flash strobing in the morning shadows. The first burst cut through the lead men, dropping them instantly. The second swept back along the column, catching men as they tried to scatter.

From either side of the ridge, other members of the Wasp Team opened fire with their M77B1 rifles, the NATO rounds punching through bodies with casual ease. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The path had become a slaughter pen.

In less than thirty seconds, it was over.

The column lay scattered across the path, bodies twisted in death. A few wounded moaned and stirred, but the team's sharpshooter finished them with carefully placed shots.

Qian Shuixie rose from his position and started down the slope, his team following. They moved cautiously, checking each body, making certain the targets were dead.

One of the team members called out: "Sir! One of them's still alive—looks like he was hit in the chest and leg. He's not going to make it."

Qian Shuixie hurried over. The man lay behind a boulder, bleeding heavily from wounds in his chest and thigh. His clothes were ordinary—the rough homespun of a common soldier—but Qian Shuixie noticed that under the outer garments, he wore underclothes of fine silk.

"Is this him?" Qian Shuixie demanded.

The dying man's eyes flickered open. He looked up at Qian Shuixie with an expression that might have been defiance—or resignation.

"Like dewdrops in the morning sun..." he whispered in accented Chinese, "all things must fade away..."

His eyes closed. His breathing stopped.

Qian Shuixie checked the body. No identification. But the silk undergarments, the bearing of the man even in death—this was no common soldier.

"Search him," he ordered. "And check all the others. I want to know exactly who we killed here."

The search revealed little. The man had been stripped of all identifying materials. But one of the team members, checking behind the boulder, made a grim discovery: signs of something being dragged, and evidence that someone had been here after the initial ambush.

"Sir, I think someone escaped. Tracks leading into the brush—looks like they dragged the wounded man here and then cut off his head."

"His head?"

"It's gone, sir. The body's headless."

Qian Shuixie felt a chill run down his spine. In Japanese tradition, a retainer would take his lord's head rather than let it fall into enemy hands. If this was Zheng Zhilong...

"Photograph everything," he ordered. "Mark the grave site. We'll have to verify the identity through other means."

He trudged back up the slope, his triumph tempered by uncertainty. They had killed someone important—probably Zheng Zhilong himself. But without the head, without absolute proof...

The report he sent to the Lichun was carefully worded: "Suspected elimination of target Zheng Zhilong. Positive identification pending."

(End of Chapter)