Hidden in the dense, pine-covered hills overlooking the main road south of Pyongyang, Japanese Major General Oshima Yoshimasa lay flat on his belly, watching the approaching enemy through a pair of powerful French binoculars. He and his five thousand men—the force that had landed before the disaster at Pungdo—were not demoralized. They were incandescent with a cold, disciplined rage. For days, they had listened to the rumors trickling in from Korean collaborators: the destruction of their transport fleet, the drowning of their comrades, the humiliation of their nation. That humiliation had been forged into a weapon. They had spent every waking hour preparing for this moment, digging trenches, building breastworks of stone and earth, and perfectly sighting their new, German-made Krupp artillery cannons on pre-measured sections of the road below.
"Look at them," General Oshima whispered to his subordinate, a colonel lying beside him. "They march as if on parade. A single, long column. No flank guards. No forward scouts. Their banners are flying as if they expect us to be impressed."
"Their arrogance is a gift from the gods of Hachiman, General," the colonel replied, his voice a low growl. "They walk into the kill zone as if we had sent them a formal invitation."
"They have heard the news from Pungdo," Oshima mused, never taking his eyes off the approaching Qing army. "But they have drawn the wrong lesson from it. They believe our navy's defeat means our army has no teeth. Good. Let their arrogance be their tomb." He gave a sharp, precise order. "Pass the word down the line. No one fires until the head of their column reaches the far marker flag. Let them walk deep into the trap. We will cut the serpent in half, then kill its head and its tail at our leisure."
Down on the road, the serpent slithered onward, blissfully unaware. General Wei Rugui rode at the head of the column on a magnificent white stallion, a gift from a Mongol prince. He was surrounded by a thicket of his personal banner-men, their colorful silks creating a brilliant spectacle against the drab Korean landscape.
"This Korean countryside is quite beautiful," he remarked idly to an aide riding beside him. "A shame to waste it on these people. After we discipline the Japanese, perhaps the Emperor will see fit to annex the peninsula properly. It would make a fine addition to the Empire."
Further up, in the vanguard, Captain Jiang rode with a growing sense of unease. His new-army training, drilled into him by Meng Tian himself, screamed that this was wrong. The silence of the surrounding hills was not peaceful; it was predatory. The road narrowed here, with steep, wooded slopes on either side. It was a perfect, natural chokepoint.
"Commander," Jiang said, turning to the vanguard's commander, a portly officer named Liu. "This is a dangerous position. We should halt the column and send skirmishers into the hills on both flanks to ensure the way is clear."
Commander Liu laughed, a wheezing, condescending sound. "And tire the men out chasing ghosts and squirrels, Captain? You Imperial Guard boys spend too much time reading books." He patted the younger man on the shoulder. "Relax. I have been fighting for twenty years. You can feel an ambush in the air. The air here is empty. The only danger we face today is dying of boredom before we find an enemy to fight."
Captain Jiang fell silent, his jaw tight. He scanned the hills again, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of the modern Mauser pistol at his hip. He could not feel an ambush, but he could see the terrain, and the terrain was screaming danger.
The head of the Qing column, with Commander Liu and Captain Jiang in the lead, passed a small, innocuous red flag tied to a bush on the side of the road. It was the marker.
The world exploded.
It was not a single shot or a ragged volley. It was a single, coordinated, instantaneous roar as a thousand Murata rifles fired as one from the western hill. A sheet of lead slammed into the vanguard, scything down men and horses alike. Commander Liu grunted, a look of profound surprise on his face, as three bullets stitched a pattern across his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Before the survivors of the first volley could even comprehend what had happened, the second phase of the ambush began. The sharp, terrifying crack-crack-crack of modern artillery shells filled the air. The Japanese gunners, firing at pre-sighted targets, were brutally, inhumanly accurate. Explosions blossomed not at the head of the column, but directly in its packed, defenseless center. One shell detonated amidst a company of spearmen, and the entire unit simply vanished in a red mist of smoke, dirt, and dismembered bodies.
From his position on his now-dead horse, General Wei stared in stunned disbelief. One moment he had been basking in the autumn sun; the next, he was in hell. The air was thick with smoke, the cries of the wounded, and the high-pitched screaming of terrified horses. His elite banner-men lay in a tangled, bloody heap around him. Chaos. Absolute, mind-shattering chaos.
On the hills, the Japanese fire discipline was perfect. Their infantry did not waste ammunition. They fired in controlled, rolling volleys, tearing apart any Qing soldiers who attempted to rally. Then, from perfectly sited machine gun nests that had been invisible moments before, two Maxim guns opened up, their steady, hammering rhythm adding a new layer of terror to the cacophony. Their sweeping fire raked the road, cutting down dozens of men at a time, turning any attempt to form a line of battle into mass suicide.
The "elite" Gongzi Army, an army that had only ever fought disorganized bandits and poorly armed rebels, broke completely. They had never faced an enemy like this, an enemy that fought like a machine. There were no heroic charges, no individual duels, only industrialized slaughter from a distance.
"Form a line!" General Wei screamed, staggering to his feet, dazed and bleeding from a gash on his forehead. "Stand and fight, you cowards! Charge the hills! For the Emperor!"
But no one was listening. His men, their bravado and arrogance vaporized by the first volley, had been reduced to a panicked mob. They threw down their rifles, their spears, their banners, and they ran. They fled back north, back toward the illusory safety of Pyongyang, clogging the road and creating a perfect, compressed target for the Japanese artillery, which continued to walk shells up and down the column.
In the shattered vanguard, only Captain Jiang and the fifty men of his Imperial Guard contingent did not break. "Take cover!" he roared, dragging men behind the corpses of dead horses. "Behind that ridge! Return fire! Don't just shoot at the hill! Target the gun flashes! Suppress them!"
His men, drilled in Meng Tian's ruthless methods, responded instantly. They formed a ragged but disciplined firing line, their Hanyang rifles barking back at the enemy, providing the only meaningful resistance of the entire battle. It was a hopeless gesture, but it was a fighting retreat, a stark contrast to the panicked flight of the main army.
On the hill, General Oshima watched the chaos unfold through his binoculars, his face grim but satisfied. "They are broken," he said. "Completely."
"Shall we pursue them to the city gates, General?" his colonel asked, his voice eager.
"No," Oshima replied, lowering his binoculars. "Our mission was not to take Pyongyang today. It was to destroy their army and shatter their will to fight. We have accomplished that." He watched the last of the fleeing Chinese disappear up the road in a cloud of dust and terror. "That," he said quietly, to himself as much as to his subordinate, "is our reply to the massacre at Pungdo. Let this be the first of many lessons for the arrogant Manchu."