Chapter 2245 - Night Raid on Dalang Market (III)
After a quick interrogation, Zhen Huan learned that Sun Dabiao's top people were quartered in the three surviving compounds. He and his family, along with close retainers, guards, and lieutenants, occupied the "Lao Henghe" Mountain Goods Depot—not the largest compound but the sturdiest: its outer walls stood over four and a half meters high, built entirely of stone. Each corner had a watchtower. The main gates, front and back, were hardwood sheathed in iron.
The depot had three courtyards. The first housed Sun Dabiao's senior officers. The third held his trusted staff: his secretary, steward, and accountant. He himself, along with family and personal servants, lived in the second.
The other two compounds served different purposes: one was Sun Dabiao's "quartermaster depot," stuffed with grain, silver, and valuables; the other housed additional officers and their families.
Zhen Huan split his three platoons into two columns. He led two platoons against the depot; the third hit the officers' compound. One blow to both, and the bandits would dissolve in panic.
Squad by squad, the Li-Miao infantrymen melted into the darkness. Dalang Market was new to them, but every man was a night-fighting elite. Without night-vision goggles, they navigated by faint starlight through woods and ridges without losing their way.
Zhang Tianbo, trussed like a dumpling, lay among the prisoners. Watching the lean, dark commander calmly deploy his men—weapons and bearing nothing like the county garrison's—he realized his earlier assumptions had been completely wrong. So this is the baldies' real elite.
He was terrified: the baldies had crept through palisades and sentry posts in pitch darkness, penetrating Dalang Market as if it were uninhabited! And being captured meant one thing—he would be "gutted" in revenge for Dalang Market. Who knew what creative executions awaited him...? If Sun Dabiao really fell tonight, he would be a stray dog. Sun Dabiao wasn't generous—but at least he provided shelter.
Thinking thus, Zhang Tianbo began subtly working his wrists. Over decades as a constable, he had rubbed shoulders with every sort—including a few "gifted" types. One was a veteran thief who had come to Yangshan on "business" and paid the usual respects. From him, Zhang had learned "bone-shrinking"—the art of slipping bonds. When being tied, you kept your hands in a certain posture to leave slack; once bound, you could gradually wriggle free. Zhang Tianbo had practiced over the years and achieved a modest mastery.
Tonight, his captors were Mountain Company soldiers, unused to the finer points of binding prisoners. He exploited the gaps. With no one watching closely, Zhang Tianbo worked his wrists. In just a few minutes, one hand was free—now the rest was easy. In moments, his bonds were completely loose.
He began to work on his legs—using the darkness and the guards' inattention—and soon his feet were untied. He was about to rise when someone pressed down on his ankle.
He nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked—it was Mo Qiao, the dealer from the gambling table, a hardened old bandit. Mo Qiao was staring at him, then glanced at his own ropes and nodded meaningfully.
Zhang Tianbo understood. If he didn't free Mo Qiao, the man would raise a commotion on the spot—exposure guaranteed.
He tried to minimize his movements, quietly loosening Mo Qiao's bonds. The two exchanged a look, carefully spat out the cloth gags, pressed flat to the ground, and began crawling out of the guards' line of sight.
But no matter how softly they moved, their bodies still rustled against grass and debris. A guard heard the noise and swung his gun around, scanning by moonlight. He spotted the missing prisoners and shouted—another guard closed in.
The guards were less than ten paces away. A few more steps and they would be found. The two men met eyes, sprang up simultaneously, and bolted for the palisade, screaming: "Alarm! Baldies! The baldies are here!"
The shrieks pierced the silent night. A guard raised his shotgun and fired. Mo Qiao's body was blown off its feet. Zhang Tianbo stumbled, tumbled, and hit the ground hard—dazed, unable to tell east from west. But he didn't dare linger. He scrambled up and ran.
Into the ruins—I'll be safe! Clinging to that thought, he sprinted. No gunfire behind him, no pursuit. His heart eased a little.
Just as he was congratulating himself on his luck, he heard a whoosh. A sharp pain in his belly—then a fierce, spreading itch. His legs buckled involuntarily. He looked down: a short crossbow bolt had pierced his lower abdomen.
He raised his head—baldies stood before him. In his panic, he had run toward the depot and blundered into the outer cordon.
He tried to shout—at least warn Sun Dabiao, make the baldies' victory harder—but the poison was fast. His mouth and tongue no longer obeyed; breathing grew difficult... He collapsed.
"Signalman! Fire three signal rockets!" Zhen Huan, hearing the gunshot, gave the order at once.
The signalman pulled signal rockets from his pack and launched three into the sky. The flares soared, blooming red against the predawn black, illuminating all of Dalang Market.
At that moment, Sun Dabiao had just finished a "hard-fought battle." When word came that the "Li barbarian" force had definitely left and the convoy was far away, his spirits had lifted. Days of gloom seemed to scatter. He promptly ordered a feast.
As if to make up for his recent sleeplessness, he drank and reveled with officers and concubines until nearly the fourth watch. Then, still flushed with wine, he "sobered up" with two newly abducted young girls. After all that exertion, a naked Sun Dabiao lay panting on the bed, exhausted but content.
He was about to call for ginseng broth when a gunshot outside made him jolt upright. His heart hammered; he could barely catch his breath. He shoved aside the half-dressed girl, threw on some clothes, grabbed his sword, and stormed into the outer room, barking:
"What's going on?!"
"The b-baldies..." the messenger stammered, panicked. "They're everywhere outside!"
A thunderclap in his skull. Sun Dabiao's sword clattered to the floor. He stood frozen. The Li barbarians pulled out; no reinforcements came. The garrison has barely a hundred men—they dared attack? The thought steadied him slightly. Pale and furious, he roared: "Defend the compound! Anyone who shirks—beheaded on the spot!" He ordered his second-in-command: "Take the boys and hold them! The baldies are few; hold out a moment and the whole camp will come to our rescue!"
He strode into the courtyard. Chaos reigned—servants and concubines spilling out, clothes askew, craning their necks. His favorite Third Concubine sidled up. "Master! What's...?"
"Damn you, get inside!" Sun Dabiao slapped her twice. She sat down wailing. He kicked her twice more, bellowing: "I'm not dead yet—what are you howling for?!"
As he beat his concubine, explosions erupted outside—louder than cannon, shaking the compound. Screams rose on all sides. Sun Dabiao was stunned: Artillery! If there's artillery, this is no small force—not the county garrison!
As if to confirm, bugle calls and drumbeats sounded—sharp, insistent—as though a thousand troops were closing in.
"Grab weapons—now!" he screamed in despair.
In the tumult, Mountain Company soldiers had already taken out the four corner-tower sentries.
Explosions from the other compound announced the general assault. At Zhen Huan's command, grenades rained down from the towers into the courtyards.
The blasts filled the depot with smoke and shrapnel. Bandits who had stumbled out in alarm were massing in the yards when the black, hurtling death fell from above. One after another, grenades detonated in both courtyards—screams, wails, cries for help echoing through the depot.
The survivors didn't dare "defend" in the open. They flung open front and back gates and fled. Mountain Company soldiers were already arrayed outside in crescent formations, two ranks deep, blocking both exits. Shotguns roared in relentless volleys. In moments, the gates—inside and out—were heaped with bodies and wounded; groans and shrieks filled the air. Someone cried: "We surrender! We surrender!"
But Zhen Huan had already given the order: no prisoners during combat—"leave none alive." The feeble pleas for mercy drowned in the unceasing thunder of shotguns.
(End of Chapter)