Chapter 505: Karma Drips Along the Thread of Life and Death (7)

Under the Provincial Commander’s Office, there are two Deputy Provincial Commanders. (Not the kind of “deputy” who looks like he’s about to leap to attention for no reason.)

If I put it in Qing’s hometown terms, they’re roughly corps deputy commanders.

And beneath the Provincial Commander’s Office there are, separately, four Assistant Provincial Commanders.

In short (skipping the bureaucratic boilerplate), they’re the operations staff.

The Provincial Commander’s Office gives the final approval on everything the Provincial Commander does—in other words, he just stamps the seal.

The working hands—the two Deputies and the four Assistants—each have different portfolios.

The Deputies handle troop training and the garrison farms.

The Assistants handle patrols, armaments, supply, liaison, and then, again, the garrison farms.

The garrison farms are the business of all six working officials.

Because farming is a soldier’s first duty.

That’s how important it is.

So what kind of eyes do you think the six working officials turned on the man with approval power?

They looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Are you insane? What ‘operation’ during harvest?”

“Exactly, Grand General. You want to march when we’re closing out the year’s crops?”

“An escort for a martial artist is... fine, I suppose. If it weren’t harvest, we could call it a training evolution. But now?”

Not liking “martial artist escort” is a secondary matter. Even if it were beggars instead of martial artists, for the right silver the army would move. The point is: even if you’re going to take a cut, why take it in peak farm season?

“What’s the problem? Pull two hundred from East, West, South, and North, have the Suo fill the last two hundred to make a thousand, and march. Four doing the work of five—suffer a little and it’s done, no?”

It was exactly the sort of line to make four men see red.

Anyone who’s done a university group project back in Qing’s homeland can sympathize with that anger—even a little.

“We worked together, we share the result”—when even this kindergarten-level moral premise doesn’t hold.

If the bearded, red-flag, stand-up-and-shake-the-world Mr. Karl-the-Red-Devil had ever done a group project, he’d have understood how hollow the dream of communal distribution was, and instead of writing books would’ve opened a pork-wrap joint under “Shaggy’s.”

“This isn’t about whether it’s possible. Why in the world do we have to head for Hangzhou in this season?”

“And on top of that, ‘let’s leave tomorrow at the latest’? The army doesn’t work like that. ‘Supply’ doesn’t mean sling all the rations on our backs and hit the road. And we don’t stop to buy lunch when we get peckish.”

Absurd.

Do you not know it’s harvest?

They were subordinates shouting “Honor the harvest, defend agriculture to the death.”

Wang Ssangryong answered:

“Oh? Then we’ll do it with the Suo alone.”

The Suo is the Provincial Commander’s direct-command formation: one Thousand-Unit Post, twelve hundred men.

At that, Deputy Seong (Seong Wangcheong), standing just off to the side, traded a look with the other Deputy, Deputy Yo (Yo Ramin).

Lately there’d even been rumors that Steward Yang was the one stamping approvals; in any case, the two who actually held real operational authority as working officials exchanged glances.

Why’s this bastard so eager? He’s not the kind to work this hard.

There’s definitely a score in this. Look at that. The corner of his mouth is twitching. He’s clenching not to grin.

He’s pretending to be thrilled to do it all himself—fishy as hell. Suspicious as all hell.

The grave problem of the current bureaucracy is severe promotion gridlock.

Gridlock means piled up and blocked solid. By national law, offices are basically for life and there isn’t even mandatory retirement, so the longer the state’s history, the worse the clogging gets.

So the two, both jammed at a hazy Junior Second Rank high post and stuck looking at each other for over fifteen years, were fantastically in sync.

The conference careened off the rails, and then the two quietly barged into the Grand General’s quarters.

“Sir. Let’s be honest. There’s a score in this, isn’t there?”

“We’ve given everything—dog-and-horse service. Sir, have you heard the youngsters’ new saying? Not ‘after hunting the rabbit, boil the hound’ but ‘hound boils the master’—the dog that hunted rabbits without even being fed finally cooks the owner.”

It sounded impudent, but they were close enough to talk that way.

Frankly, in the Central Plains, every adjutant post is someone hauled up and slammed into a chair by the guanxi of a patron.

