Chapter 420: I Believe You

After several days at sea, finally, on a afternoon streaked with crimson clouds, two large ships rode the wind from Dengzhou across the sea to the territory of Liao, Song's enemy for decades.

The ship anchored at a still-under-construction port; as soon as the gangplank was laid, a tall, bald monk and a man with a birthmark covering nearly half his face staggered down, one behind the other, ignoring cleanliness or sharp rocks, collapsing onto the ground, staring blankly at the crimson sky, listening to the gulls' squawking, the waves crashing against the shore with a splash, feeling the relatively gentle, salty sea breeze.

It was, of course, a beautiful scene—but they had no heart to appreciate it. Their appearance made it obvious: they were seasick, and had likely vomited nonstop throughout the journey.

"Damn bastards, you shook me to death—I'll never sail on a sea vessel again," Lu Zhishen rubbed his large bald head, savoring the solid, steady weight of Mother Earth.

Yang Zhi ruined the mood: "If you won't sail, how do you plan to get back?"

"I'm not even hoping to go back this trip—I've got no ties, no burdens, anywhere's fine. Da Guanren's so young, he'll surely outlive me; just bring my bones back to Song for burial, that's enough." Lu the Master's voice was tough: "Besides, if we must return, and the sea route won't work, we take the land route—worst case, we fight our way back. What's the big deal?"

Having spent time together and now truly fellow outcasts, they'd grown close, each knowing the other's temperament well. Yang Zhi chuckled, said nothing, shook his head to clear it, then pushed himself up on his arms to survey the surroundings.

"Are the two elder brothers feeling better?"

The speaker was a man in his twenties, over five feet six inches tall, strong-built, with sharp eyebrows, hawk-like eyes, a high nose, thin lips, a long, lean face, a small goatee, and a fairly handsome appearance, a crossbow at his waist.

Hearing this, Lu Zhishen blinked, rolled over, and stood up, joining Yang Zhi in a respectful bow: "Standing on solid ground eases my heart. May I ask, brother, who are you?"

"I am Wang Rongchun, honored by my employer to serve as manager here." As he spoke, he still bowed toward the shore across the sea, showing respect to Da Guanren: "I've already read the letter sent by my employer, and I know your condition. He holds you both in high regard, entrusting you with the defense of this place—please lend your support in the days ahead."

His surname made it clear: he was from the Wang family's home village, a blood relative of Da Guanren's ancestors. He had once been a minor purchasing clerk at the Wang family tavern in Yanggu County, diligent for years, never greedy or dishonest, earning Da Guanren's notice. He then joined two trading expeditions across Song, managed some business, met Da Guanren in person, was persuaded, swore loyalty, brought several fellow villagers and guards with him, and from nothing built a sea trade route, securing these territories and laying the groundwork.

As a Wang family clansman, enjoying family privileges unmatched anywhere in Song, he was proud. He was proud of the achievements he'd made, the favorable situation he'd opened. He worshipped Da Guanren, the man behind it all—who provided them security, devised strategies, and won victories from afar.

"No problem at all. Da Guanren didn't hesitate, didn't utter a word, and protected my brother and me despite risking Cai Jing and Gao Qiu—so we'll never let him down. Give us any task, we'll carry it out."

Wang Rongchun paused, then recalled the letter's instructions: first, let them get familiar. He understood—it meant literal familiarity. These two elite foot and cavalry fighters, as described in Da Guanren's letter, had no idea what they'd come here to do.

He shook his head and smiled: "I suspect you two haven't properly seen the sea view yet. Right now, sunset's at its peak—such beauty, just take it in. We're rough men, no ink in our bellies, but my employer says: just seeing it is enough. I'll go over to handle handover duties now, then treat you both to a feast and a bath."

"Rongchun brother, don't forget to bring the Shaojiu. Da Guanren promised me—I can drink as much as I want. I heard he brought several big casks this time."

"Don't worry, don't worry—here, except it's not Song, you can have anything you want."

Saying this, Wang Rongchun turned and left, summoning another manager, and the two began whispering together.

Lu Zhishen and Yang Zhi's physical condition was unquestionable; after a day of eating and drinking and a night's rest, they'd regained their full energy, striding like dragons and tigers, full of vigor.

But when they saw the full layout of the village, both Lu Zhishen and Yang Zhi froze—this was genuinely terrifying.

They'd known before arriving: this was a small island in Liao's Suzhou, purchased by Da Guanren as a transit and supply point, with another port and village on the opposite shore.

Originally, they didn't understand: why not dock directly on land? Why build a port and village on the mainland while anchoring here, on an island some distance away? Wasn't that like taking off your pants to fart? Even rich men shouldn't waste money like this. But now, they understood.

On this relatively large island, neat rows of buildings stood in orderly formation. The design—whether Lu Zhishen or Yang Zhi looked at it—was unmistakable. Both had served in the military; they knew: these were barracks. No ordinary family built homes like this. Around them, another ring of buildings concealed the barracks and the flat training ground—clearly meant to hide.

