Chapter 77: Aftermath (Part 1)
Wang Luobin's heart was still pounding when he emerged from the administrative zone, his grip on the rifle so tight it was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. Today had been close—far too close. The grueling construction work had left everyone sluggish, their reflexes dulled, and the enemy had exploited that weakness with terrifying speed.
During the battle, he had emptied an entire magazine without any idea what he'd actually hit. Thirty rounds, gone in an instant. When the enemy came scrambling up the berm, there had been no time to reload—so he had fled, shamefully, like a coward. The whole experience already felt like a fever dream: confused, fragmentary, unreal. By the time his senses returned, the enemy had retreated, and somehow he found himself on the opposite side of the defensive line with nothing worse than minor scrapes. He couldn't help wondering if he would survive this world at all.
Brass casings littered the ground everywhere, some still trailing wisps of smoke. Wasteful, he thought. The transmigrators couldn't manufacture cartridge casings yet—someone would need to organize a collection effort immediately.
Lost in thought, he spotted Xiao Zishan standing atop the berm, surveying the corpse-strewn field with barely suppressed revulsion.
"Zishan? What are you doing here?"
"Arranging the aftermath, as you might imagine." Xiao Zishan attempted a calm smile that came out looking more nauseated than composed. "Though honestly, there's nothing I hate more than seeing corpses."
"Nobody likes it." Wang Luobin likewise avoided looking at the grotesquely contorted bodies scattered across the killing ground. It was clear now that death by bullet looked nothing like the movies—no neat hole, no token pool of blood. Instead, the rounds had mercilessly torn through flesh, exposing viscera and gore, soaking the earth a purple-black that seemed to drink the light. You could never truly imagine how much blood a person held until you saw it spilled across the ground.
A nearby corpse lay twisted at an impossible angle, half its skull missing, exposing something white and glistening red. The dead man's cotton armor was riddled with bullet holes, the blood-soaked batting trembling in the breeze like ragged pennants. Wang Luobin quickly looked away. A corpse-collection team—hastily organized from prisoners—was using hook-poles originally meant for pulling down barbed wire to drag the bodies onto handcarts, wheeling them off for burial.
Watching these prisoners with their blank, hollow faces hauling and dragging corpses while the transmigrators looked on grimly, Wang Luobin recalled a phrase they had once joked about: "Revolution is not a dinner party, not essay-writing." Here, in this moment, he finally understood its dark meaning. Revolution meant blood and sacrifice. Revolution, however righteous, however popular, ultimately killed mostly ordinary common people.
"By the way, Engineer Wang—there's an expanded Committee meeting tonight at seven."
"Expanded meeting?"
"A post-battle review. Besides Committee members, professional group leaders and key personnel will attend." He paused. "And mass representatives."
"Mass representatives?"
Xiao Zishan's expression turned cold. "Tonight will probably see our first factional struggle."
"What?" Wang Luobin frowned. "The battle went fairly well, didn't it?" In his view, though the fighting had been somewhat chaotic, the results were excellent—and their own losses minimal.
"Look at it from both sides." Xiao Zishan glanced around and lowered his voice. "With such an enormous technological advantage—weapons centuries ahead of this era—Ming soldiers still managed to penetrate our base and attack. Couldn't that be framed as a failure?"
"I suppose..."
"The enemy stronghold is only four kilometers away. The Committee ignored this close-range threat, sending only three people to monitor. Couldn't that be framed as underestimating the enemy?"
"Mm, yes." Wang Luobin nodded reluctantly.
"And when we detected the enemy leaving the city, we didn't organize forces to harass or ambush them—we simply sat and waited for them to besiege us. What kind of tactical decision is that?"
Wang Luobin broke out in a cold sweat. "Zishan, those are trumped-up charges."
Xiao Zishan shook his head slowly. "Since landing, we've followed a steady-construction approach, working hard to avoid direct conflict with the Ming natives. But now it seems the aggressive line is about to seize power."
"Impossible. The Committee fundamentally agrees on strategy."
"Leadership harmony is normal—that's precisely why we're having an expanded meeting." Xiao Zishan's face was grim. "Group leaders, technical staff, mass representatives—do you have any idea how they think?"
Wang Luobin considered this for a moment, then said firmly, "Whatever anyone says, I'll maintain the steady approach. I firmly support Director Wen's thinking." He suddenly laughed and clapped Xiao Zishan's shoulder. "You're too conspiracy-minded. You see political struggle in everything."