“Ahem. You brats. I kept silent because the order is august. But if you two start grandstanding to oppose me, what does that make me?”

So—there was something.

The two faces lit up.

“Knew it!” “We had faith!”

“Ahem. That martial artist—hem-hem—happens to be very, very, very close to the mistress of the West Palace.”

Their eyes flashed white.

And then, as if they’d been swapped out between sessions, the two Deputies reversed themselves at the second staff meeting.

“On reflection, no matter how urgent the farming, a soldier’s proper duty is soldiering. We ought to seize this chance, conduct mobility training, and give thanks for imperial grace—that’s loyalty.”

“The Grand General surely has his reasons. I rose to Deputy by the lord’s favor; to have contradicted him was truly shameful.”

Deputy Yo even bragged openly that he’d gotten his Deputy’s seat through the Grand General’s connections.

But by Central Plains common sense, landing a post by a power-broker’s string is not shameful at all; it’s a loud-and-proud trophy to trumpet to the four seas.

Same back in Qing’s homeland, really—call it a peculiarly Central Plains habit.

****

And so the preparations for the so-called Escort of the Honored Lady began.

A Provincial Commander’s Office comprises five Thousand-Unit Posts, so first each Post selects two hundred men to join the march to Hangzhou.

How do the soldiers feel when a sudden, out-of-the-blue march is announced?

In the evening, the Hundred-Chief (commander of a hundred) comes running, gathers the lads, beams, and shouts:

“We’re marching! We got a march! I personally fought to get us this march slot!”

A Hundred-Chief is roughly a company commander in Qing’s homeland’s tables.

A company commander gathers the company and boasts that he secured a march we didn’t have to do, and that he used every ounce of strength to send our company marching.

How do the troops react?

“Wow! As expected of our Hundred-Chief!” “You’re the best!” “We love you, Hundred-Chief!” “Our respect, sir!”

The little Hundred-Chief bastard ascends to “Honorable Hundred-Chief.”

From today, this Hundred-Chief is my sole issuing authority, and anyone who opposes this Hundred-Chief opposes me. (Which is how it ought to have been anyway.)

Koreans won’t understand.

Why are these maniacs cheering and hopping because they’ve been made to march?

Isn’t this the time to go crazy and flop?

Except—

It’s harvest. It’s the harvest operation.

All day they bend at the waist cutting rice; at another station they lift and drop, lift and drop the upper body, threshing with violent motion—a season of massive labor on the order of field fortification work.

And Central Plains people walk well by default.

Unlike pampered moderns, in this era—in antiquity—these proto-humans treat walking on two legs everywhere as a basic idea. Not fully cooked yet.

So—do you want to harvest, or kit up and march?

Who the hell would pick harvest?

Thus the Hundred-Chiefs tore into each other to get the march slot—bedlam, fights, pleading, even silver changing hands.

And it’s an operation to escort a fairy-like lady!

Heavenly Flower Sword Qing, most beautiful under heaven.

Plenty of soldiers had heard the rumors; not all believed.

Now they were armed with faith firmer than anyone’s. Whoever dared insult the inviolable beauty of the world’s foremost—fists were ready.

Instead of those damned rice grains, they could walk while gazing upon the lady’s jade-like eyes?

Could such luxury exist in reality? Was this a dream?

Happiness unfit for soldiers made them nervous with joy.

Thus the march prep was a mad scramble.

In truth, the ones not marching had reason to be frantic: the staff officers suddenly responsible for the supply line—the divisional staffers, assistant staffers, deputy staffers, and so on. The marching troops? Pack up, leave the camp, cook rice whenever the supply train catches up.

The thousand picked for the march formed up in perfect ranks—ready to depart.

Up on the high reviewing stand, seated among the honored guests, Qing felt painfully sorry.

Aren’t they going on a fate-not-written march because of me?

Am I imposing too much on people for something I want?

One curious thing.

Everyone wore broad, sunny smiles; eyes shone, bright and keen, burning with zeal.

Eyes like that—for a march?

Not like cattle to the slaughterhouse?

Was this army truly so formidable?

Qing freshly sensed the power of soldiers—and why the martial world doesn’t trifle with the bureaucracy. (It wasn’t that.)