Barracks meant soldiers. Under Wang Rongchun's lead, they reached the training ground and saw nearly two hundred men, fully armored in gleaming, oil-polished heavy armor, armed with modified mo dao blades—weapons unseen for a hundred years—silent, movements perfectly synchronized: strike, advance, strike, turn at the edge of the field, strike, advance, strike.

The heavy mo dao infantry, once famed for defeating cavalry under the Tang. Perhaps it was Tang's strength that made the mo dao infantry legendary. But no matter who elevated whom, the two were mutually reinforcing.

After all, just this single unit of fewer than two hundred men consumed resources enough to sustain two thousand light infantry. And here, Da Guanren's cost to maintain these two hundred was even higher—enough to support a full army of three or four thousand, truly one against ten.

After all, each man carried sixty jin of full armor, fought with high-intensity sword swings. Finding men naturally strong enough was no simple task. And Da Guanren always spent lavishly—he added medicinal herbs and more, further enhancing their already formidable physiques, plus daily rations, armor and weapon production, wear-and-tear, maintenance—all of which likely still undercounted the true cost.

Yang Zhi's mouth hung open; Lu Zhishen wasn't far behind. He stared in disbelief at the young man beside him—smirking, chest puffed, hands behind his back, eyes calm, as if to say, "It's nothing"—mimicking Da Guanren's pretentious posture: "Rongchun brother—is Da Guanren planning to rebel?"

Heavy mo dao infantry were built to fight cavalry. Everyone in Song knew: they lacked quality warhorses. Even the government's official purchases brought back only a few each year. Applied to Da Guanren, acquiring good warhorses was even harder. It wasn't just about money—it was state policy. Neither Xi Xia nor Liao would ever want Song to possess quality horses, let alone form organized cavalry units. Selling a few small numbers was tolerable; selling large quantities? Impossible. No one dared. That wasn't profit—it was suicide.

So it was clear: Da Guanren spent vast sums training this money-draining mo dao force to compensate for his lack of cavalry. But two hundred mo dao soldiers alone couldn't deliver decisive power against cavalry on the battlefield. To form an effective army, you needed at least five hundred, perhaps thousands. Clearly, this unit was just the beginning—there'd be no stopping. So what was his goal? Need I say?

Lu Zhishen had seen much: generals who kept private retainers weren't rare—even not having them was shameful. Many kept estate servants and guards—like Chai Jin, the Grandson of the Shizong Emperor, known as Little Cyclone. Da Guanren himself kept dozens of adults and children. But now—he was keeping heavy mo dao infantry? That made no sense. Not rebellion? Then what? In Song, this was a death sentence.

"This is Liao territory—if we rebel, we rebel against Liao. What's there to fear?" Wang Rongchun shook his head calmly, smiling: "Don't take it seriously—it's just a joke. These soldiers are here solely to protect our business here. My employer says the Jurchens are wolfish and ambitious—must be guarded against. Without self-defense, we'll be destroyed by them sooner or later. But the Jurchens are expert horsemen and archers, and we have no good horses, so we're forced to this last resort—not to attack, only to defend. Of course, our relations with the Jurchens are good now; this is just precautionary. Elder brothers, don't worry."

Seeing Lu Zhishen and Yang Zhi both staring at him with expressions of "You're taking me for a fool," he grinned: "Just self-defense. Self-defense."

Lu Zhishen raised an eyebrow: "I believe you."

Yang Zhi grunted and nodded: "I believe you too."

"For now, you two don't need to do anything—just follow me around, take a look, get familiar." Wang Rongchun walked as he spoke: "We've seen this place. Now, let's visit other areas."

Then, under Lu Zhishen and Yang Zhi's numb stares, Wang Rongchun led them through a factory producing weapons and armor: bows, crossbows, arrows, mo dao blades, pao dao blades, spears, lances—all manner of long and short weapons. He explained: some materials were shipped here for processing; others were first manufactured domestically, then reassembled here. Weapons were everywhere, piled thickly.

A cursory tour of the entire island took a full day. The next morning, Wang Rongchun returned to take them out again—this time, straight to the port.

Lu Zhishen asked: "Rongchun brother, are we going to the other shore?"

Wang Rongchun paused, then realized Lu Zhishen meant the shore across from the island. He smiled and pointed in one direction: "The shore you mean is over there."

Then he pointed in another direction: "The shore we're going to is over there."

Yang Zhi grunted: "Are there other islands?"

In the sunlight, Wang Rongchun smiled innocently, even shyly nodding: "Yes—five more islands just like this one. But those places don't have mo dao infantry—just regular foot soldiers and archers. I repeat: elder brothers, don't misunderstand—it's all for self-defense…"

Lu Zhishen and Yang Zhi, the two unfortunate brothers, fell silent… They believed…

Believe it? Did they have a choice?

