Chapter 144

The stricter the discipline, the more solid the military machine becomes, as exemplified by the famed Yue Fei of old.

It was precisely because of their discipline—“Rather freeze to death than dismantle a house, rather starve to death than plunder”—that they drove the Jin commander Wanyan Wuzhu into steady retreat; had it not been for Qin Gui and the Zhao Song court destroying their own defenses, Bianjing would have been seized.

In days past, Yue’s army numbered only one hundred thousand, yet the Jin exclaimed, “It is easier to shake a mountain than to shake Yue’s army.” But now they face two hundred thousand—over one hundred thousand in Qilu, eighty thousand in Henan.

Most crucially, they have no Zhao Song court or Qin Gui to hold them back.

As he pondered, a messenger strode in and reported: “Report, Captain of a Hundred, a soldier outside the command tent claims to have vital intelligence—he says it concerns the coming battle in a few days, and begs your serious attention.”

Hearing this, Wanyan Chenhe slightly paused, then laughed: “How could the outcome of a battle between hundreds of thousands rest on the decision of a mere captain and one soldier? But whoever speaks so boldly must possess courage and strategy—let him in.”

Soon after, the messenger brought the man in. Wanyan Chenhe studied him closely: the man stood eight feet tall, broad and imposing, and met his gaze without deference or fear. He could not help but praise: “A fine warrior! My messenger said you have vital intelligence concerning the outcome of the coming battle—I am curious.”

The man bowed and asked: “Captain, may I ask—is it true that the rebel forces, upon occupying territory, do not burn, kill, or plunder, but instead distribute land to the peasants?”

“Indeed, it is true,” Wanyan Chenhe nodded.

“And may I ask, Captain—is it true that the rebels treat their prisoners well, educate them for a time, then give them travel funds and let them return home?”

“Correct,” Wanyan Chenhe said, sweat beginning to trickle down his back—he now realized how brilliantly cunning these rebel tactics were; under their influence, even his own soldiers would lay down arms and surrender at first contact.

In severe cases, mutinies had already occurred.

Thinking of this, he suddenly stood and asked: “Are you saying that within our camp, someone is widely spreading news of the rebels’ actions—and even organizing troops to mutiny?”

A mutiny so close to a major battle was an extremely grave matter; most critically, in a camp packed with hundreds of thousands, information spreads fast—soon, every soldier would know of the rebels’ deeds.

Wanyan Chenhe asked himself: if he were a common soldier, would he wish his own side to win? No matter how he thought, the answer was impossible.

If they lost, they raised their hands and surrendered—the enemy did not abuse them, fed them full meals daily, gave them lessons, then paid them travel funds to return home—and when they arrived, they found the rebels had given their families land.

What did they gain if they won? At best, a few full meals—far less than being a prisoner of the enemy.

With battle imminent, if all his soldiers wished for defeat, while the enemy fought to the death for victory, how could they possibly win?

Once he grasped the stakes, Wanyan Chenhe hesitated not—he seized the man’s arm and rushed straight to his father’s command tent.

Wanyan Qige was furious to see his son burst into his tent without announcement.

“Liangzuo, this is a military camp! You, a mere captain, dare enter my tent without reporting? Soldiers! Wanyan Liangzuo has breached his superior’s tent—beat him thirty lashes!”

“Father,” Wanyan Chenhe threw himself to his knees: “I bring vital intelligence concerning the survival of our Great Jin. Father, let me report it first—then if you wish to kill me, I will accept it gladly.” He banged his forehead against the ground.

“Very well,” Wanyan Qige waved his hand. “Since you have urgent intelligence, report it first—then I will punish you for breaching my tent.”

When he finished listening, his face turned ashen—if someone was spreading news of the rebels’ land redistribution and humane treatment of prisoners, their entire six-hundred-thousand-strong army would be rendered useless.

Without a word, Wanyan Qige, as Regional Military Commissioner, immediately reported the matter. That night, all Jin commanders convened in the central command tent—they knew full well: if uncontrolled, this would render the Jin’s six hundred thousand troops combat-ineffective; worse, mutinies and rebellions might erupt.

Wanyan Qige stared at the soldier who had come to report: “You say your elder brother, Li Gouer, learned the rebels distributed land after victories, and now plans to spread this news widely—to gather men for mutiny at the decisive battle?”

“And you, Li Quan, deemed this plan too risky, so you betrayed him to gain wealth and rank?”

“Of course,” Li Quan sneered. “Who doesn’t crave wealth and rank? Why should rich masters feast, drink, take three wives and four concubines, and frequent brothels, while I, a poor boy, get beaten for glancing at a wealthy girl? With wealth and rank, I can buy land—I won’t have to bend my back daily, nor eat bran and chaff, nor risk my life on the blade’s edge.”

Li Quan’s expression twisted into a feral, demonic grin.

“Hmm,” Wanyan Qige nodded approvingly. “Life is about pursuing fame, wealth, and power. Brotherly loyalty is childish beside this.”

When the Jurchens first ruled the Central Plains, how many uprisings arose? What became of them?

Either they died beneath the iron hooves of the Jin, or they died by the betrayal of their own—wealth and promotion naturally held a deadly allure.

That night, Li Gouer was dragged from his bed while still asleep.

“Rebellion! Rebellion! I’ll make you rebel!” The interrogator lashed Li Gouer again and again with his whip.

This official’s father had been a jailer; he’d grown up in prisons, and his mind had twisted into something monstrous—he reveled in the screams of prisoners and their helpless, murderous stares.

But this interrogation enraged him utterly: the prisoner showed no anger, no cries—only a mocking smirk, as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”

He swore—he had never, in his entire life, seen such an insolent prisoner.

“You came from the Three Jin region—you’ve had no contact with the rebels. Why fight for them? Is a few acres of poor land worth it?” Wanyan Qige asked curiously.

“Do you think our poor lives are precious?” Li Gouer grinned at Wanyan Qige.

How many had lost family to violence, land to theft—and been forced to serve their oppressors? Now they ask if a few acres are worth it?

Li Gouer scanned the room with a cold laugh: “Though I don’t know them, and they don’t know me, I believe they will one day avenge me. Your heads will sit upon my grave as offerings. Ha ha ha!”

Wanyan Qige’s face turned icy. He spoke without emotion: “Tomorrow at noon, take this man to the camp and flay him alive—let all see the fate of rebellion.”