Two days. Two days of ceaseless, grinding terror. For the remnants of the Gongzi Army trapped in Pyongyang, the world had shrunk to the besieged city's ancient stone walls and the terrifying, methodical thunder of Japanese artillery. The bombardment was not wild or sporadic; it was a rhythmic, calculated deconstruction of their defenses and their morale. Each shell that screamed overhead, each explosion that sent stone and bodies flying, was a punctuation mark in a death sentence being written by an unseen hand.
Inside the city, discipline had evaporated, replaced by a thick, cloying soup of fear and rumor. The soldiers, no longer boasting of glory, huddled in shattered buildings, their eyes wide and haunted.
"No reinforcements are coming," a man with a crude bandage wrapped around his head whispered to his comrades. "They've left us here to die."
"The Emperor has abandoned us!" another cried, his voice cracking on the edge of hysteria. "General Wei lied! All of it was a lie!"
The most insidious rumor was the most believable. "The navy didn't win," a grizzled infantryman muttered, staring into the dregs of his cold rice gruel. "They must have lost. The Japanese fleet must have sunk them, and this… this is the main Japanese army. We are all that is left."
In the governor's mansion, General Wei Rugui had become a ghost. He had locked himself in his chambers, refusing to see his officers, refusing to issue orders. The sounds that came from behind his door were not those of a commander, but of a man broken by shame—long silences punctuated by the sound of porcelain smashing against a wall or a low, animalistic moan of despair.
The only semblance of order was centered around Captain Jiang and his small, battered contingent of Imperial Guards. Reduced now to just over thirty men, they had taken it upon themselves to organize the defense of the city's most vulnerable point: a crumbling section of the northern wall that the Japanese artillery had been patiently pulverizing for the last forty-eight hours.
As the grey, pre-dawn light began to filter through the smoke-filled sky on the third day, Jiang gathered his men behind a makeshift barricade of carts and rubble. They were exhausted, filthy, and low on ammunition, but their eyes still held a spark of defiance that had long since been extinguished in the rest of the army.
"Listen to me," Jiang said, his voice low but carrying over the distant crump of artillery. "Victory is lost. Reinforcements are not coming. Do not think about survival. Survival is not our purpose today." He looked each man in the eye. "This is about honor. Not the General's honor, which lies shattered in his chambers. Our own. The honor of the Imperial Guard. We are the Emperor's chosen blades. We do not break. We do not rout. We do not surrender. We hold the line. Is that understood?"
A chorus of grim, determined "Yes, Captain!" was his answer.
A young guardsman, barely eighteen, checked the magazine of his rifle. "Captain," he said, his voice steady despite his youth. "We have less than ten rounds per man."
"Then make every shot count," Jiang replied without hesitation. "Aim for the officers. Aim for their banner-men. Sow chaos. And when the ammunition is gone, you will fix your bayonets. And when your bayonets break, you will use the butts of your rifles. And when your rifles splinter, you will use your fists and your teeth. We will show these Japanese how the Emperor's soldiers die. We will make them pay for every inch of this wall in blood."
As if on cue, the Japanese bombardment intensified, reaching a deafening crescendo. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The silence that followed was more terrifying than the noise. Through the smoke, they heard it: the sound of thousands of boots on the ground, the faint jangle of equipment, and the sharp, barked commands of Japanese officers. The final assault had begun.
They didn't attack the main gates, which were still formidable. Just as Jiang had predicted, they swarmed the breach in the northern wall. A wave of Japanese infantry, bayonets fixed, charged forward with a terrifying, guttural roar of "Banzai!"
The few hundred Gongzi Army soldiers stationed nearby took one look at the oncoming wave of steel and broke. They threw down their weapons and fled deeper into the city, their screams adding to the chaos.
Only the Imperial Guard stood their ground.
"Fire!" Jiang roared.
Thirty rifles fired as one, a single, disciplined volley that tore into the front rank of the Japanese charge. Men fell, but more came on behind them, a relentless tide of disciplined fury.
"Again! Fire!"
The close-quarters fight was a maelstrom of violence. The air was a thick soup of gunpowder smoke, screams, and the wet, metallic clang of steel on steel. Jiang emptied his Mauser pistol into the press of bodies, dropping three Japanese soldiers before the slide locked back on an empty chamber. He threw the useless weapon aside and drew his officer's sword, a simple, unadorned blade of tempered steel. He parried a bayonet thrust and drove his own sword through the man's throat.
His men fought with a suicidal, methodical bravery. They formed a small, bloody redoubt amidst the chaos, a tiny island of discipline in a sea of routing cowards. They inflicted shocking casualties, their training and resolve making them worth ten times their number. But they were being overwhelmed. A young guard fought off two soldiers before a third ran him through from the side. Another, his rifle empty, used it as a club, swinging it wildly until he was cut down.
On a hill overlooking the battle, Major General Oshima Yoshimasa watched the final moments of the assault through his binoculars. He had expected the entire wall to fold in minutes. He was surprised to see this one small pocket of ferocious resistance.
"Incredible," he muttered to his aide. "The main army folded like wet paper, but this one small unit… they fight like demons. Who are they?"
"Their uniforms are different, General," his aide replied, also observing the fight. "Black silk. Simple and practical. None of the gaudy colors and useless trinkets of the other Qing soldiers."
"Find out who they were," Oshima commanded, a note of genuine respect in his voice. "A unit that fights with such spirit is an enemy to be honored. Even in death." He watched as the last of the guards were finally overwhelmed.
Captain Jiang was the last man standing. He was leaning against the barricade, a Japanese bayonet buried deep in his left shoulder, his sword arm slick with his own blood. He faced down a half-dozen Japanese soldiers, a defiant, hateful glare in his eyes. He raised his sword for one last stand, but his strength failed him. A rifle butt to the back of the head sent him crashing into the dirt, unconscious. He was captured.
With the northern wall breached, the fall of the city was swift. Japanese soldiers poured into the streets, securing key points against scattered, disorganized resistance. A special detachment, led by General Oshima himself, stormed the governor's mansion. They expected to find the enemy commander dead by his own hand, a final act of samurai-like honor.
Instead, they kicked down the door to his chambers and found General Wei Rugui cowering under his desk, weeping like a child. He offered no resistance, only whimpering pleas for his life. A Japanese officer contemptuously kicked the desk aside and dragged the Qing general out. Without a word, Wei unbuckled his ornate, jewel-encrusted sword—a symbol of his rank and authority—and handed it over, handle first.
The ultimate disgrace was complete, witnessed by the stony-faced Japanese and the few surviving, shamed officers of his own command. The so-called "elite" Gongzi Army had been annihilated, and its commander had surrendered not with a bang, but with a pathetic, dishonorable whimper.