Chapter Fifteen: Unfathomable Methods of Gods and Ghosts

Rolling logs and stone hurlers were among the ancient weapons used to defend city walls, operating on principles similar to the iron sleds described in "The Complete Story of Yue Fei." On the inner side of the city wall, a sloped ramp was constructed; at the top of this slope, massive solid wood logs—each as thick as a barrel—were secured with ropes. The logs’ surfaces bristled with triangular iron spikes. When the ropes were cut, these logs would thunderously roll down the slope, crushing any enemy soldiers daring to charge the walls beneath them.

In the age of cold weapons, a small city could withstand sieges for months or even years. It was the relentless incursions of the Xiongnu in northern China that spurred the invention of intricate city defense mechanisms and systems. Each end of the rolling log and stone hurlers was secured with iron chains. When their momentum was spent, defending soldiers would rotate wheels to haul the logs back up to the top of the ramp, ready to be deployed again.

Unless the attackers possessed heavy weapons such as trebuchets capable of destroying all these rolling logs and stone hurlers, any attempt at massed assault was tantamount to suicide. When it came to defending cities, the Chinese were unrivaled; even the Mongol armies, who swept across the world, were held at bay before Xiangyang for thirty-eight years. Despite deploying what was called the Huihui cannon, Xiangyang never fell by assault but only through the betrayal and surrender of its defenders.

Were it not for Xue Ren’guo’s rashness and anger clouding his judgment, he would never have made such a grievous mistake, underestimating his foes so disastrously. The consequences were dire: more than a thousand soldiers of Western Qin were lost. Dozens of rolling logs, each weighing over a thousand catties, were shoved down by the brave men of Jingyang, roaring as they descended. The Western Qin troops, surging forward in waves, were struck down one after another; in the brief span of a few breaths, the five or six hundred soldiers who had stormed the walls were wiped out—none survived.

Those struck by the rolling logs, whether Western Qin soldiers or unfortunate Jingyang defenders, were without exception reduced to mangled lumps of flesh and blood. Xue Ren’guo, watching the carnage, did not persist with the assault. Though indifferent to the lives of his men, he knew well that morale had plummeted to its nadir; further attacks would only increase casualties and were futile.

The battle ceased, both sides licking their wounds, gathering strength, and preparing to clash again. As the defenders cleaned the battlefield atop the walls and tended to the wounded, Chen Ying was nearly in tears. The three militia units he had painstakingly assembled had suffered nearly half casualties: four hundred and three dead, three hundred and fifty-six wounded. Counting the injured, barely more than one and a half units retained fighting strength.

Jingyang was awash in grief—cries and wails filled the air. Since the Western Qin army lacked trebuchets, the wounded were temporarily sheltered at the foot of the city wall. Chen Ying visited this impromptu field hospital, his heart heavy.

“Please, end my suffering!” a severely wounded militiaman whispered, his voice as feeble as a mouse’s. Chen Ying felt as if his throat were stuffed, making it hard to breathe.

Examining the man’s injuries more closely, Chen Ying frowned. The wound was only one, on the outer root of the thigh. It was long and deep but not fatal.

“Live, and live well!” Chen Ying urged in a low voice. “This wound won’t kill you. In a month, you’ll be back on your feet.”

“I can’t stop the bleeding—no one survives wounds like this!” The wounded man extended a blood-soaked hand, reaching toward Chen Ying. “Please... I beg you... end my pain!”

“Chief Chen, please, for mercy’s sake!” cried another.

The physician tending the wounded poured a large packet of yellow powder onto the wound. Blood kept flowing, washing away the powder and rendering it useless for staunching the hemorrhage. Seeing the failure of the powder, the middle-aged physician grew flustered. He tried several more powders, even had the wounded soldier chew raw herbs, but nothing worked. At last, the doctor was at a loss.

Zhang Huaiwei said, “Whether he survives or not is up to Heaven. Don’t waste time—go save others!”

“Wait, I have a way to stop the bleeding!”

Chen Ying remembered that traditional Chinese medicine was not lacking in surgical techniques; Hua Tuo had invented procedures akin to surgery, even proposing to perform cranial surgery on Cao Cao. Of course, after Hua Tuo’s death, most of these techniques were lost—a tragic fate.

Chen Ying was not skilled in medicine, but he had seen TV shows and read novels, and knew that suturing wounds was not particularly difficult. The soldier had already been given up for dead by the physician; whether he survived was a matter of fate, but it was worth trying.

“Find me a needle—a large one, for sewing clothes—and thread. Hurry!” Chen Ying demanded.

By now, his authority in Jingyang was absolute; soon, a sweating militiaman handed him a sewing kit.

Seeing the wounded man’s dim gaze, Chen Ying spoke urgently: “I can stop the bleeding. You won’t die yet!”

The wounded man’s dull eyes lit up with a spark of hope.

Chen Ying boiled the thread in hot water, then washed his hands in limewater.

A sterile environment was needed to prevent infection. Chen Ying lacked proper conditions—even alcohol for disinfection was unavailable. He could only do what he could and leave the rest to fate.

Chen Ying sterilized the needle over charcoal, bent it into a hook, and waited for it to cool before threading it. After checking the wound and finding no severed tendons, he cleaned out foreign matter, then began stitching the wound as if sewing a garment. The other soldiers watched in horror, stepping back in alarm. As Chen Ying worked faster, the nearly one-foot-long gash in the soldier’s thigh gradually stopped bleeding. When he finished, he deliberately left a small opening for blood to drain from the wound—a detail he knew from emergency training and from books and films.

When the suturing was done, Chen Ying noticed that the physician was still watching.

“What’s your name?”

“Li... Little old man, Chen Huairen!” Chen Huairen was stunned by Chen Ying’s method, only regaining composure after a moment.

“Oh!” Chen Ying smiled. “I never expected we’d be family five hundred years ago. Did you learn the suturing technique?”

“I think so!” Chen Huairen replied, puzzled. “Dare I ask, Chief Chen, did you invent this method?”

“Hardly!” Chen Ying said. “I found it in an old, damaged book—apparently created by Hua Tuo.

By the way, how many physicians are in the city now?”

Chen Huairen replied, “Counting myself and four apprentices not yet fully trained, there are eleven in all.”

“From now on, I’m forming a Jingyang Militia Medical Corps. You, Chen Huairen, are appointed as its chief, provisional seventh rank.”

“Thank you, Chief Chen, for your kindness!” Chen Huairen bowed repeatedly, “I... I will not let you down!”

“Teach this suturing technique to the others. Use it to treat wounds that can’t be stopped by powders. After suturing, apply medicine as before, and prepare decoctions to nourish and clear blood. The weather isn’t hot, so wounds won’t inflame easily. As long as there’s no infection, with proper care, they’ll recover in time!”