Chapter 143

After hearing Wang Dayan’s words, Li Gouer stood frozen, unable to recover for a long time. The matter was utterly absurd, like something out of a fantasy—his mind was a chaos, and he simply could not believe such a thing existed in this world.

There were people in this world who gave away land and money they had fought for with their lives to a complete stranger, a destitute beggar.

“Gouer, I’ve told you everything—don’t go spreading this to others,” Wang Dayan reminded him again, seeing no response.

“Relax. Even if this gets out, I won’t betray you,” Li Gouer shot him a scornful glance and turned away.

He truly didn’t want anyone to know he was acquainted with such a disgraceful fellow.

Yet Wang Dayan paid no heed to Li Gouer’s contempt, bowed and thanked him profusely before leaving.

“Do you think Wang Dayan was lying to us?” Li Gouer asked his fellow villagers.

“He has no reason to lie. Just ask any local—they’d know the truth. He couldn’t fool anyone,” one villager shook his head in denial.

“Then let’s ask the locals. I don’t trust Wang Dayan’s character. You haven’t dealt with him—he’s always been a thief and a scoundrel, never caring about his reputation. I won’t feel safe unless we’re careful,” Li Gouer muttered, recalling Wang Dayan’s past conduct.

“Then here’s an idea: since we still have over a month before battle, why not use our supply run to ask around?” one villager suggested.

“Good idea,” Li Gouer agreed, finding it sound.

After questioning the locals, the group’s expressions grew complicated.

Back at camp, no one spoke. Finally, Li Gouer, the group’s leader, could no longer hold back: “Are we really going to fight this army? Are we going to fight a force that belongs to the poor like us?”

Hearing Li Gouer’s words, their heads sank lower. If common folk praised some great figure, it was likely due to propaganda.

But this was the first time they’d heard commoners praise the government, laud the army. To the people, the army was more brutal than bandits—bandits at least feared the authorities, but what did the army fear?

Especially in the Jin state, founded on military might, the entire nation was effectively the private property of the Jurchen soldiers. The Jurchens could force Han people into slavery and seize land through them.

The government had to kowtow to the Jurchens. Once military power went unchecked, human depravity and the destruction of order became incalculable.

How could you expect the masses to hold any good opinion of such a force?

Yet just now, they had seen the people praising the army, calling them “sons of the people,” calling them family.

They said these soldiers fought so the poor would no longer suffer under the Jurchens, the corrupt officials, the wealthy landlords—that they fought to be masters of their own lives, not to plunder towns and feast like bandits.

In the end, none of them dared reveal their own identities.

“Speak up! If such a force is wiped out, will the next rebel army be like this? Have you thought about it—what face will we have to accept the land these men died to win for us?”

“Will our descendants, enjoying better lives, be ashamed to lift their heads because of what we did today? Have you considered—if they lose, we become traitors to history, and no one will rise again to overthrow the landlords and rich men, because we’re low enough to become the dogs of the wealthy, biting our own people?”

Li Gouer was furious. Though his name was “Gouer,” he never wanted himself or his family to live like dogs. Those gentry believed cruelty and bloodshed would terrify them into submission.

They were wrong. There were always those who refused to bow to violence and power.

“Big Brother, don’t say more. Our lives were saved by you on the battlefield. You decide—we’ll follow you, even through fire and sword,” one villager cried out.

“Right, Big Brother. Don’t try to stir us up. If this means the poor won’t suffer anymore, then we’ll gladly give our lives.”

“Since we enlisted, haven’t we always had our heads tied to our belts, selling our lives for a few meals to the landlords? These men give us land. If we die, they’ll bury our mothers with honor. It’s worth it to sell our lives to them.”

Li Gouer looked at these brothers who had walked out of their hometown with him, tears in his eyes: “You’re all good men. Good. Then I ask one thing of you—turn me in.”

At these words, the villagers froze in place.

In the Jin army’s command tent, an officer sat quietly, posture straight as a pine, bearing an elegant air, every gesture radiating deep, restrained strength.

His brush danced swiftly across military documents, each character strong and forceful.

His fingers moved rapidly over the desk, handling one urgent matter after another, each decision decisive and precise.

Such an elegant commander was rare in the rough Jin camp. The youth was named Wanyan Liangzuo, a descendant of Jin’s Prince Xiao, Wanyan Bingde—though he had another name: Wanyan Chenhe.

Though obscure in later history, every general he defeated was renowned across the land.

At the Battle of Dachangyuan, with only eight hundred soldiers of the Zhongxiao Army, he crushed eight thousand Mongol troops led by Chilaowen, lifting the siege of Qingyang and preserving a vital link in Jin’s Guanhe defense line.

At the Battle of Weizhou, alongside Wanyan Heda and Yilu Pua, he defeated the Mongol army led by Shi Tianze.

At the Battle of Daogu Valley, with three thousand cavalry of the Zhongxiao Army, he crossed mountains and valleys to engage Sutai’s forty-thousand-strong Mongol cavalry, slaying over twenty thousand Mongol horsemen and delivering a crushing defeat to Sutai.

His military genius was evident. Now, with the Jin capital under siege, he accompanied his father, Wanyan Qige, the Military Commissioner of Jiezhou, to the capital to rescue the emperor.

At this moment, this future general was still a boy—but raised amid military affairs since childhood, he sensed the dire odds of this campaign.

Along the way, local civilians had praised the rebel army endlessly, for they never burned, looted, or harmed—they sometimes even organized troops to help villagers with labor.

Learning of this, he realized their enemy was terrifyingly formidable—not like past rebel bands, which lacked discipline and collapsed at the first strike from regular troops.

An army was collective power: it channeled the strength of countless men to deliver devastating blows to the enemy.

When two armies clashed, it was two machines of violence, each forged from thousands of men, colliding—whichever machine was stronger would win.