We have fought to the Arctic Circle, and you want me to inherit the throne?

The Tibetan army's formation was indeed terrifying. Banners embroidered with ferocious patterns stood like a forest, and armored warriors formed huge square formations, like moving steel hills, slowly approaching.

Such a heavy sense of oppression made even seasoned veterans feel breathless.

Wang Sanchun squinted, carefully examining the Tibetan army's formation, especially the most prominent lion banner in the central direction.

After looking at him for a while, his tense jawline seemed to loosen slightly, and he let out a soft breath.

Whether Your Majesty's surprise attack will succeed depends on whether Lu Dongzan will be drawn to the main force of Chuimacheng and thus overlook the threat from the flanks and rear.

It now appears that at least the initial objective has been achieved.

As expected, Lu Dongzan concentrated his forces here, aiming to overwhelm the enemy head-on, while neglecting the flanks and rear.

He never imagined that the Qing army would dare to divide its forces under such circumstances and plot against the Western Regions.

This certainly put some defensive pressure on Chuima City, but it also meant that His Majesty's operations were safe.

"General, the enemy's vanguard has advanced ten miles!" the lookout shouted.

Wang Sanchun nodded and pulled on the reins.

The swift, dark blue warhorse reared up and let out a long, impassioned neigh.

He spurred his horse and galloped back to the central army banner under the watchful eyes of tens of thousands of soldiers.

He then abruptly reined in his warhorse, executing a brilliant sudden stop, causing the horse's front hooves to lift off the ground.

The soldiers' eyes lit up slightly when they saw this.

While a general's martial prowess may not be as crucial in large-scale battles, it can certainly inspire morale to some extent.

Wang Sanchun is clearly not a naturally gifted player like Yue Yun, so he simply learned some fancy moves.

Since ordinary soldiers couldn't understand it anyway, it had some surprising effects.

Wang Sanchun turned steadily on his horse, facing the steel jungle standing in front of him, and drew his sword from his waist with a clang.

The gleaming blade pointed diagonally at the sky, reflecting a cold light in the pale sunlight.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and let out a roar:

"The Qing Army is mighty!!!"

The sound was like a thunderclap, instantly drowning out the distant rumbling.

After a brief silence, the tens of thousands of soldiers below the city walls, like a powder keg ignited, erupted in a response as powerful as a landslide and a tsunami:

"General, you are mighty!!!"

The roar surged and soared into the sky, shaking the frozen ground beneath our feet.

Countless swords and spears were raised, reflecting glints of cold light.

Wang Sanchun raised his blade high again and roared a second time:

"The Qing Army is mighty!!!"

The soldiers' response was even more ferocious, almost tearing their throats apart:

"General, you are mighty!!!"

Wang Sanchun's eyes were bloodshot as he swung his sword forward fiercely, as if to cleave the distant black mountains in two.

"Long live Your Majesty!!!"

"Long live! Long live! Long live the Emperor!!!"

The final roars coalesced into a torrent, carrying boundless killing intent, sweeping towards the approaching Tibetan army.

Almost at the same time the roar subsided, the heavy horns of the Tibetan army sounded a mournful 'whoosh-whoosh'.

Battle is imminent.

Without any probing, the Tibetans launched their first wave of attack like an avalanche.

The first to surge forward were the slave soldiers, composed of slave households and subjects.

They were numerous, dressed in rumpled and dirty fur coats, wearing tattered boots, and carrying spears.

Driven by the supervising team, they let out incomprehensible howls, surging towards the Qing army's lines like a rising tide of murky sewage.

Their task was simple... to wear them down.

They used their own flesh and blood to wear down the Qing army's arrows and stamina; they were the Tibetan army's flesh and blood shield.

Wang Sanchun sat firmly on his horse, watching the surging crowd without showing any emotion.

Even knowing that these slave soldiers were cannon fodder, they still couldn't let them in.

He uttered a few words to the messenger beside him:

"Beat the drums! Artillery—ready!"

The messenger waved his command flag.

Behind the central army formation, the war drums resounded with a slow and powerful rhythm, rivaling the horns of the Tibetan army.

At the same time, on the dozens of artillery positions, the gunners simultaneously issued orders:

"Clean the flank—load the explosives—"

The gunners quickly stuffed the measured propellant charges into the bottom of the gun barrel and compacted them with a push rod.

"Loading—"

The heavy solid shells were loaded into the muzzle and pushed in front of the propellant charge.

"calibration--"

Based on the pre-determined distance, the gunner directed the gunners to adjust the muzzle elevation using wooden wedges.

The cannon emitted a slight creaking sound, and the dark muzzle rose slightly, pointing towards the approaching wave of slave soldiers.

"preparation!!!"

All the gunners retreated to safe positions, covered their ears, and opened their mouths wide.

The igniter held the ignition rod, the burning fuse at the tip flickering in the cold wind, aiming it at the fire port at the rear of the cannon.

Seeing that the vanguard of the slave soldiers had already entered the effective range of the artillery, Wang Sanchun swung his sword downwards and roared, "Fire!!!"

"fire--"

"fire--"

Commands were relayed through flags and drumbeats.

next moment--

boom!

Boom boom boom boom boom boom—!!!

