Chapter 194

Zhu Youxiao left, and the seventeen-year-old Zhu Youjian ascended the throne.

Wang Yan received the official news five days later, delivered by Man Gui's messenger, who also instructed him to attend a small meeting in Ningyuan.

The purpose of the meeting was obvious: primarily to discuss whether Zhu Youjian, now that Zhu Youxiao was gone, would continue the previous policies in Liaodong. After all, a new emperor brings new ministers, a new decree—yet they were not familiar with Zhu Youjian at all, and no one knew what he might do upon taking power.

Wang Yan offered no constructive suggestions, merely humored Man Gui, analyzing the current situation to boost his confidence. Besides, Wang Zhichen, the big boss of Liaodong, was no fool—he surely had his own plans.

Wang Yan knew exactly whether Zhu Youjian would crack down on Liaodong, overthrow Huang Taiji, and reclaim lost territories.

Even with his feet, he could guess: a seventeen-year-old, hot-blooded youth who had just murdered Zhu Youxiao was clearly the archetype of doing as he pleased.

The situation in Liaodong differed greatly from history: originally, Huang Taiji had been pounding the Great Ming, but after General Wang's maneuvers, while the Great Ming couldn't yet defeat Huang Taiji, it now held clear advantages.

From the Battle of Jinzhou in April until now, Huang Taiji had yet to stabilize the situation; prices remained high, chaos still reigned. The casualties from the Ning-Jin battle came partly from lack of supplies, partly from heavy losses during clashes with Chahar. The spoils barely sustained the front, and only thanks to the help of Great Ming's wealthy merchants and civil-military officials acting as fronts had the situation held this long.

But the situation was far from optimistic: he wouldn't dare march south for at least two years, let alone three.

Zhu Youjian wasn't a fool. Though he'd never received formal imperial education, he was still a prince, inherently intelligent and well-read, with considerable insight. How could he not see the current state of Liaodong? He would surely want to act. After all, no emperor could resist the great glory of reclaiming lost lands and expanding territory.

But wanting and doing were two different things: the Eight Jin Merchants' influence in court, the vested interests of Liaodong's civil-military officials, and countless other participants created overwhelming resistance—so great that even if Zhu Youjian insisted on acting, he might drown himself.

Moreover, he had just ascended and held little power. Wei Zhongxian still controlled court affairs; any move would take time to materialize.

Even as emperor, how could he tolerate a eunuch standing beside him? History had shown it, films had depicted it—they would inevitably clash. Great Ming's problems weren't solved by removing Wei Zhongxian and the eunuch faction. The entire system was a single chessboard; pulling one hair moved the whole body. To manage Liaodong and reclaim lost territories? It was still far off.

Explaining the stakes to Man Gui was enough to calm his anxious heart—there was truly no need to worry excessively.

Civil officials looked down on military officers, but that depended on circumstances. Because of Wang Yan's business, every civil and military official in Liaodong, without exception, had a share. And among these officials, there were Wei Zhongxian's men, Donglin Party members, other followers of Mind Learning, while military officers clustered together for warmth yet also courted civil officials—this chaotic mess, who dared touch Liaodong?

Besides, even if Zhu Youjian gained freedom of action, even if court resistance vanished, even if Liaodong's civil-military forces united, Wang the General still wouldn't agree. If he wiped out the Later Jin and reclaimed Liaodong, where would Wang the General go to be a local emperor?

Zhu Youjian's ascension affected Wang Yan, but only slightly; overall, it mattered little. His gaze remained fixed on his own little patch of land.

Over these past two months, all affairs in Jinzhou had been straightened out.

Supplies and silver were still insufficient—Jinzhou was rising from ruin, and no amount would ever be enough to pour in. But existing businesses, though straining his small operation, could still sustain it.

Recently, he'd sparked an industrial revolution: textile machinery, acquiring wool from Mongol tribes, processing it into yarn and clothing.

Initially, wool purchases were insufficient, and output limited. It was already autumn, winter approaching; most production went to his own men. His troops now wore nothing but this fabric; military households and their families received it at half-price, frontline soldiers got it free. Wang Mou and senior officers wore finer woolen garments.

Beyond self-use, only small quantities were exported. But due to its low cost and warmth, it had gained some reputation in northern regions south of Liaodong. He estimated that when the first wool harvest arrived next year, sales would surge.

With the machines built, he didn't just weave wool. He'd also imported vast raw materials and, with his dyeing formulas, planned to profit from the middleman markup. He couldn't export too much—too many in the north and south depended on this trade; overreach might invite backlash. He must proceed slowly.

