Meanwhile, several miles away from the Jurchen encampment, atop the eastern Watergate Tower of Bianliang, three figures—Doraemon, Nobita Nobi, and Wang Qiu—were intently observing the chaos within the enemy camp through the surveillance screen of the Mini Reconnaissance Satellite.
"…All eighteen Seismic Catfish have been deployed. The tremors were certainly powerful—at least magnitude seven or eight—but alas, the area affected remains too limited. Sigh… I suppose these are merely prank gadgets for children, not bona fide military-grade seismic weapons…"
Seeing only a few pockets of disruption within the Jurchen camp, Doraemon muttered under his breath as he busily assembled several iron frames. On these he mounted toy rockets, each about the size of a cola bottle. "Let's not relent. Time to launch the Fright Missiles!"
Nobita understood at once, striking a match and lighting the fuses at the rear ends of the so-called missiles one by one… Wait a minute—are these missiles or just oversized firecrackers?
Regardless, these crude, makeshift devices—laughably rustic in appearance—somehow managed to roar into the enemy camp, unleashing a spectacular display of light and sound. In an instant, the earth quaked, thunder crashed, flames surged skyward, sand and debris were flung into the air, and wails of terror rent the night.
Though utterly harmless, these illusions conjured scenes not unlike the end of the world in the eyes of ancient soldiers.
Panic seized the Jurchen ranks: Khitans, Xians, Han, Bohai, and Koreans alike fell into disarray.
—Shrieking and trampling each other, fires breaking out, blades drawn in frenzied confusion—an utter rout unfolded, the dreaded camp-wide panic that ancient generals feared most.
Thousands of warhorses, maddened with terror, bolted into the night, stampeding through the camp and compounding the bedlam.
"…It's finally taking shape—but let's add one more spark… Deploy the Ghost Maiden Ensemble…"
Gazing upon the infernal chaos that now engulfed the enemy camp—flames licking the skies, soldiers scattering like startled birds—Doraemon nodded in grim satisfaction. From a small box he released a squad of ghastly pale ghost maidens, their tongues lolling grotesquely.
"…Go! Spread terror over there! Be back by dawn!"
These spectral toys, eerily reminiscent of the infamous Sadako, floated down from the city tower, wailing piteously, "Ooooh… I died so miserably… Return my life to me…," before drifting into the already riotous Jurchen encampment. Wang Qiu silently lit a metaphorical candle in his heart for the poor devils inside.
—How many of them, he wondered, would be scared witless by dawn?
The only drawback was that these ghost maidens wailed in Japanese… But no matter—terror, like science, knows no borders.
"…Doraemon, as far as harassment goes, we've certainly gone above and beyond. But gimmicks alone won't bring down the Jurchen army."
On their way back to rest, Wang Qiu murmured to Doraemon, "Can you guarantee tomorrow's plan will go smoothly?"
"…Don't worry! Everything is under control! I've tested it several times already!"
Doraemon thumped his chest with confidence. "I've destroyed space fleets and vanquished demon kings before! What fear have I of a mere army of cold-steel warriors? Even if they number a million, they're no match for me!"
Morning of the 23rd day of the intercalary eleventh month, First Year of the Jingkang Era.
Eastern Watergate Tower, Bianliang, Northern Song Dynasty
At this crucial frontier of Bianliang's defense, the atmosphere was bustling, teeming with officials, nobles, and commoners alike.
But this was no preparation against an imminent assault—far from it. The Jurchen army had been tormented all night by tremors, specters, and internal chaos. Thousands had perished, trampled by their own comrades. Exhausted and disorganized, they were in no condition to mount an offensive. Many could hardly stand.
Even Wanyan Zongwang, having suffered a gash to his forehead during the tremors, had no choice but to abandon the day's attack.
The Jurchen camp remained in disarray—burnt tents and shattered pavilions left unrepaired. Below the city walls, all was tranquil. The Song defenders lounged with spears in hand, idle and relaxed. Curiously, the real commotion was within the city gates, where an unexpected spectacle unfolded.
