After leaving the eastern gate, Prefect Shang proceeded to the northern and northwestern gates, repeating the same actions as before. He cautioned the defending soldiers to be wary of the pirates feigning defeat to lure them out, urging them not to pursue the enemy beyond the city walls.
The soldiers at the northern and northwestern gates reacted to Shang’s warning much like General Wang had. They felt a similar unease, their hard-fought victories—earned through blood and sweat—seemingly diminished in the eyes of others.
“We’ve shed blood and tears in these two defenses, fighting with real blades and enduring countless hardships to repel the pirates,” they thought bitterly. “Why is it that when Zhu Ping’an wins, it’s skill, but when we win, it’s just the pirates pretending to lose?! Are we, seasoned veterans with high walls and deep moats, somehow less capable than a bunch of bandits pardoned just months ago or farmers who’ve only recently set down their hoes?! Isn’t the Prefect being a bit too biased?”
“Rest assured, my lord. We understand and will guard the city carefully, giving the pirates no openings,” the soldiers replied, their emotions a tangled mix.
The next day, in the final darkness before dawn, the air was black, cold, and biting, with a chilling wind carrying a gloomy mist.
A carrier pigeon descended through the fog into the Zhejiang army camp, a message tube tied to its leg. A soldier waiting in the pigeon loft immediately retrieved the tube and dashed to report to Zhu Ping’an.
Zhu Ping’an opened the letter, scanning it quickly.
It was Liu Mu’s handwriting.
Through the message, Zhu Ping’an learned of Liu Mu and Liu Dadao’s activities since leaving camp, as well as the intelligence they’d gathered.
After breaking out yesterday, they’d encountered several groups of pirates attempting to intercept them. Relying on the speed of their cavalry, they fought while retreating, managing to escape the encirclement at the cost of five minor injuries. Once free, Liu Mu and Liu Dadao split up: Liu Mu led a team to monitor the pirates, while Liu Dadao took his group to search the wilderness for surviving villagers.
The surrounding ten-mile radius had been thoroughly scoured by the pirates multiple times. Those not well-hidden had been captured, while the well-concealed were harder to find. Some survivors, fearing capture, had fled to more remote areas.
Liu Dadao and his rangers searched for a long time, finally locating two well-hidden surviving households just before dusk.
One family knew nothing, having hidden in a forest cellar the entire time. They were oblivious to outside events, aware only that the pirates had searched the woods repeatedly, nearly discovering their hideout once but ultimately passing them by.
The other family, concealed in a riverside reed marsh, had seen more. From their vantage point, they’d witnessed the pirates capturing many hidden villagers, binding their hands with ropes. The line of captives stretched over a hundred meters, numbering in the hundreds. They vaguely overheard the pirates saying the captives were fortunate—their leaders had ordered no indiscriminate killing, instead offering them a chance to join the pirates, live well, and enjoy good food and drink.
Liu Dadao then led his men beyond the ten-mile radius, where they found several more households, some of whom had fled from within the initial radius. These villagers confirmed seeing the pirates seize hundreds of people.
Liu Mu, meanwhile, had been observing the pirate camps outside Suzhou’s eastern, northern, and northwestern gates. From a distance, the camps were indistinct, but getting closer risked exposure, nearly resulting in them being caught.
To gather clearer intelligence, Liu Mu took a bold risk. He ambushed a twenty-man pirate foraging team in a forest. To avoid drawing attention from other pirates, they refrained from using firearms, relying instead on bows and bayonets. With the element of surprise and sturdy cotton armor, they fired a volley of arrows before closing in with bayonets. At the cost of two serious and three minor injuries, they wiped out the pirate squad.
Liu Mu selected nineteen of his rangers, and together they donned the pirates’ clothing. Under the cover of night, they infiltrated the eastern gate’s pirate camp.
The pirates lacked any semblance of military discipline. The guards at the camp entrance merely asked a casual question: “Why didn’t you catch any villagers?”
Liu Mu replied that they’d been unlucky, scouring the area to no avail and returning empty-handed.
The guards laughed, “Then you’re out of luck! Those who bring back villagers get to feast on meat and wine. Those who don’t get stuck with bran and scraps.”
Feigning disappointment, Liu Mu led his men into the camp.
The pirate ranks were a chaotic mix—beyond true Japanese pirates, there were many Ming locals who’d joined their cause: disgruntled scholars, failed merchants, street thugs, rogue monks breaking their vows, and desperate commoners.
Even the true Japanese pirates resembled the Ming people closely in appearance, save for their hairstyles, accents, and slightly shorter statures, making them nearly indistinguishable.
This similarity often allowed pirates to disguise themselves as soldiers or civilians, sneaking into target cities to wreak havoc, set fires, or coordinate surprise attacks from within—a tactic they employed with consistent success.
Conversely, it also made it easy for Ming forces to impersonate pirates. Liu Mu and his men slipped into the camp without incident.
Inside, the camp was a mess—tents scattered haphazardly, pirates lounging in disorderly clusters.
Liu Mu felt that as long as they avoided wandering near the leaders’ tents, they wouldn’t risk exposure.
When questioned by pirates—“Why haven’t I seen you before?”—Liu Mu brushed it off, claiming they’d recently joined from the Takarin stronghold.
Fortunately, the death of the pirate chieftain Kitajo Dozo during the previous day’s assault on the Zhejiang camp, killed in an explosion, had led to his forces being split among Xu Hai, Ma Ye, and Chen Dong. Xu Hai’s ranks swelled with unfamiliar faces, so Liu Mu’s group of twenty blended in seamlessly, assumed to be remnants of Kitajo Dozo’s men.
Newcomers were often hazed, especially since Liu Mu’s group hadn’t brought back captives. Barely stepping into the camp, they were conscripted by a low-ranking pirate leader to guard recently captured villagers overnight.
It was a perfect opportunity—like a pillow handed to a drowsy man. Liu Mu couldn’t refuse, though he put on a reluctant yet powerless expression.
Guarding the captives all night, Liu Mu uncovered the full picture.
The pirates had shaved the captives’ heads into Japanese styles, dressed them in pirate garb, and even drilled them for a few hours. Their purpose: to use them in the next morning’s assault on the city.
Chatting with a fellow guard, Liu Mu subtly probed and steered the conversation, piecing together the plan.
These captured villagers were cannon fodder—sent to attack the city, but really, to die.
The eight hundred or so villagers captured earlier had been nearly wiped out in the morning and evening assaults.
As for why they were using villagers as sacrificial pawns, the low-ranking pirate guard didn’t know. He only said it was ordered by Xu Hai and the other chieftains.
