Starting from 1618 of the Ming Dynasty

Chapter 47 Temporary Balance

In the winter of the 47th year of the Wanli reign (1598), there was a heavy snowfall.

Winter seemed to arrive exceptionally early and fiercely that year. The north wind howled across the central Shandong region, freezing mountains and rivers in a desolate, silvery-white blanket. Heavy snow had been falling for three days and three nights, completely burying the official road leading to Jinan Prefecture. Only a vast expanse of white remained between heaven and earth, as if to cover up all the filth and evil of the world.

However, in this icy and snowy landscape, Lu Ji's camp, located in Luan Shi Gang, was like a tireless steel behemoth, still spewing out heat and black smoke.

The snow on the towering bastion walls had been swept away, revealing the gray bricks beneath. The guards, bundled in thick cotton armor and carrying long spears, stood watch every few steps, vigilantly observing their surroundings. The wind whipped their red helmet plumes, making them look like flickering flames in the snow.

Since that political show called "Royal Wood Security," Jinan Prefecture has enjoyed a rare period of peace.

This was a ceasefire agreement woven with interests. Although the Huang family was unwilling, under the dual pressure of the government and the garrison, they had no choice but to bow their heads and obediently send the high-quality coal from Boshan to Lu Ji's warehouse. Zhou Daodeng, the deputy commissioner of the provincial judicial commission, became a guest of honor at Lu Ji's camp, receiving a monthly "advisory fee" of three thousand taels of silver. He turned a blind eye to the ever-growing fortifications in Lu Ji's camp and even took the initiative to help cover them up in front of the governor, calling it a "righteous act of the local militia."

This fragile balance, tainted by the stench of money, provided Lu Yan with the most precious window of opportunity—the period of internal energy cultivation.

Lu Ji Camp, the firearms testing ground on the back mountain.

This was a restricted area of ​​the entire camp, surrounded by red warning tape and marked with wooden signs that read "Testing Grounds - Unauthorized Entry Will Be Punished." A biting wind howled, whipping up snowflakes that stung like knives against the face.

Zhao Tie was wearing a thick sheepskin coat and a dog-skin hat, his eyebrows and beard covered in a layer of white frost. He was leading a group of craftsmen, circling around a newly cast cannon, each of their eyes gleaming with fanaticism.

This cannon was quite different from the traditional breech-loading cannons of the Ming Dynasty. It was shorter and thicker, with noticeably thicker walls, giving it a dull, iron-gray appearance. It was mounted on a gun carriage with two huge wooden wheels, and behind the carriage were two hoes deeply embedded in the frozen ground.

"Boss, is this the 'infantry field gun' you requested?"

Zhao Tie patted the cold cannon barrel with his calloused hand, producing a dull metallic sound. His tone was tinged with doubt. "This thing only weighs a little over 300 jin (150 kg) in total. Even with the barrel and chassis, it's not as heavy as my millstone. How much power can it possibly have? Can it even penetrate a city wall?"

"Don't attack the city walls."

Lu Yan stood to one side, draped in a black mink coat, holding a thick "Ballistics Notes" in his hand (a localized firearms manual he had compiled after countless sleepless nights, combining knowledge from his previous life with Zhao Tie's experience). He raised his eyes, his voice sounding particularly cold and stern in the wind and snow.

"This cannon is for shooting people. For shooting people who are charging in a dense formation."

Lu Yan pointed to the earthen wall in the distance, "The current city wall is too thick; that's the job of the Red Coat Cannons. What we need to deal with is the impending human wave tactics of the bandits. In the face of a large-scale infantry charge, this cannon is worth a hundred muskets."

Lu Yan pointed to dozens of scarecrows standing a hundred paces ahead. The scarecrows were all dressed in tattered cotton-padded coats collected from refugees, simulating real enemies.

"Test firing. Shotgun shells."

"Alright! Load!"

The gunners skillfully cleaned the breech, loaded a measured amount of black powder, and then stuffed it into a cylindrical canister made of rolled-up thin sheet metal. This seemingly rudimentary canister was filled with rusty iron nails, shards of porcelain, and coarse lead pellets.

"Ready—Ignition!"

"boom!"

A deep, muffled thud shook the snow off the branches. The cannon barrel jerked back sharply, and the hoe carved two deep furrows into the frozen ground. A burst of orange-red flame, accompanied by thick white smoke, shot out from the muzzle.

The tin can disintegrated the moment it left the barrel, and hundreds of deadly bullets sprayed out like a rain of pear blossoms, covering a fan-shaped area within a hundred paces ahead.

