Chapter Seventy-One: First Battle with the Third

With the guise of a cook to shield him, Wu Daoliang obtained a certificate for him from the French consulate, allowing Yang Xiaolin to freely enter and exit the Eastern Diplomatic Quarter. Of course, inside there were other consulates belonging to different countries, which he could not enter at will, but strolling along the streets, the guards at each consulate no longer questioned him. The guards here were all foreigners; only after arriving did Yang Xiaolin realize that even among the consulates’ guards, there was a hierarchy. Take the French consulate, for example—three hundred guards in total. At the top were the French soldiers, mostly stationed around the consulate; their heads held high as they came and went, exuding an air of arrogance. They paid no heed to ordinary Chinese folk. There were fifty French soldiers, led by an officer who seemed to be a nobleman from France, exceedingly proud.

The second tier consisted of black guards, mercenaries recruited by France from Africa. When these dark-skinned men first arrived in Beijing, they truly frightened the locals, but over time, people discovered that, despite their fierce appearance, they rarely laid hands on the common people and seemed to empathize with the plight of the Chinese.

The French consulate had one hundred black guards, led by a man named Nirel. When Yang Xiaolin first saw him, his mind leapt immediately to a gorilla—an irreverent comparison, perhaps, but apt. Nirel possessed the typical robust physique of his race, thick arms and deep-set eyes, and spoke little.

The third tier comprised the Indian Sepoys, numbering one hundred and fifty. One would think, given the fate China suffered, that they would understand it best, for their own kin suffered similar oppression in their homeland; they ought to sympathize with the Chinese! Yet the reality was the opposite: these Sepoys were the most vicious toward the Chinese populace, beating and kicking indiscriminately, regardless of age or gender.

Even within the consulate, they often found amusement in tormenting Chinese laborers—a fact Yang Xiaolin experienced on his very first day.

Lu Er’s job at the consulate was to cook; Yang Xiaolin, taking his place, naturally found the work leisurely. Once the meals were prepared, his duties were done, leaving him plenty of time to himself.

To quickly earn the trust of others in the consulate, Yang Xiaolin, after finishing his tasks, saw Wu Daoliang directing several men to clean the backyard and immediately grabbed a broom to help.

At that time, few who worked for foreigners had any backbone; their creed was simply to mind their own business and avoid unnecessary interaction, even with fellow Chinese. So Yang Xiaolin’s willingness to help took the cleaners aback, and even Wu Daoliang was surprised.

“Lu San, you don’t need to sweep—go rest after a busy morning,” Wu Daoliang said politely. The cook’s position was closely tied to the envoy’s appetite and thus not to be offended.

Yang Xiaolin smiled, “It’s nothing, I’m idle anyway. Just arrived, thought I’d get to know the brothers.”

Wu Daoliang nodded and said no more.

Sweeping as he worked, Yang Xiaolin exchanged jokes with those around him, lightening the tense atmosphere and hastening the pace. As the last latrine was nearly clean, Wu Daoliang glanced at the sky, “Well, today’s work finished quickly—everyone gets to go home early. Lu San, I never thought you’d be such an amusing fellow. Had I known, I’d have asked Lu Er to bring you earlier.”

Yang Xiaolin laughed, “If my brother knew you’d asked for me, he’d never let me come—afraid I’d take his job.”

Wu Daoliang burst out laughing, “Then tell him not to bother coming anymore.”

Yang Xiaolin thought to himself, no need to tell Lu Er; even if you carried him here in a grand sedan chair, he’d never come again.

Wu Daoliang waved, “Just a bit left, hurry and finish so we can all go home and rest. In a few days, there’ll be a banquet—everyone will be busy then.”

Yang Xiaolin’s expression froze, “A banquet?”

Wu Daoliang replied, “Yes, the consulate’s expansion just finished. Envoy Sherry said the French banquet must be livelier than the Italian one!”

Yang Xiaolin glanced around the latrine, “Wu Steward, are they going to have the banquet here? Will everyone squat to drink?”

The others, seeing his expression, realized he was joking and laughed. Wu Daoliang scolded, “You rascal! Don’t say such things—if the foreigners hear you suggest they drink here, they’ll beat you to death.”

Just as they were about to finish cleaning, a squad of Indian soldiers rushed in—seven in total.

Yang Xiaolin was standing at the door, blocking half the narrow entrance. He was about to step aside, when the leading Sepoy shoved him, sending him stumbling and nearly tumbling into the cesspit.

This truly infuriated Yang Xiaolin.

What made him angrier was that the group seemed to do it on purpose, relieving themselves messily, leaving a trail.

Wu Daoliang’s face darkened. He said awkwardly, “Gentlemen, we just cleaned—could you be a bit more careful?”

One Sepoy glanced at Wu Daoliang and replied in halting Mandarin, “This is a toilet, for us to use. Cleaning is your Qing people’s business.”

Wu Daoliang dared not retort, retreating meekly.

Yang Xiaolin had no intention of causing trouble; he knew when to endure, but just as he was about to swallow his anger, the Sepoy in front of him, not even finished urinating, turned around and shook his rear, splattering urine onto Yang Xiaolin’s foot.