Amid the press of bodies and the clamor of voices, a yellow imperial canopy rose above the crowd. But beneath it stood no stately figure in dragon robes. Instead, there appeared a man in a blue skintight suit, a scarlet cloak billowing behind him, and red underpants worn flamboyantly on the outside.
Incredible though it seemed, this was none other than His Majesty Zhao Huan, Emperor of the Song.
The night before, the Daoist wizard Guo Jing had vowed to exterminate the Jurchen invaders through divine means. Delighted by his newly acquired "Superman Outfit," His Majesty had come in person to lend support, accompanied by his entire court. Word of the event spread swiftly, drawing nobles, merchants, and commoners alike, transforming the tower into a veritable marketplace of spectators.
Of course, the ever-present peace faction had also arrived, still buzzing in the emperor's ear with counsel for surrender.
"…Your Majesty, the Jurchens are a formidable force, unmatched under Heaven. If we continue this course of resistance, defeat will bring ruin, and even victory may yield unrest…"
In the biting winter wind, the venerable Geng Nanzhong, wrapped in thick furs, shivered as he entreated the emperor to submit.
"…Though savage, the Jurchens are crude and short-sighted. All they seek is plunder. They may scrape the surface of our nation, but its roots remain intact. Yet if we prolong this war and let boorish warriors rise in status, the foundation of the realm will truly crumble!"
Even on the brink of catastrophe, Geng Nanzhong's only concern remained the suppression of the military class.
But Emperor Zhao Huan paid no heed to the old chancellor's droning. His gaze was fixed upon a chicken—plucked, gutted, and skewered on a stick, turning slowly over a spit nearby.
Drawing a deep breath, His Majesty suddenly let out a cry of exertion. Twin beams of light shot forth from his eyes—laser vision—landing squarely on the rotating chicken. Within moments, it sizzled and crisped to golden perfection, releasing waves of savory aroma.
As the radiant monarch ceased his beam, breathing heavily, several eunuchs rushed to remove the roasted bird. They brushed it with sauce, sprinkled salt, and placed it reverently on a silver platter.
"…Congratulations, Your Majesty! Your divine optic beam has improved greatly! Just days ago, chickens were either scorched to ash or left half raw. Today, you've mastered the perfect roast—crispy outside, tender within, done to precise perfection!"
"…Naturally! You've no idea how hard I've trained—burned down my study three times already!"
The emperor wiped his brow with a towel and chuckled. "I'm not hungry right now—take the chicken, it's yours."
"…We thank Your Majesty for your boundless grace!" the eunuchs replied, eyes glistening as they departed with the prized dish.
Having completed his roast with supernatural flair, Emperor Zhao Huan finally turned to Geng Nanzhong and replied calmly:
"…Xidao, I have heard your counsel. But I, your emperor, have now attained the path of ascension. I soar through the heavens and wield strength beyond mortal ken. Why should I fear the barbarian Jurchens? Who in all the realm dares defy me?"
With that, he scanned the surroundings, seized a massive stone from the ruins, and effortlessly lifted it with one hand. Then, to the astonishment of all, he took flight, hovered aloft, and hurled the boulder mightily toward the Jurchen camp!
Before the stunned eyes of soldiers and courtiers alike, the stone—like some titanic shell from a future railway cannon—cut through the air with a terrifying roar, arcing toward the enemy camp. It struck with thunderous impact, raising dust and cries of terror.
In the silence that followed, the Song defenders burst into jubilant cheers:
"Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor! His Majesty's divine might is unmatched beneath Heaven!"
Meanwhile, below the city walls, Geng Nanzhong raged and wailed, nearly fainting from fury.
"…Your Majesty! Please awaken to reason! The art of rulership lies in virtue, not brute strength! As sovereign and exemplar of all under Heaven, how can Your Majesty stoop so low as to consort with blood-stained warriors?"
Alas, the majority of the imperial court, intoxicated by spectacle, had already joined the cheering throng—leaving the weary old statesman to rail against the wind.