"Report! Minister of War Zhang Fengyi has led the capital's gentry army out of Xizhimen. They are pursuing the Manchu forces!"
The scout knelt, still breathing hard from the ride.
Wang Pu, Wang Er, Bai Mao, and Ma Shouying exchanged looks.
Ma Shouying snorted first. "Pursuing them? Pursuing that army?"
Wang Er's expression twisted, half disbelief, half irritation. "Is the Minister of War trying to perform for someone? The Manchus made such an exaggerated display when they retreated. They dressed like opera performers, beat drums, left insulting signboards. That was not humiliation. That was bait."
Wang Pu let out a long breath. "Zhang Fengyi is not a reckless man. If he marched out, he was forced. Either by the Emperor or by certain palace voices who care more about appearances than survival."
Everyone understood what he meant.
No matter how much they might mock Zhang Fengyi, he was still Minister of War. He knew the difference between tactical withdrawal and a trap laid in plain sight.
Ma Shouying suddenly laughed, though there was no warmth in it. "That Emperor. He still owes me military pay. Months overdue."
He had meant it as a joke.
Instead, Wang Pu looked embarrassed.
"They owe you as well?" Wang Pu asked quietly.
Ma Shouying stared. "Don't tell me they owe you too."
"Nine months," Wang Pu admitted, scratching his head awkwardly. "I have personal funds, so I can manage. My soldiers cannot. They are beginning to struggle."
A strange silence fell over the group.
It was almost comical.
The Empire was demanding loyalty, demanding pursuit, demanding blood.
It could not even pay wages.
Bai Mao cleared his throat. "Commander Wang, I know several reliable Jin merchants. I will speak to them. We can arrange grain and silver on credit to stabilize your men."
Wang Pu's relief was genuine. "Brother, I will not forget this."
Ma Shouying waved his hand. "Enough sentiment. The Manchus are moving north. Do we chase or not?"
"Of course we chase," Wang Er replied without hesitation. "But not to trade lives for pride. Our purpose is clear. We rescue captives. We reclaim stolen goods. We do not fight for the Emperor's vanity."
That distinction mattered.
"Launch the Reconnaissance Hot Air Balloon."
The militia moved with practiced coordination. Within minutes, the balloon rose steadily into the winter sky. A soldier above adjusted his binoculars, tracking the long snake-like movement of the Qing column. He sketched their formation and direction carefully, rolled the paper, placed it inside a bamboo tube, and lowered it down.
Below, decisions were already forming.
Meanwhile, far ahead, Zhang Fengyi advanced cautiously. His gentry army maintained distance, sending scouts forward but never committing the main body. Skirmishes broke out in wooded patches and along small hills, violent and brief, yet the two main forces never truly met.
Ajige soon realized the problem.
"The Ming commander refuses to bite," he muttered.
His officers waited.
"Then we give him something irresistible."
Ajige ordered the elite units to move ahead, visibly separating from the baggage train. The supply column would trail conspicuously behind.
"Zhang Fengyi cannot resist striking at our supplies," Ajige said calmly. "The logistics force will delay him. I will return swiftly with the elite and crush him completely. Then we march back and tear Yanjing apart."
It was a neat plan.
Too neat.
Zhang Fengyi did not take the bait.
Instead, after a symbolic pursuit, he withdrew. Three Manchu scout heads were presented as proof of action. The report declared, "Enemy scouts eliminated. Mission accomplished."
Inside the palace, the Chongzhen Emperor was furious.
"Cowardice," he declared.
Censors rushed forward with memorials condemning Zhang Fengyi.
Zhang Fengyi did not argue.
He returned home quietly.
That night, he drank poison.
The capital lost another man who understood war better than those who judged him.
Ajige waited for the trap to spring.
It never did.
"Report," a subordinate said, kneeling. "The Ming Minister of War has returned to the capital."
Ajige frowned. "Even when I exposed the supplies so openly, he did not attack. Is he timid, or perceptive?"
He exhaled.
"Enough. We go home."
With that order, discipline loosened. Soldiers relaxed. The long march northeast resumed in a lighter mood. Captured civilians trudged under guard. Looted goods rattled in carts.
Victory, they thought.
Then came the sound.
Hoofbeats.
Not distant. Not hesitant.
Explosive.
Ma Shouying's Hui heavy cavalry burst forward like a blade slicing into flesh, slamming directly into the rearmost baggage train. Qing logistics troops were caught completely unprepared.
Before they could form proper ranks, chaos erupted.
"Inform General Ajige!" someone shouted.
But speed was the enemy.
Ma Shouying's riders moved like a storm. Civilians, still bound and confused, suddenly found armed horsemen cutting through their captors.
Ma Shouying raised his scimitar and shouted, his voice cutting through panic.
"Everyone down! Get down immediately! We are here to save you! Bullets do not recognize friend or enemy. Down!"
Fear made obedience swift.
Civilians dropped flat onto the frozen ground.
Then the sharp cracking chorus began.
Flintlock rifles spoke in disciplined volleys. Smoke rolled forward. Qing logistics forces collapsed under concentrated fire before they could even fully understand what was happening.
Ma Shouying did not linger.
"Guns cease! Retreat! Everyone up! Run south! Now!"
Cavalrymen slashed ropes binding ankles. Civilians scrambled upright, driven by survival rather than instruction.
From the flanks, Wang Er and Bai Mao's forces arrived, reinforcing the assault just long enough to ensure the baggage train disintegrated completely.
"Ajige will return within half an hour!" Wang Er shouted. "Move!"
They did not attempt to hold ground. They did not attempt heroics.
They withdrew fast, shielding the rescued civilians as they rode southward. Only when their own city walls came into distant view did breathing slow.
Behind them, Ajige rode hard.
When he arrived at the scene, what he saw froze him.
Bodies of logistics troops lay scattered across trampled earth. Supply carts overturned. Bound captives gone. Plunder vanished.
His carefully arranged bait had been stripped clean.
Ajige's face darkened.
"Who?" he roared. "Which Ming unit?"
A dying logistics soldier, barely conscious, forced out broken words.
"Wang… Datong… Regional Commander… Wang Pu… Shan…"
His head fell.
Ajige's fury surged like a flame meeting oil.
"Write that name down," he snarled. "Wang Pu. I will take his head myself next time. I swear it."
But far to the south, Wang Pu was unaware that he had just earned a place in Ajige's memory.
History often worked that way.
A clever strike won cheers at home.
It also carved one's name onto an enemy's blade.