Chapter 358: Be careful with flames when you wake up, let’s check even the extinguished ones again (1)

A few months ago, orders came down to each military unit to conscript useless veteran soldiers.

The commanders jumped at the chance and neatly gathered up their defective rejects to send them off.

You might wonder—what the hell is a useless veteran?

But soldier wages do go up, little by little.

Granted, it’s a measly raise, but technically, every year of service adds a bit more.

The problem is whether they’re worth that pay increase.

Ironically, soldiers are the most loyal and obedient in their first year—as fresh recruits.

But as their heads get thicker, even if you order them to work, they start slipping away with excuses. Worse, they don’t just sneak off themselves—they pull all sorts of tricks to drag their entire squad out of it.

Just because the years stack up doesn’t mean they magically become hardened veterans like the real Northern Army.

Keeping them around only causes losses—defective trash who treat orders like a joke and pass down their laziness as a “skill.”

That’s why the inspectors in charge of the Thousand-Man Units quietly trade these rejects among themselves.

They kill each other’s trash for convenience.

Sometimes, if a soldier dies during an operation, compensation money can be recorded in the ledgers.

Of course, that money never reaches the bereaved families—disposing of trash is economically efficient, too.

You think the higher-ups don’t know?

This is an operation to assassinate a Prince of Royal Blood.

If it succeeds, you silence the survivors. If it fails, you’re executed.

So, naturally, they use arson.

They’re going to die anyway—burning them isn’t a waste.

It saves the trouble of executing them one by one, so it’s convenient.

That doesn’t mean the entire nation’s military is like this.

Beyond the firebreak lines lies the real army.

The Northern Army!

Hardened troops forged in constant, brutal combat against the barbarians, day after day.

They’re granted proper martial techniques, ample pay, overwhelming supplies, and even major advantages for their children’s future careers—breeding unwavering loyalty.

They’re one of the few military forces that can truly be called elite within the Central Plains.

Such soldiers are valuable from the start.

That’s why behind the scorched, barren earth of the firebreak—where trees, leaves, and debris have all been cleared to stop the flames—the real, irreplaceable army lies in ambush.

It’s not that they want to use arson.

Search-and-destroy operations?

What search-and-destroy can you expect with rejects who have zero discipline, only know how to hide and dodge responsibility?

The front will collapse instantly—it’s no different from letting the enemy slip away.

But deploying the Northern Army is impossible—their numbers are limited, and every casualty risks future disaster for the nation’s most precious assets. That part is crucial.

But set a fire? How easy is that?

If the trash burns to death with the targets, perfect.

If they survive, surround them with flames on three sides—when they escape to the only open route, elite soldiers are waiting to take care of them.

So, the troops shambling around pretending to patrol inside the firebreak?

They’re little more than signal beacons, sacrificial bait to mark the moment.

If a bloodbath breaks out inside?

Whatever the reason—whether they merged with a stray escort squad, or some wounded old bastard made a death-defying stand—it means the prey has that much combat capability.

In that case, no matter what stage the firebreak preparations are at, you just set the fire.

Even if the flames spread, what’s the big deal? It’s only some lowly bastards burning to death.

The man in the rooster-crest helmet laughed.

“Commence the arson. The prevailing winds are westerly, yes?”

“Uh, the geomancer said we might get a north wind... maybe southeast, too.”

When westerly winds blow, the weather warms up.

If the temperature rises, two things can happen:

A cold front pushes down from the North Sea, or—rare, but possible—a scorching wind pushes up from the Southern Sea.

The rooster-helmeted man burst out laughing.

“Southeast wind? Heh. That geomancer’s surname isn’t, by chance... Zhuge?”

Blatant mockery.

Frankly, primitive ancient meteorology in this backwards Central Plains was nothing but guesswork based on accumulated experience—not exactly reliable.

(Qing’s homeland was the same, but there, mountains of data were compiled, and superior calculating devices did the work.)

“If you grant me three more days—no, even two...”

The general’s pleading was cut off coldly by the rooster-helmeted man.

“Do it now.”

“But if the flames spread, the commoners will suffer immense damage! We exist to protect His Majesty’s people—”

“You fool!”

Whack—the rooster-helmeted man’s lieutenant slammed the general’s head.

The force of his internal energy sent the helmet flying, and the general staggered, barely steadying himself.

“Ha... stupid bastard. You are not His Majesty’s army to protect His Majesty’s people. You exist solely to protect the noblest thing in this world—the Imperial Household. Hey, Ja-seong. You.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There are traitors over there right now. What does the army do with traitors?”

“...We exterminate them.”

“Hmph. So soft-hearted. I had hopes, thought you had military potential—but you’ll never be a great man. Is it because of your lowly origins?”

The general clenched his teeth.

Being told “you’ll never be great” was a declaration that his promotion path ended here.

“Go set the fire. Be grateful the traitors didn’t hide in the city—we won’t have to burn that down.”

“I obey.”

****

Lying flat, listening quietly, Qing suddenly spotted a flickering crimson glow at the edge of the sky.

She was baffled.

What the hell? Dawn? Did I doze off?

But why’s the dawn in the west?

Is the sun rising from the west now?

Do they have some ancient ritual here where the sun rises in the west for a day?

When you say “westerly wind,” it doesn’t mean wind flowing west—it means wind blowing from the west.

So in winter, with westerlies, if they’re using arson, of course they set the fire to the west.

There’s a phrase: “The blaze pierces the heavens.”

It means either a huge fire or the overwhelming force of one.

Qing squinted, trying to focus.

