433.Collapse of the Front

  Public Display of Zhu Yuanzhang as Prisoner — Collapse of the Front

  At the center of Lake Poyang, one of Chen Youliang’s great warships slowly changed course.

  At its bow stood a warrior wrapped in an ash-gray battle cloak, and over his shoulder hung a bound man.

  As the wind pushed the smoke aside, the figure became clearer.

  At first, it was only a shape.

  Then the outline of a human body.

  Finally, a face.

  From the foremost ranks of the Ming line, someone recognized it and drew in a breath.

  “…His Majesty?”

  It was not a shout.

  It was a low sound, closer to confirmation than disbelief.

  That single syllable spread outward like ripples.

  “It’s His Majesty.”

  “That is… His Majesty.”

  The battlefield—once filled with shouts and cannon fire—began to slow its breathing.

  Arms pulling oars weakened.

  Hands loading cannon paused.

  Fingers on bowstrings trembled.

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  Chen Youliang’s warship drew closer.

  Without speaking, Park Seong-jin lowered the captive from his shoulder and set him upright on the deck.

  Zhu Yuanzhang stood bound.

  His armor was twisted out of place, his face smeared with soot and blood.

  He could not lift his head—and had no strength left to do so.

  The sight was shown plainly.

  Nothing was hidden.

  Nothing was concealed.

  The Ming left wing broke first.

  One light ship stopped rowing.

  The ship behind it collided.

  That collision spread, and formation unraveled.

  The same occurred on the right wing.

  No command signals came down.

  No awaited orders arrived.

  Each ship tried to judge on its own—and in doing so, canceled the judgment of the others.

  “Where is the command ship?”

  “There is no signal.”

  “Who is issuing orders?”

  Questions piled up.

  No answers followed.

  At the center, a cannon fired a moment too late.

  The shot missed its target and cut through the water, throwing spray onto the deck.

  Men watched it as though it were an omen.

  Chen Youliang’s horn sounded.

  Short. Clean.

  A signal of direction.

  In response, the great fleet moved as one.

  It did not rush.

  It did not break order.

  The Ming front watched the scene in full.

  The contrast between moving order—and frozen confusion.

  Zhu Yuanzhang’s knees struck the deck.

  His bound hands were pulled forward, and he collapsed where he stood.

  Someone cried out.

  “His Majesty is… kneeling—”

  The sentence did not finish.

  The meaning was too heavy.

  The sound of oars being dropped echoed in places.

  The clatter of weapons followed.

  Ships trying to flee tangled with ships trying to stop, colliding into one another.

  The front did not collapse because it was defeated in combat.

  It came apart because it lost direction.

  Chen Youliang’s arrows still flew.

  His cannon continued to fire.

  But now they only widened cracks that had already formed.

  A Ming officer clutched the railing and shouted:

  “His Majesty has been captured!”

  It was not panic.

  It was confirmation.

  The words crossed the front line, leaping from ship to ship.

  From that moment, the Ming army no longer fought.

  Each unit tried only to survive.

  The battlefield was no longer a single body.

  Dozens of judgments moved at once, obstructing one another.

  The waters of Lake Poyang remained unchanged.

  The order upon them was gone.

  Park Seong-jin watched the scene briefly, then turned away.

  There was no reason to look further.

  The front had already collapsed.