The Valley of the Black Raven was a place of grim beauty. Sheer cliffs of dark rock rose on either side of a narrow, stony path, wide enough for perhaps ten horsemen to ride abreast. It was a natural killing ground, and General Li, standing atop the eastern cliff, felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach. He was violating every principle of warfare he had ever known. He was letting the enemy in.
Below, hidden among the rocks and scrub, five hundred men clutched their strange new weapons. The "Lazy Dragon's Repeating Crossbows" were heavier than a standard bow, but the lever mechanism promised a rate of fire that made veteran archers skeptical. Beside them, teams of soldiers carefully handled the clay "firepots," their fuses looking absurdly fragile against the impending storm of arrows and steel.
A dust cloud appeared at the valley's northern mouth. Then came the sound—a low, earth-shaking rumble that grew into a thunderous cacophony of hooves, shouts, and the chilling, ululating war cries of the Mongol vanguard. They poured into the valley, a seemingly endless river of horsemen, their lacquer armor gleaming, their bows held high. They saw the abandoned Ming positions and screamed in triumph, believing the Chinese dogs were fleeing before them.
General Li held his breath, his hand raised. He waited, his heart hammering against his ribs. He let the vanguard pass, let the heart of the force—thousands of riders—push deep into the narrowest part of the valley. The air grew thick with dust and the smell of sweat and horse.
He dropped his hand.
A flag signal was passed. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a sound unlike any other rose from the valley floor. It wasn't the singular thwump of a ballista or the whistle of a few arrows. It was a continuous, mechanical thrum-thrum-thrum, a horrific, buzzing whir as five hundred levers were worked, each launching a three-bolt clip in devastating succession.
The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. The Mongols, expecting archery volleys from the cliffs, were utterly unprepared for a horizontal hailstorm of metal that never seemed to end. The first ranks didn't just fall; they were shredded. Horses screamed, pierced by multiple bolts, crashing into those behind them. The narrow pass became a churning, chaotic mess of falling bodies, panicking animals, and tangled riders.
Confusion turned to panic. The Mongols were masters of the open steppe, of maneuver and horse-archery. They were trapped in a meat grinder.
Then came the firepots.
From the cliffs above, soldiers lit fuses and heaved the clay pots into the seething mass below. The first few were duds, smashing harmlessly on the rocks. But then one landed amidst a group of riders trying to reorganize.
The explosion was not the massive fireball of modern artillery, but in the confines of the valley, it was apocalyptic. A deafening CRUMP echoed off the stone walls, followed by a shower of earth, shrapnel, and fire. Horses reared in blind terror, throwing their riders. Men not killed by the blast were burned by the clinging, Greek-fire-like substance within.
Then another pot exploded. And another.
The valley became a vision of hell. The continuous, mechanical whir of the crossbows, the deafening blasts of the firepots, the screams of men and horses, the stench of blood, smoke, and burnt flesh. To the Mongol riders, who fought with bow and saber, this was not battle. This was sorcery. This was the wrath of angry earth spirits.
The story began to form in their terrified minds even as they died. The Ming had summoned demons. They had made the earth itself explode.
The attack broke. It didn't retreat; it shattered. Survivors at the rear, who had seen only the chaos and heard the unearthly noises, wheeled their horses and fled, riding back the way they came, their eyes wide with a superstitious terror that would never leave them.
The noise from the valley slowly died down, replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the crackle of small fires. The crossbowmen stopped, their arms aching, their faces pale. They looked down at the carnage, not with triumph, but with a kind of numb horror.
General Li descended to the valley floor, picking his way through the devastation. He saw a Mongol standard, trampled and torn, lying next of a shattered firepot. He saw the effectiveness of the weapons, but he also saw the emperor's brutal genius. This wasn't just a military victory. It was a psychological annihilation.