While Xiao Zishan and Wang Luobin whispered on the berm, the medical team was frantically at work in the tent. Screams rose and fell in waves. To conserve anesthetics, most of the wounded remained fully conscious during wound-cleaning and foreign-object extraction—some requiring only medication, others needing sutures.
Most wounds were minor, though many were facial injuries that looked terrifying with blood streaming everywhere. Several patients had been unconscious when brought in, alarming the doctors—but examination revealed it was shock from fear and stress rather than blood loss. The doctors cleaned wounds with self-mixed saline, disinfected with alcohol, extracted debris, and sutured.
The bacteria in this timespace had no drug resistance, so only sulfanilamide ointment was needed for infection prevention. Some patients also required tetanus shots.
"Done—all your iron pellets are out." Dr. Lan reassured a pitiful fellow on the table. She had spent over an hour extracting twenty small fragments from the man's face—some looked like shattered coins; others were unidentifiable.
"I'll be pockmarked now." The patient kept crying from pain and fear. "Doctor, do you do cosmetic surgery?"
I know your intestines better than that, Dr. Lan thought, but for morale she said, "No problem—I worked at a beauty clinic before."
"Then I'll book an appointment. Your skills had better be good—I'm planning to marry a princess. Let's say Princess Jiu..." Yang Baogui's wife, Zhang Ziyi (note: the character's own request, not the author's quirk), saw that he was becoming delirious and injected the prepared sedative. The would-be prince consort fell asleep.
But some were seriously wounded. One man had his teeth knocked out and a hole punched clean through his cheek. Fortunately, the medical team included a dentist, complete with denture materials and equipment. Shi Niaoren worried about major maxillofacial wounds—reconstructive surgery was beyond his expertise. Of the five doctors, he specialized in infectious diseases; Lan Fangfang in internal medicine and gastroenterology; Hippo in internal medicine with some orthopedic experience; and as for Dr. Yang—no one wanted him treating humans. He was a veterinarian.
Wounded prisoners gathered on the ground outside the infirmary. Few moaned—most sat silent, bleeding quietly. Some had wrapped their injuries with rags themselves. When guards first herded them over, they had been terrified, but watching wounded prisoners carried in on stretchers and emerging bandaged, they understood: these pirates would treat them. They quieted down.
As for when their turn would come—they were not anxious. Chinese people, ancient and modern, were very patient.
Fu Bu'er lay among them. While fleeing, he had felt a hard shove that sent him sprawling; his left leg had suddenly lost all strength. Only when pirates prodded him with bayonets did he manage to hobble to this spot. The desperate flight had left him exhausted and parched, on the verge of collapse. He knew he must not fall—falling meant being left with the severely wounded by the roadside, from where no one ever rose again. Fortunately, he spotted a long-term laborer from his village, Lin Er, who was also wounded and in the group. He begged Lin to support him, and together they made it here.
The wounded but mobile prisoners sat clustered together. Pirates brought iron buckets brimming with water. The group, having marched and then fled in blind panic, were desperately thirsty, crowding around to drink. The more injured were shoved aside, groaning in pain. Guards drove them back, restoring order so everyone could have their share.
Fu Bu'er drank his fill, lay still for a while, and felt marginally better. The bleeding seemed to have stopped; his leg no longer hurt as badly. He deeply regretted being bewitched into following Huang Shoutong to fight pirates. He had been living well enough in his village: a dozen or so tenant households under him, three or four long-term laborers. Just because Huang Shoutong had once helped him repel bandits with his militia, Fu Bu'er had felt grateful. Hearing that these pirates were strange folk, he had come along with five or six men to "suppress bandits" and see the spectacle for himself. He had witnessed Huang Village militia's ferocity in past fights; this time, following the main force, he had felt invincible.
He had never expected such a crushing defeat—in just a few incense-sticks' time, a total rout. The pirates' firearms were too deadly. He saw Huang Shoutong nowhere—probably dead, since he had charged at the front.
In the distance, a dozen severely wounded men lay in the dirt—too weak even to moan, only faintly groaning. Fu Bu'er knew they were beyond saving. Soon the pirates would either finish them off or bury them with the dead. He shuddered at the thought.
But his own life seemed safe—since they were treating wounds, they wouldn't rush to kill the prisoners.
"Master, what do you think the pirates will do with us?" His laborer Ma Peng whispered beside him. His wound was trivial—just a sprained ankle from fleeing. He had been pushing sandbag carts; when the shooting started and the men in front fell, he had run immediately, never charging with the main force. If not for the unlucky sprain, he would be home by now.
(End of Chapter)