Chapter 188: A Small Token of Apology

(Drank heavily yesterday, headache today, normal tomorrow. Here's two thousand as a token of apology—please don't be angry, big brother.)

After more than four days of snow and wind, Wang Yan and his group finally returned to the garrison on the afternoon of the thirtieth.

Seeing a group of riders approaching from afar, the sentries outside immediately ran toward the camp.

"My lord has returned…"

"My lord has returned…"

"Quick, boil water and cook food…"

Hearing this, the soldiers lounging on the kang beds, chatting, joking, and gambling sprang up in a rush, and Sun Fugui along with Wang Yan's senior officers all came out to greet them.

Though they knew Wang Yan was powerful, every time he went out, his life hung by a thread—no one knew when disaster might strike. The soldiers were fine; they knew little. But men like Sun Fugui knew the truth: if anything happened to Wang Yan, everything they had would vanish—everything they possessed depended on this garrison commander, who was the same age as their sons.

Just as the men had stepped out, Wang Yan arrived with his group in a thunderous rush.

"Arrange for extra hot water—let the brothers wash up well," Wang Yan dismounted, then turned and called out: "Hurry inside and warm yourselves."

In truth, no prompting was needed; each man leapt off his horse and dashed straight into any available room—since, apart from the distant storage sheds, every building here had a heated kang, and they simply dove inside. By the time Wang Yan turned back to give his instructions, only a few slower ones had heard him…

Wang Yan knew these soldiers must harbor resentment, but likewise, he—a commander of three thousand troops, renowned for his strength—had personally taken the field, eating, sleeping, and freezing alongside them; what complaint could a bunch of common soldiers possibly have? It would dampen much of their inner bitterness.

Of course, his own constitution was exceptional; though cold, he endured far better than they… it wasn't cruelty—he'd endured countless hardships to reach this point, and the suffering he bore now was nothing new.

"Any urgent matters?" Wang Yan asked Sun Fugui and the other senior officers.

Sun Fugui thought carefully, then replied: "None."

"Then discuss it tomorrow. Get the cooks to prepare food, bring out the liquor—today's New Year's Eve. Drink, eat meat, let the brothers have a good time."

"Yes, my lord."

Sun Fugui chuckled in response and dispersed with the other senior officers.

By the time Wang Yan shed his bloodstained battle armor, took a hot bath, and stepped out wrapped in a large bear-fur coat, the garrison was already bustling with activity. There were no lanterns or decorations, but pigs were slaughtered, sheep butchered, and the entire camp was filled with the scent of roasting meat.

He wandered over to the mess hall and saw dumplings stuffed with pork and mutton, large chunks of meat boiling in pots, and braised pork stew. Green vegetables were scarce due to transport and storage—only a few carrots and napa cabbage remained—but overall, the feast was still generous.

Wang Yan could guarantee that, beyond his own thousand-plus men, not even the two thousand-hood units he later took over, nor the entire Great Ming army, nor even the Later Jin, the Mongols, Korea, or the distant West—none of them could match his New Year's provisions.

As for why the two thousand-hood units couldn't match it—he'd made adjustments after taking command.

After assuming control of the two thousand-hood units, Sun Fugui, under Wang Yan's orders, held a grand martial competition. After fierce contests, the troops were reorganized: the top thousand from all three units were placed under Wang Yan's direct command; the next thousand were classified as middle-tier, and the final thousand as bottom-tier. Original military households could still challenge, but only the lowest-tier unit, progressing upward.

Naturally, the best rations went to Wang Yan's own unit, with benefits declining by tier—to reward those ranked higher and to motivate the lower tiers. Thus, the other two thousand-hood units lacked such abundant supplies. Of course, for New Year's, Wang Yan ensured they got dumplings—but as for liquor or other luxuries, forget it.

There was no space in the garrison for a thousand men to eat together; instead, groups of dozens gathered in each room, huddled around blazing kang beds, drinking, boasting, and marveling at their good fortune.

Wang Yan, accompanied by Sun Fugui and the other senior officers, visited each room in turn, offering words of encouragement, before finally sitting down to eat and drink together.

Though Wang Yan was now a garrison commander, he was still too young—only seventeen after this New Year. His senior officers were all at least twenty-nine, with children already older than Wang Yan.

It wasn't that Wang Yan denied younger men opportunity; rather, in their previous environment, whether through battlefield merit or sycophancy, they'd clawed their way up from nothing. Their stagnation stemmed not from lack of ability, but from insufficient connections. Their hard-won skills perfectly matched Wang Yan's standards—so their promotions were only natural.

Added to that, Wang Yan had no airs, never put on a show—he drank, ate meat, and chatted freely with them, making the atmosphere lively and unrestrained.

After a few drinks, Sun Fugui and the others loosened up. They couldn't match him in anything else, but damn it—could they really be outdrunk by a child? They poured wine into him without mercy.

Wang Yan met every challenge head-on, raising his cup and draining it each time.

When the last man collapsed, Wang Yan smiled, finished his final sip, and rose unsteadily to leave.

The distillation techniques were no longer poor—they drank liquor at fifty to sixty proof. After so much, even Wang Yan couldn't hold it—he staggered as he walked…

Stepping outside, the cold wind revived him slightly. Gazing up at the rare, star-strewn sky, listening to the occasional shouts drifting from the camp, he slowly made his way back.

Last time he returned, he submitted over a thousand enemy heads. This outing, though he led more men, he split his forces and didn't lead the charge himself—combat effectiveness differed—so overall, it was still about a thousand heads.

He didn't know how Zhu Youxiao would react to so many heads, but he imagined the emperor would be pleased—and deeply suspicious of previous generals who commanded tens of thousands: were they deliberately letting enemies grow strong to play him?

After all, only a few hundred men went out—and twice, they killed over a thousand. Meanwhile, those other generals and armies, who'd lost territory and been chased across the land, fought entire battles numbering ten thousand—and still failed to match the kills of a few hundred? What the hell had all those millions of taels in annual military funding been spent on?

Then he realized he could do nothing. After furiously carving wood for a while in frustration, he buried the anger deep inside, vowing to kill them all someday…

Why did Wang Yan think this way? Because his thousand-plus heads earned him no promotion—only a symbolic twenty taels of silver… still because of his age, his lack of seniority. But ultimately, it was the decline of imperial power—Zhu Youxiao's words carried no weight, and he dared not speak out recklessly. Under these conditions, what else could he do but carve wood and build palaces?

If he'd risen through the military examination, perhaps his promotion would've been faster—after all, the military exam was meant to select officers. But then again, as a nobody commoner, even if he excelled, it would've been useless. Just as civil officials controlled the civil examinations, the military examinations were monopolized by Great Ming nobles—equally difficult…

Returning to his courtyard, he tidied up briefly, then lay down on the warm kang bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep…

………………

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