Other industrial foundations were minimal: he'd produced lathes with sufficient precision, smelted decent steel, and built a crude prototype of a steam engine…

As for flintlock muskets and smokeless powder, he'd already developed them long ago. They weren't much harder than matchlocks—just a different mechanism. But earlier, he lacked the strength to equip them. Now that he'd become general, production was ramping up. A group of master craftsmen were studying rifling and cartridge applications.

With his current industrial base, creating 18th–19th century artillery might take effort, but given enough time, he could do it—he had purpose, possessed the knowledge, and was continuously upgrading toward that goal. If he focused solely on one direction, he could even produce an AK.

His twenty thousand frontline troops had been fully integrated: he culled the old and weak, demoted some to reserve military households, leaving twelve thousand strong.

When he commanded only a thousand, he couldn't ensure balanced combat effectiveness; how much less now with ten thousand? He divided them into twelve battalions, letting the strong grow stronger, the weak draw closer to the strong.

The three strongest battalions were stationed at Panshan, near today's Panjin. In later times, this region produced famous rice; Wang Yan planned to find veteran farmers there to cultivate and breed seeds, so that when he seized all of Northeast China, he could farm in Heilongjiang as his rear base.

He'd always paid attention to grain seeds; his covert agents had been searching outside, for his mission was to ensure all Huaxia people had enough to eat.

Chili peppers, corn, and sweet potatoes had already arrived, mostly in southern coastal regions. Potatoes should be arriving too—likely still confined to Southeast Asian nations, but within a year or so, he could retrieve them all.

Farming was one aspect; another was that this was his frontline for offense and defense. If he moved against Huang Taiji, striking directly at Liaoyang—barely three hundred li away, reachable in two days—this would also secure Jinzhou.

Moreover, between the Later Jin and Great Ming lay a buffer zone; originally, some troops had been stationed at Panshan. But upon seeing three thousand men arrive, they wisely vacated the position.

The next tier of four battalions were stationed fifty li ahead of Jinzhou, near today's Yixian. Beyond that lay the former Guangning Hou Tunwei area he had previously reorganized.

The final five battalions—least combat-capable—were stationed in Jinzhou City, where Wang Yan personally drilled them mercilessly, supplemented by a constant stream of eager military households, continuously raising standards and expanding manpower to feed the first two tiers.

Thus, his posture was offensive: overlooking Liaoyang, eyeing Shengjing, seizing Guangning. He could probe northwest toward the grasslands, forcing Huang Taiji to reinforce his gates, and regularly deploy troops to stage small skirmishes—wearing down Huang Taiji's logistics, training his own men, and simultaneously allowing craftsmen to field-test weapons, make immediate improvements and upgrades—all in one stroke.

Regarding population, his big boss, Wang Zhichen, Inspector of Jizhao and Liaodong, made things easy. Since last month, he had gradually repatriated the refugees previously driven inland by Gao Di—still unplaced until now. Even Wang Zhichen didn't charge a single coin—he happily handled it, for this was a major achievement on his record.

The refugees, families included, numbered roughly forty to fifty thousand. Winter was coming; Wang Yan stopped accepting more, waiting until these people were settled.

Most were housed in abandoned villages around Jinzhou. Rebuilding villages would cost too much—he couldn't afford it; even now, his funds were stretched thin. To prevent Huang Taiji's agents from copying his own raids and sabotaging, he immediately implemented militia self-defense, plus dense, overlapping patrol routes by nearby troops—ensuring immediate response at the first sign of trouble.

Honestly, raiding others felt great; now facing defense head-on, it was still uncomfortable. There would always be gaps; true all-around coverage was impossible.

There's a saying: the best defense is offense. In two more months, once his troops were well-trained and winter arrived, he'd personally lead them again. He now had over ten thousand men; even a raid of one or two thousand was solid. Combined with his upgraded equipment, Huang Taiji's combined regulars and militia wouldn't stand a chance—unless he merged towns and cities, which would be suicide. Huang Taiji would be utterly destroyed.

Huang Taiji hadn't even been toppled yet—he was alive and well, issuing orders and being obeyed. That alone was impressive; Wang Yan didn't believe he could be more formidable.

Most crucially, shipbuilding—his top concern—had seen no major progress in two months. He'd paid out plenty of silver to secure a batch of craftsmen from the Ministry of Works and the Imperial Workshops, but most were river-boat builders; only a few knew sea vessels.

This was a serious delay. Wang Yan had even considered launching a direct campaign to Jiang-Zhe, slaughtering every major smuggling family.

In the end, his strength forced him to accept reality: he must proceed slowly. Kidnapping, assassination, threats—all were delegated to his covert agents.