Da Guanren wandered the house, holding his child, read the letter sent across the sea, then tossed it onto the small stove by the tea table, where it turned to ash. To avoid the smell disturbing the baby, he shuffled to the main house, seeking Jinlian—who, whenever idle, listened to maids reading books to pass time, endlessly sewing clothes and shoes.

His base in Suzhou's islands was certainly not for "self-defense." Anyone who believed that was the village idiot from the east end. Lu Zhishen and Yang Zhi weren't idiots—but they had to pretend to be. The ship had sailed; escape was impossible. What else could they do? Whether they truly wanted to or not? That didn't matter.

But if pressed, Lu Zhishen probably didn't care—he could accept it. After all, he'd been training men, had plenty of wine and meat, no one pointed fingers. He could do whatever he wanted, utterly free. That was enough. Even if there were secrets, he didn't mind—such deadly matters couldn't be spoken of to anyone. Even in Liao territory, keeping soldiers would be fatal if Song's authorities found out.

Yang Zhi might be different—he looked perpetually miserable, his mind too deep. His ancestors were buried here; though he'd nearly starved, in this age, ancestry mattered most. The Yang family had bled for Song for generations—even his grandmother had served. Now, to rebel? That would weigh heavy on him. But nothing's been said outright. Wang Rongchun was right: if he rebels, he rebels against Liao. What's he worried about? That last line? That was Wang Rongchun repeating Lu Zhishen's curse at Yang Zhi…

So it was circumstance—no choice.

As for his Suzhou base—it was truly his life's work. After over a year of effort, he hadn't fully penetrated his original targets in the northern Jingdong and Hebei circuits—but he'd made contact with most. Even those not yet under his control were now allies. In short, he'd made money. Aside from a few unfortunate fools who couldn't tell good from bad, overall, things were good.

Because of this, his goods moved without inspection, reaching Dengzhou unimpeded. There, too, he had his own port—ships either rented or bought, frequent arrivals and departures, weather permitting, always sailing, never lingering. Like ants moving grain, trip after trip, this was how he'd built it.

But time is still short—only a prototype. Real combat readiness will take years yet; he can't rely on it now. But peace lasts long enough, his growth is like a snowball rolling downhill, and he's still following his original plan—no problem…

It was now the end of the twelfth month; in a few days came New Year's Eve. In the Wang family mansion, heated floors warmed the air, rising from below, leaving no trace of winter's chill. Before winter, they'd produced glass, removed the main house's windows, and installed double-layered glass panes as floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunlight streamed through, casting the true warmth of winter sun.

At this moment, Jinlian sat in a patch of half-shadow, half-sunlight, needle and thread in hand, busy sewing. The Tyndall effect sunlight fell on her coiled hairpin, glinted through her earlobe, illuminated her profile, dancing with motes in the sunbeam—beautiful beyond words.

Hearing Da Guanren and the baby humming as they shuffled in, Jinlian looked up at father and son: "My lord, didn't the Emperor summon you to Bianjing? When do you leave? When will you return?"

"Do you wish to go?"

"It's the dead of winter, five hundred li away—how could Dahe endure the jolting? And you're going to do great matters—you'll be busy. My son and I would only trouble you."

Wang Yan didn't press. He'd only asked out of formality—the child was still too young: "We leave on the fifth. Everything needed has already been sent ahead by caravan—we'll travel light. Five hundred li takes only two days. As for returning? After seeing the Emperor, if there's nothing left to do, we'll come back. Either way, we'll be home before the end of January."

He had been here for a year and a half, and in less than two months he produced soap and scented soap; in another two months, he managed to climb up to Yang Jian and voluntarily gave away the larger share of the profits. During that time, he also developed various cosmetics and other ultra-advanced new products. Now, after a full year, the total value of all the silver and goods he had sent was perhaps a bit exaggerated at a million guan, but fifty to sixty thousand guan was certainly not an overstatement—mainly because many of the goods couldn't be accurately valued.

The annual fiscal revenue of the Great Song, including grain, gold, silver, copper, iron, state-monopolized tea, salt, sugar, wine, and all sorts of miscellaneous taxes, totaled roughly one hundred million guan. Even if we conservatively estimate the money he sent to Zhao Ji at fifty thousand guan, that still accounted for one two-hundredth of the state's total revenue. And this money of his went directly into the imperial household treasury, bypassing the state treasury entirely.

Thus, there was no need to elaborate on how much Zhao Ji valued Wang Da Guanren—he was truly a god of wealth. For this reason, Zhao Ji had specifically sent someone to notify him to come meet, speak, and receive a sign of imperial favor. It was also heard that Wang Da Guanren had never been to Bianjing, and since the Shangyuan Festival was approaching, it was a perfect chance to visit. Though not quite put that way, the intent was unmistakable—he was being treated with exceptional consideration.

Of course, such a vast sum of money was not without consequences. Not only had the number of auditors increased, but the garrison in Yanggu County had doubled to four thousand imperial troops. This was truly a sign of the emperor's favor…

——————Extra Notes——————

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