****

From Jiaozhou City’s Provincial Commander’s Office to Yubang County is open plain without obstacles.

In the Central Plains, army camps are built by raising walls in the middle of plains.

Because a soldier’s primary duty is farming.

For defense it’s worse than mountain terrain, but you can sortie in any direction fast.

Plus, if you try to bypass them, self-supplying soldiers pour out to smack your rear—so they become obstacles you must reduce before passing.

Thus, a three-hundred-li march to Yubang.

They were escorting an honored person; no need to rush. The plan: exactly one hundred li per day.

For a Central Plains marcher, a hundred li a day counts as “walked a decent amount.” For the soldiers, it was—how on earth can something this sweet exist? It’s honey. Pure honey!

Morale surged; sharp eyes busied themselves “watching all directions.”

In truth, not “watch”—they craned their necks to see whether the lady would pass.

Qing, unaware of that, was simply impressed.

Maybe this Grand General so adroit at flattery is also a famous figure where I’m from—searchable from home—or known as some great captain in the City of Xi?

A useful rule of conduct:

It concerns the crooked human heart.

If you act openly put out because someone made you do something, that’s bottom-tier tactics. The giver is offended by the nerve of the underling being upset.

Pretending to suffer is middle-tier.

The other side will feel guilty.

Top-tier is to show zeal.

Only then do they feel grateful.

So Qing was truly grateful.

You’re going to so much trouble for me...

For reference, there’s a top of the top.

Work hard—but “botch it” so badly it fails.

If you do it well, they’ll keep working you.

Qing’s white horse went takk-tak.

A sleek military white with long lines and clean, bulging muscle—truly attractive.

Is this... a real horse?

Then what is that palace-butt from the Seol Family Trading—the one who lies around, getting fat on idle—supposed to be?

Pretty sure that wasn’t a horse.

By any look, this was the Grand General’s personal mount.

Should I even be riding it?

‘What are you saying! A war-horse is Heaven’s property—how could I claim it as mine! And look at the eyes of this White Heron. Even the beast is snorting to serve my lady! Even speechless animals are struck dumb by your noble bearing!’

Like master, like horse.

The white charger, named White Heron, turned those famously mournful equine eyes on Qing.

Are you... not going to ride me?

Horses are clever; war-horses are trained to be sensitive to power.

That’s how subordinate mounts follow the commander’s mount in a charge.

So the “commander’s horse” that bore the Grand General took one look at how its master treated Qing and promptly decided to change masters.

‘Ah, my lady! Please use this saddle! A new Black Heaven Tack model—an exquisite piece that absorbs impact on your noble person!’

For note: Black Heaven Tack is the premier maker of harness in the Central Plains; rumor says they supply the imperial house.

They’re also the Heavenly Demon Divine Sect’s front company—ever obsessed with ride comfort for crossing desert and steppe.

‘Deputy Seong! I wondered where that bastard slipped off to last night—did you run to Jimo to buy this? You could’ve told me!’

‘Hmph. You seize chances when they appear.’

Thus rolled on the aggressive pampering campaign from the three commanders, all vying to please “the lady.”

Overburdened, Qing would ease the horse back; wait a bit—and the aggressive pampering assault resumed.

So in the march, drifting forward and back, the soldiers who managed a glimpse of the lady’s face fell into bliss.

Head high and strutting, White Heron thrilled at the eyes lifted to him.

Advance, advance.

When Qing rode, snacks arrived and wine arrived. When she slipped free of the three commanders, soldiers shouting “the lady!” came respectfully bearing their snacks.

Look—snacks should be given in moderation. Who thinks someone eats snacks all day?

Well. Odds are I do eat all day.

Yum. This one’s good.

Even during short halts, tents popped and a cot was offered—oppressive, oppressive, overwhelmingly oppressive.

What is this? Trying to burden me into leaving?

And every mealtime—out on open steppe—where are they sourcing this cooking?

Yum. But it’s delicious...

It did feel... oddly like being with Seol Family Trading or Taecheong Trading.

Mm. I miss Grandpa.

And our pretty Seol Garyeon. I still need to make her a pair of false breasts.

Three days like that.

And then Yubang! At last, Yubang!

A city with an embarrassingly named homonym rose into view.