Chapter Ninety-Three: Savage Training

Nirel could be said to compensate for another shortcoming of Yang Xiaolin. Although Yang Xiaolin was a member of the People's Liberation Army, he had never experienced real combat during training; his first battlefield experience came under Commander Yang himself.

Moreover, Yang Xiaolin was uncertain whether his training methods were suitable for this era. After all, over a hundred years later, wars rarely involved direct charges and close combat. With distances spanning hundreds of kilometers, advanced weaponry would unleash a fierce bombardment; by the time one side began its advance, the battle was essentially over.

If Yang Xiaolin’s approach toughened his comrades into fearless fighters, Nirel was quite the opposite. Having served as a mercenary for over ten years, he knew precisely how to survive on the battlefield.

First came a three-kilometer run, with no need to specify cross-country running since the terrain was mountainous and forested, naturally making it cross-country. Nirel was obviously training his mercenaries. Yang Xiaolin saw Nirel trailing the group with a thick stick in hand, ready to strike anyone who lagged behind.

Though Yang Xiaolin warned the men not to joke about Nirel’s skin color, Nirel seemed oblivious. If no one called him black, he would mock others’ yellow skin: “Hurry up! You yellow-skinned monkeys, if you’re this slow on the battlefield, you’re just waiting to be bayoneted in the backside! Move faster!”

After the three kilometers, most people were gasping for breath.

Following a fifteen-minute rest, they practiced 100 meters of frog jumps, then moved on to push-ups and sit-ups. Nirel’s demands were near cruel: each bandit had to complete ten push-ups immediately followed by ten sit-ups; any slackers or those with improper form were beaten with the stick.

Next came arm strength training—lifting heavy stones or using low tree branches as pull-up bars. Nirel required everyone to perform ten pull-ups; failure meant hanging on the branch for ten minutes.

After these grueling exercises, most bandits collapsed from exhaustion, yet the training was far from over. They then practiced 200-meter sprints, which had to be completed within thirty seconds.

Those who made the time could rest; anyone even a second late had to do two more sets of push-ups and sit-ups.

Once this phase ended, Nirel led them in a half-hour session of simple stretching and tendon exercises—a slightly more lenient requirement allowing the bandits some respite.

Finally, they ran a five-kilometer jog—not too fast, but it had to be finished within an hour and a half.

Was running five kilometers in an hour and a half too slow? The bandits didn’t think so; by now, they felt utterly drained, craving nothing more than a bed to collapse on, or even lying directly on the cold snow would suffice.

Yet Nirel’s stick was always behind them. Anyone who dared to lie down was immediately struck. This final five-kilometer run was about endurance—whether one could summon latent strength to complete the last stretch when utterly spent.

Some weaker comrades collapsed in exhaustion during the run. Nirel checked on them, sparing the rod for those clearly incapacitated; after shouting at them to stand, if they couldn’t rise, he humanely helped them up, gave them food and drink, and allowed them to follow the group at a slower pace.

Training continued into the evening, starting with Yang Xiaolin leading the soldiers in shooting practice. Nighttime shooting might seem foolish, but Yang Xiaolin had a particular zeal for night combat, hoping his men could shoot as accurately in the dark as in daylight.

Each soldier fired only three bullets. Gulu Mountain did not manufacture ammunition, and supplies were scarce, so conservation was vital. Yang Xiaolin thought this was at least better than the Red Army’s old practice of aiming with wooden rifles.

After marksmanship training, they weren’t allowed to rest. Yang Xiaolin had them lie prone on a hillside in bitter cold of minus twenty degrees Celsius, doing nothing but lying still, forbidden from making noise, going to the bathroom, or moving.

This intensity was far beyond what the average Chinese physique could endure. On the first night, over a hundred men developed fevers, and many could not rise the next day. Yang Xiaolin’s attitude was straightforward: those who wanted to quit were given some travel money to return home.

He expected many to leave, but surprisingly, despite their physical limitations, the Chinese soldiers’ endurance was second to none. Perhaps it was also because they had nowhere else to go; no one came to claim the travel money.

The sick crawled back to their feet and, despite discomfort, stood again in formation. After five or six days, eight men collapsed and died during training. Yet the rest gradually adapted, showing marked improvements in running speed and arm strength.

The training intensified further. Beyond routine drills, they added practical battlefield maneuvers such as crawling forward, dropping prone instantly, and rising quickly.

Jin Dadao voiced some complaints, seeing Yang Xiaolin and Nirel as madmen who wished their men to train even in their sleep. He approached Yang Xiaolin, explaining the men were suffering and asking if the regimen could be eased, at least to prevent deaths from exhaustion.

Yang Xiaolin replied firmly, “If one dies from exhaustion, a hundred of us can survive on the battlefield.”

Meanwhile, the Russian-Qing allied forces prepared for deployment. As Yang Xiaolin led his men through bitter cold training, General Zeng Qi of Shengjing stood on the reviewing stand, observing the assembled troops.

The Qing soldiers remained as lax as ever. They held their guns, but unlike the bandits on Gulu Mountain, there was a clear distinction—you could tell at a glance that they were holding rifles; men were men, guns were guns.

Yet Zeng Qi seemed pleased with this formation, smiling with hands tucked inside his padded coat as he marched forward. “Good! Excellent! Minister Zhao, how is the provision of supplies?”

Zhao Erxun replied briskly, “General, rations for sixty thousand soldiers are fully prepared. This time, the foreigners have granted us a loan, so material supply is not a problem.”

Zeng Qi nodded satisfactorily. “Many people are speaking ill of the Empress Dowager now, and the unrest in the south is severe. I don’t care about other regions, but Liaoxi is the dragon’s vein of our great Qing. Men like Yang Da Gui must be decisively eliminated.”

Zhao Erxun bowed and clasped his fists. “General, your wisdom is clear. With you leading the troops personally to suppress the bandits, victory will come swiftly.”

Zeng Qi smiled. “The Russians are even more anxious than we are, sending twenty thousand troops. Yang Da Gui is no deity—I don’t believe he can hold off eighty thousand of us with only two thousand men! Look at what our boys are holding—latest German Mausers! These are fine weapons. If Yang Da Gui hadn’t embarrassed the foreigners in the capital, the Germans wouldn’t have supplied us.”

Zhao Erxun chuckled. “So Yang Da Gui has inadvertently helped us. With these guns, combined with the Empress Dowager’s wisdom and your generalship, it won’t be long before our Qing restores its former glory.”

Yet Zhao Erxun clearly misunderstood or simply failed to grasp the situation.

Now the Qing dynasty was terminally ill. Its performance during the Boxer Rebellion was like poison, utterly losing the hearts of the people. The entire edifice was rotten from top to bottom. A strong wind or storm would surely bring it crashing down. Restoration of glory? The Qing no longer had that chance.