Dozens of cannons simultaneously spewed out blazing flames several feet long, and thick smoke enveloped the position.

The deafening roars continued in unison, as if the sky were shattering and the earth were collapsing.

The shockwave spread violently outwards from the artillery position, even kicking up nearby snow and dust!

Dozens of shells, accompanied by a piercing whistle, slammed into the densely packed phalanx of slave soldiers at speeds imperceptible to the naked eye.

After the earth-shaking roar, there was a moment of eerie silence.

Immediately afterward, the slave soldiers' square formation, which had been brutally plowed by dozens of cannonballs, erupted in heart-wrenching screams.

The solid iron ball cleaved through the dense crowd, leaving horrifying trails of blood and flesh. Anyone who grazed it suffered broken bones and tendons, while those struck head-on were instantly reduced to a burst of bloody mist and mangled limbs.

The destructive power of exploding shells is even more horrifying. The shrapnel that explodes upon impact with the ground is like the scythe of death, scattering out in a fan shape and mercilessly reaping lives within a radius of several feet.

The snow-white earth was instantly stained red, and the broken bodies mixed with the frozen soil, forming a chilling grinder of flesh and blood.

Those slave soldiers who were lucky enough to survive were terrified. Their instinct for survival overwhelmed everything, causing them to drop their weapons and flee in disarray.

However, the Tibetan army was not unprepared.

Just as the massacre of the slave soldiers was beginning, squads of supervising soldiers clad in fine chainmail suddenly emerged from their well-organized rear ranks.

These people had cold, hard faces, and no pity in their eyes.

Those who retreat will die!

"Charge! Charge forward!"

"Desertion in the face of battle is a grave crime!"

At the same time, the angry roars of the supervising officers rang out.

Before the fleeing soldiers at the forefront could react, the blade had already grazed their necks, bringing with it a spray of warm blood.

More supervising soldiers advanced like a wall, slashing and stabbing with swords and spears, mercilessly slaughtering the retreating slave soldiers in front of the battle lines.

Retreat means instant death, while advancing offers a slim glimmer of hope.

To the Tibetan army, these serfs were merely expendable resources, not comrades-in-arms, and they felt no psychological pressure in attacking them.

Conversely, if they were allowed to charge the rear lines, it would cause an even greater rout.

Thus, the momentum of the slave soldiers' collapse was abruptly halted by the bloody methods of the supervising team.

After a brief period of chaos, the slave soldiers were driven back around.

Like soulless puppets, they trampled over the corpses and limbs of their comrade Shang Wen, surging towards the flame-spitting lines of the Qing army.

This time, however, they seemed more like a herd of livestock being driven to the slaughterhouse.

As the enemy drew ever closer, the Qing army's lines remained steadfast.

Of course, not all Qing army soldiers were veterans of countless battles.

In the ranks, a soldier from Shu, whose face still looked young, gripped his spear tightly with both hands.

His eyes were wide open, staring intently at the hellish scene before him.

He could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, almost leaping out of his chest. His hand gripping the spear shaft trembled slightly uncontrollably, and his teeth chattered gently.

"What are you shaking for?" came a voice with a heavy Northeastern accent from the side.

The new recruit turned around blankly and saw a veteran next to him.

The veteran looked to be in his thirties, with a face as rough as dried orange peel. His Qing army battle jacket was stained with indelible dirt, whether it was grease or old blood, no one knew.

He was slowly pulling a flat wine flask from his waist pouch, unscrewing the lid, taking a small sip, and squinting his eyes contentedly.

It felt as if the place before them wasn't a battlefield about to erupt, but rather a sunbathing threshing floor at the village entrance.

The Qing Army prohibited alcohol during wartime, but the veteran soldiers had their own ways of doing things. As long as it wasn't too excessive, the political commissar would turn a blind eye.

Veterans are all treasures, so naturally they get some special privileges.

"They...they're charging up..." The recruit's voice was a little dry, and his tongue seemed to be tied in knots. "The artillery...the artillery is powerful, but...but it can't stop so many people!"

The veteran stuffed the flask back into his pocket, smacked his lips, and then glanced sideways at the new recruit.

He then grinned, revealing a set of slightly yellow teeth: "You greenhorn, you've never seen the world before, this is nothing."

"Do you think our Qing Army fights with just a few cannons to make a show of force?"

The new recruit was stunned: "Then...then what else do we rely on?"

"What do you rely on?" The old soldier chuckled, tapping his temple with his rough fingers. "This is what I rely on!"

"What did His Majesty say again? It's called... it's called 'firepower strike'! Layer upon layer, from far to near, understand?"

"The cannons are just a way to greet the enemy, to let them know we're here, the real main course is yet to come!"

He hadn't finished speaking.

Suddenly, an even denser whistling sound came from the sky, like the flapping of a swarm of bees.

Unlike the muffled thunderous roar of artillery fire, this sound was higher and more rapid.

Looking up, you can see beautiful parabolas.

The new recruits instinctively looked up and saw countless black dots rising into the air from behind the Qing army formation, raining down on the slave soldiers who had rushed closer.

"Mortar!" The old soldier spat, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Kid, watch closely, this is the proper greeting!"

The next moment, even more intense explosions rang out among the slave soldiers.

"Boom! Boom boom boom—!!!"