What logic is this? Is this... that thing they call the aurora?

But moments later—

Oh. It’s a wildfire.

Huh? Isn’t this good?

If I hide in a cave or dig deep underground...

That was the thinking of someone from Qing’s homeland.

Where she came from, people didn’t live nestled in mountains and forests, so she didn’t understand how terrifying wildfires could be.

When a person gets caught in a wildfire, the first thing to fry is your lungs.

The hot air alone is twice as scorching as boiling oil—one breath, and your throat, lungs, and airway cook instantly.

And the speed? Depends on the wind, but it can match a galloping horse—or double that if strong gusts blow.

People of the Central Plains know this terror—they call wildfires demonic, the work of fire demons.

Hide in a cave? They’d find not Qing, but steamed Qing.

Even a deep cave runs out of breathable air—you suffocate like drowning on land.

Dig into the earth? Same story. Roast duck? No—roast Qing.

“Yeon Pa? I think... I think there’s a wildfire.”

“What!?”

Yeon Pa turned pale and shook Wang-ya awake in a frenzy.

She shook the beloved Prince’s body so desperately it showed how panicked she was.

“Yeon Pa? You don’t need to rush so—”

“What are you saying!? The fire demon’s coming! The fire demon is charging at us!”

“It’s still far off—”

“You stupid girl! The fire demon arrives faster than a racing stallion! It swallows everything in an instant! Wang-ya, get in the cart now!”

It was the small cargo cart Qing had taken while raiding the soldiers’ temporary camp.

She couldn’t carry anyone on her back—not with her injured side.

The moment the carried person flinched or curled their legs, the pain would drop her, and she’d roll across the ground.

At Qing’s running speed, a fall would mean minor injuries at best—serious wounds at worst.

Carrying them in front ties up her arms.

On her shoulders? Impossible to maneuver.

It’d turn into an odd form of Iron Mountain Strike that pulverizes the carried person’s organs.

And there were two people to carry.

If she were healthy, she’d strap one on her back, one on her chest, and burst through.

Then she spotted the cart.

The exact size of the ones scrap collectors used back home.

Alright, I’ll load them in there and pull it myself.

“Tie them down well—don’t want them bouncing out. Ja-yu, keep your body as low as possible.”

“How can you be so calm!”

“Rushing only screws things up, don’t you think?”

As she spoke, Qing grabbed the harness, wedging it under her armpits.

Hmm, unless I duck under a big obstacle, it shouldn’t squeeze my side.

But seriously, am I the horse now? There were real horses. How’s the royal pony doing? Damn, I want horse meat... tartare...

“Alright, let’s go! Hurry up!”

“Hold on tight! It’ll shake like hell till we reach the road!”

And with that, Qing charged forward.

A woman dragging two people up a mountain on a handcart?

Street performers would’ve gawked at the feat.

Barreling up a rugged slope like this—if commoners saw it, they’d swear she’d taken a miracle elixir and throw gold coins at her.

“Shut up and take my money!”

****

Weather forecasts in the Central Plains are garbage.

It might rain, it might not.

Accurate probability? Well, it hasn’t rained in a while, so maybe chances are high?

Or not. Who can fathom heaven’s will?

So geomancers predict in the broadest terms possible.

It’s westerly winds now, but it could turn north, or southeast—might bring rain, or maybe snow, though it’s warm... slim chance, but still.

This way, at least one of their guesses hits.

It’s how geomancers avoid blame.

Of course, when droughts or typhoons cause major damage, they’re still the first ones hanged.

But this geomancer lacked imagination.

They didn’t account for the westerlies suddenly intensifying.

As night deepened, the wind howled, evolving into a gale that shook the forest.

Stronger wind means embers spread faster, farther.

Carried by swirling, burning leaves, the fire easily leapt over the ten-zhang firebreak line—the exact spot where the geomancer, being cautious, had demanded twenty zhang.

Even so, the geomancer had been considered reliable.

The fire surged.

A massive, greedy inferno devoured the mountainside.

****

Thunk, thunk! Bang!

The handcart roared up the slope at impossible speed.

It wasn’t rolling—it was practically flying.

The wheels spent more time airborne than touching ground—at least a 9:1 ratio.

At this point, you might as well call it the first flying cart in the Central Plains.

The elderly and young aboard were in hell from the ride.

Ja-yu was physically fine but had no martial arts.

Yeon Pa was a seasoned fighter but full of punctures, slashes, and stitched-up wounds.

They clung to the safety ropes strung along the cart, bouncing and jolting to avoid being launched.

Three layers of coats, three hats—it helped cushion the blows.

Qing felt the cargo shifting wildly inside the cart.

“Hold on! Just till we reach the upper road!”

The left wheel hit a rock—

The cart lifted, teetering dangerously.

Qing gritted her teeth, grabbed the support with her left hand, yanked down—

Ribs! Aagh! Side muscles—snap, crackle, pop! Pelvis? Left that in the mountain! Kill me already! Aaaaaagh!

Her left leg gave out, a reflex she couldn’t stop.

Clenching her teeth, Qing stomped with her right foot—one, two, three, four, five steps—

“Ghhh...”

Her vision blurred, not from eyesight but from pain-wrought tears.

But honestly, blurry or not, her sight was crap either way, so no big difference.

If she crested this little ridge, the path—flat enough that the cart wouldn’t shake—

“Run, run!”

“The fire’s spreading! Run for your lives!”

She crested the ridge, only to find a mob of mountain bandits flooding the road.

Bandits dressed suspiciously well in luxury furs.