These men publicly opposed opening the seas, yet privately held key technologies, grew obscenely rich, and paid not a single tax. Wang Yan found himself almost envious…

As Wang Yan's thoughts drifted toward uprooting southern maritime merchants and landlord families to face mountains of gold and silver, Wang Ming entered: "My lord, the southern team has returned—they're at your residence."

Wang Yan nodded: "Was it smooth? No injuries?"

"Perfectly smooth, too smooth. One brother got a scratch from a branch—that's all. My lord, you wouldn't believe what the men say: the Beijing garrison and the Embroidered Uniform Guard's three thousand troops didn't even fight back—they were beaten to the ground, crawling and fleeing. If I'd known, we'd have sent only a hundred, maybe two hundred at most. All that effort transporting equipment inland… what a waste."

Actually, it wasn't much effort—he'd sent so much silver; didn't that buy some clout?

"No risks. Every one of our men is precious; we can't afford to lose lives pointlessly." Wang Yan smiled and shook his head. "Let's go back and see."

He strolled leisurely from the camp toward the General's residence.

As the refugees settled in batches, the city had gained some vitality, no longer the former desolation. Though few merchants operated and refugees had no money, Wang Yan kept the gates open and abolished curfews—so curious or bold souls wandered out.

Whether from the interior armies or the Nine Borders, none were good. They fled faster than anyone against foreign enemies, yet crushed their own people with crueler hands.

Military discipline was cultivated step by step; trust was built inch by inch.

Since the Battle of Ningyuan, when Wang Yan was promoted to Battalion Commander, he had placed special emphasis on discipline. He didn't demand the standards of later revolutionary soldiers, but he wouldn't let it fall too far. To that end, Wang Yan had executed many. He held constant ideological education, repeatedly teaching them: what is the state? What is the family? Whose state? Whose family? Combined with his generous rewards, discipline had now improved; new recruits were guided by Squad Leaders and Company Commanders.

During the refugees' arrival, for village reconstruction and housing repairs, Wang Yan dispatched regular troops in rotation—not just military households—to assist. This promoted military-civilian integration.

To maintain public order, prevent theft, brawls, and child abduction, and to counter Huang Taiji's round-the-clock patrol squads, reserve military households were directly deployed as police. If trouble arose, go directly to them; if they refused, come to Wang Yan in Jinzhou. Still, few dared approach Wang Yan—until Wang Ming's inspection team intervened, punished several cases, and word spread, convincing people.

Once the precedent was set, things became easier. Over the past month, Wang Yan had properly punished several individuals, determined to firmly establish this principle: anyone who refuses to act will be dealt with.

Otherwise, with the old behavior of these soldiers, they'd truly be called "military lords." Though the term, long entrenched, remained hard to erase, clear improvement had occurred—and it would only get better.

Actually, the situation around Jinzhou City today is such that one could say doors are left unlocked at night and nothing is stolen on the roads—partly due to the deterrent of patrolling squads, partly because these people are truly poor, with nothing worth stealing.

Upon arriving at his general's mansion, the courtyard was filled with a group of junior officers who had followed him back, idly polishing their blades, spears, and crossbows, unsure whether to stand or sit before the men inside the main hall.

Seeing Wang Yan enter, the junior officers quickly gathered their gear and chorused in unison: "My lord."

"Enough," Wang Yan smiled, nodding at the squad leader who hurried forward. "I don't need this many men. Wang Ming and his men are enough. Take the rest to the mess hall—slaughter pigs and sheep, eat well, drink well, rest well. All of you, go."

"Yes, my lord."

The leader responded, gesturing to the dozen or so men in the courtyard, who vanished in a flash. No need for Wang Yan to say more—the other two hundred had already eaten their fill.

Once everyone was gone, Wang Yan strolled to the head seat in the main hall and sat down. Outside, Wang Ming and his men stood rigidly at attention, hands on their waist blades.

"All of you, sit. No need to stand."

Zhou Miaoxuan, Ding Baiying, and Pei Lun exchanged glances. Finally, Pei Lun, the man, spoke: "Thank you, my lord. We shall not refuse your kindness."

As he spoke, the young maid respectfully served tea to each of them. Wang Yan lifted his cup, took a sip, and looked at them. "Do you know who I am?"

"How could anyone in Jinzhou not know who you are, General Wang? Your name echoes even within the city walls," Pei Lun bowed slightly. "But… why did you have us bound… uh, brought here?"

"Why?" Wang Yan set down his teacup, glancing at the two women watching him—Zhou Miaoxuan and Ding Baiying—and raised an eyebrow. "To make them my concubines."

It wasn't arrogance—he was a warrior in the Great Ming, not some dandy fawning over courtesans or learned beauties. His status was high enough; even if he seized these two common women, what harm was there? No need to hide his intent.