Yang Xiaolin was no ninja turtle! The Sepoy looked at him provocatively, pride not yet fully hidden. Yang Xiaolin stepped forward and kicked him square in the groin, sending the man sprawling, half his body plunging into the cesspit. Had someone not grabbed him, he would have fallen in completely.

The one who’d spoken to Wu Daoliang hurried over, pulling up his trousers and muttering. The other Indian soldiers, whether finished or not, rose to action.

Meanwhile, Wu Daoliang’s crew distanced themselves from Yang Xiaolin, as if he were a stranger.

Yang Xiaolin was unafraid; he knew the cramped space worked against him in a fight, so he dashed toward the door. Before leaving, he saw a Sepoy squatting by the entrance, not yet wiped, and punched him.

The Sepoy, one hand holding his trousers, the other raised to block, was caught off guard. Yang Xiaolin’s feint drew the hand up, then a powerful blow struck his abdomen, toppling him into the cesspit.

Two down out of seven; the remaining five chased after him to the latrine door. The fastest was caught by Yang Xiaolin’s sudden return, a punch to the nose sending blood streaming.

Four remained, trying to surround him, but Yang Xiaolin darted left and right, never letting them close in. Even within the consulate, the Sepoys dared not use firearms—they were only third-tier guards.

The scuffle drew attention; a French guard stood at his post, watching the brawl with relish, and several black guards glanced over as well.

They saw Yang Xiaolin weaving rapidly among the buildings, the four Sepoys shouting but unable to catch him.

One, growing desperate, stumbled, and Yang Xiaolin seized the chance, unleashing a dazzling combination—cheek, temple, chin—leaving the man bloodied and crawling, unable to rise.

Three remained. Yang Xiaolin guessed the one who spoke to Wu Daoliang was their leader, as the others watched him for cues. Nearby was a large pool, three or four meters wide, stretching long—Yang Xiaolin ran to it, circling as he fled.

The tactics of the Grand Ancestor were always right, whether in war or in brawls. After two laps, the distance grew. The leader realized pursuit was futile and shouted something. The last Sepoy looked back; Yang Xiaolin smiled.

Now, it was time to strike when the enemy was weary.

Just after rounding a corner, the two tried to block Yang Xiaolin front and back. The leader was excited, but before he could savor his triumph, Yang Xiaolin leapt across the pool, breaking through their encirclement, and launched his attack.

The leader saw Yang Xiaolin’s fist coming, retreated a step in fear, and called for help. The others came quickly—one ran around the pool, another tried to leap over it, mimicking Yang Xiaolin.

But as he was mid-jump, Yang Xiaolin suddenly turned, abandoning his attack on the leader, and kicked him into the pool, sending up a spray.

Five down!

Wu Daoliang and his crew were stunned—a single man downing five out of seven, unbelievable. Not only they, but the black guards watching were cheering, even if Yang Xiaolin couldn’t understand, he knew they were rooting for him.

Yang Xiaolin kept running—never let the enemy control the rhythm of battle; that was the key to victory.

His next target was the latrine—he needed a rest, just as in war one needs a base to regroup.

The two remaining Sepoys chased after him. Inside the latrine, Yang Xiaolin checked on the three he’d felled. The one with the bleeding nose lay at the door; Yang Xiaolin punched him again to keep him down.

The one kicked in the groin was still prone; another kick ensured he’d stay put. The third, just climbing out of the pit and cleaning himself, saw Yang Xiaolin’s treatment of his comrades, shouted “OK! OK!” and jumped back into the cesspit himself.

With the threats inside neutralized, Yang Xiaolin guarded the door, leaning to catch his breath.

The two outside dared not charge in, resulting in a stalemate. The three eyed each other, exchanging tentative kicks.

The leader panted, whispering to his companion; Yang Xiaolin couldn’t understand, but guessed they were planning their next move.

Yang Xiaolin felt his strength return, ready to launch another sneak attack.

He watched their eyes closely; though they kept a wary gaze on him, the leader was distracted while speaking—clearly wanting to clarify something with his companion. In that moment of distraction, Yang Xiaolin charged out!

He punched at the other Sepoy, who leapt aside in fright, while the leader lunged forward.

Yang Xiaolin silently praised himself—feinting east, striking west, luring the enemy in—all in one move!

He slid into a crouch; the Sepoy’s kick grazed his ear. The position was perfect—if farther, the opponent’s strong waist might have allowed a knee strike, but pressed close, he had no space to generate force.

Dodging the blow, Yang Xiaolin knew he was safe—the man was about to suffer. He extended his arm gently, and the Sepoy crashed his groin into it.

A scream rang out; Yang Xiaolin followed up, hoisting him with his shoulder and tossing him aside.

Only one left!

The entire fight lasted over ten minutes, with more time spent running than striking. Yang Xiaolin had thoroughly implemented the tactic of annihilating the enemy on the move, and now victory was assured.

Feeling triumphant, he turned to Wu Daoliang and the others, “Well, brothers, do you want him to crawl or lie down?”

But he saw their faces were pale, as if something terrible had happened.

Yang Xiaolin paused, turned sharply, and saw behind him more than thirty Sepoys standing, eyes fixed on him like wolves. He’d just exited the latrine, completely unaware of their arrival!