That was the fan of death.

The dozens of scarecrows standing there, along with their tattered cotton-padded coats, were instantly riddled with holes. Straw fluttered everywhere like broken limbs, scattering mournfully in the wind and snow, resembling an absurd and bloody dance. Several wooden stakes were even snapped in half, the cuts jagged and uneven.

"hiss--"

Zhao Changying and dozens of newly selected artillery cadets who were watching all gasped in surprise.

This isn't a cannon; it's a giant shotgun magnified countless times! In a battle between two armies, one shot would create a fan-shaped no-man's-land! No matter if you have armor or not, no matter how skilled you are in martial arts, you'd be turned into mincemeat! Who would dare to walk into the muzzle of that gun?

"This is the violence of industry."

Lu Yan nodded in satisfaction, took out a charcoal pencil, and recorded the detailed data in his notebook:

Model: Lu's 3-jin Field Gun (a scaled-down version of the Napoleon cannon, tentatively designated as 3 jin according to the Ming Dynasty's weights and measures). Range: 500 paces for solid shot, 150 paces for grapeshot (effective kill). Purpose: Anti-infantry charges and deterring unarmored civilians. Progress: Finalized, mass production. Defects: Slow barrel cooling, limited rate of fire; cooling process needs improvement.

"Master Zhao, I need ten of these cannons by the end of the year." Lu Yan closed his notebook and gave the order. "Also, the production of flintlock muskets needs to keep up. The current three hundred are not enough; we need to expand production. I want every guard to have a working weapon."

"Boss, the money..."

Old Hu, who had been calculating costs with an abacus the whole time, weakly interjected. His face was purple from the cold, but his heartache was even greater, and his shrewd little eyes were full of anxiety.

"Although we've made a lot of money from the timber business, we've been spending it like water these past few months. Building cannons, feeding the troops, bribing the officials... we only have ten thousand taels left in our accounts. If we don't get any more income, we'll have trouble paying the brothers' salaries next month. These cannons are good, but each shot costs several taels of silver just to hear the bang!"

Money is not a problem.

Lu Yan turned around and walked back, his steps firm, making a crunching sound on the snow.

"Our 'water conservancy project' will begin construction in Beijing next spring. That's when the real big money will come in. The current investment is to secure our future goldmine."

Back in the central command tent, the underground heating was burning brightly, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere, as if it were a completely different world from the icy and snowy landscape outside.

Lu Yan took off his fur coat and walked to his desk. On the desk lay a newly delivered intelligence report, which was information that Fan Fu had collected through teahouses and post stations along the canal. The paper was a little wrinkled and had some oil stains on it.

Lu Yan read through each item:

"Emperor Wanli's health is getting worse and worse. I heard that he has not attended court for three months. The imperial physicians in the palace have been replaced several times, and the memorials from the cabinet are piled up like a mountain."

"Although Xiong Tingbi, the military commissioner of Liaodong, stabilized the situation, the imperial court was short of money, and the front lines were severely behind on pay, even leading to the tragedy of soldiers selling their armor for food. The price of rice in Shenyang had risen to three taels of silver per shi (a unit of dry measure)."

"Xu Hongru's men are active in the Yuncheng area. It is said that they are secretly manufacturing weapons and spreading rumors among the people that 'the Red Sun is about to be wiped out.' Several farmers in several villages have been abducted by them, and some local officials have even turned a blind eye to this in order to keep the peace."

As Lu Yan looked at the intelligence reports, his fingers tapped lightly on the table, producing a series of dull sounds.

The wheels of history are turning faster. He can hear the sound of gears snapping.

It is now the winter of the 47th year of the Wanli reign. There is less than a year left until the era known as the "Apocalypse".

It was a more insane, more chaotic, but also more opportunity-filled era.

Wei Zhongxian is about to rise to power, the White Lotus Rebellion is about to erupt, and the Later Jin are about to capture Shenyang. The last vestiges of the Ming Empire's vitality will be exhausted in the coming years.

And he had already sharpened his knife outside Jinan.

"Changying," Lu Yan called out.

"Here." Zhao Changying maintained the posture of being ready to draw his sword at any moment, like a vigilant wolf guarding Lu Yan's side.

"Let the brothers take turns resting, give them double the reward money, and let them have a good New Year."

Lu Yan narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze passing through the gaps in the tent as he looked at the swirling snow outside.

"This is probably the last peaceful year we can have."

"Next spring, after the snow melts, what flows out might be blood."