Pei Lun froze, momentarily stunned.

Zhou Miaoxuan widened her eyes, speechless.

Ding Baiying's eyes flared. Without hesitation, she slammed her palm onto the table—*Kuang! *—spilling the teacups, then rose and shouted: "Wang! You're dreaming. Be your concubine? I'd rather die."

Wang Yan shot a glare at Wang Ming and the others at the door, stifling laughter and ready to intervene, then waved them away. He turned back to Ding Baiying and said calmly: "No need to be so agitated. I know your senior brother Lu Wenzhao is dead, and your disciples are dead too. Oh, by the way—do you have any relation to Ding Xiu? Or someone named Ding Xian?"

Ding Baiying's gaze flickered. "What's it to you?"

"So there is some connection," Wang Yan noted her reaction, unconcerned. "Whether or not matters little. I won't force you. Stay in my household for now—you have nowhere else to go, do you? Zhu Youjian wants to kill you to silence you; Wei Zhongxian is helping him clean up. Step outside, and you're dead. My Jinzhou may have Embroidered Uniform Guard and Eastern Depot agents, but I guarantee: they won't touch you."

Wang Yan didn't know if any Embroidered Uniform Guard or Eastern Depot agents lurked among the soldiers or military households—but if any dared come, they'd stay silent. Did Embroidered Uniform Guard and Eastern Depot agents eat for free? They were owed pay too. Wang Yan's pay and conditions, if one worked honestly, were better than what they got in the secret police. Besides, advancement in his army was based purely on merit—no backroom deals. If they truly sought wealth and status, wouldn't it be better to fight their way up here?

Most crucially, the current state of the secret police is unclear. After doing so many dirty deeds, can't they see this?

There are surely Embroidered Uniform Guard or other spies among the civilian population—but they can't access any secrets, and Wang Yan doesn't care.

Most importantly: even if Zhu Youjian and Wei Zhongxian knew these two were here, what could they do? It's an unspeakable matter. Would they really risk moving against him over this? Not to mention the web of interests across Liaodong—just consider the entire Nine Borders: who fights best? Wang Yan. He commands over ten thousand well-trained soldiers. Before acting, wouldn't they think twice?

Besides, I, Wang Mou, am no ordinary man—I've had years to build influence. Surely I don't lack allies across Liaodong? And everything I've done lately? I barely conceal it. Most of it's illegal—easy to report. You can say I'm preparing for the reconquest of Liaodong. You can also say I harbor treasonous intent, plotting rebellion. So why, after all this time, has no whisper reached the court?

Ding Baiying's face flushed crimson. She gritted her teeth: "I'd rather die outside than stay here."

"I'm not forcing you," Wang Yan said, shaking his head calmly. "But I never said I'd let you leave. So—you can't go."

"Is that so? Let's see just how capable this general of yours really is."

As she spoke, Ding Baiying gathered her Qi, stomped the ground, formed her hand into an eagle's claw, and lunged straight at Wang Yan.

Wang Yan had been uncertain of her martial strength before—but now, seeing her movement, he could track it. The threat was negligible.

He reached out, seized her wrist, and yanked it toward him. His right arm blocked her other palm, then he closed in, twisted her arm behind her back, aiming to subdue her.

Ding Baiying planted her foot, used his pull to spin around, and kicked straight for his groin.

Wang Yan shook his head, grabbed her ankle, and lifted her off the ground. Calmly, she reached out mid-air to gouge his eyes—he easily released her, then delivered a heavy, downward kick straight into her ribs.

Ding Baiying hadn't expected it. She crossed her arms to block—but the force slammed into her, sending her flying. She adjusted in midair, landed, staggered backward, and only avoided falling over the threshold when Wang Ming caught her.

After the exchange, Wang Yan had his measure. Even Ding Xiu, the strongest martial artist in this world, would be no better. No mystical internal arts—just ordinary combat technique. Even if Ding Xiu was strong, his limits were clear. Compared to Wang Yan's body, fully optimized by the system to its peak, he was still inferior.

Besides, his combat experience was unmatched—he had conquered all of the Republic era, a true war god. His mental acuity wasn't just above normal—it was vastly beyond. His brain's reaction time synced perfectly with his nervous system's speed. In ordinary martial arts, he had no rivals.

"Unwilling to submit?" Wang Yan looked into Ding Baiying's furious eyes. "Rest up. When you're healed, we'll settle it with blades. My head's right here—waiting for you to cut it off."

Without another word to the fuming Ding Baiying, Wang Yan turned to Zhou Miaoxuan, who still hadn't reacted.