Chapter 202: Instruction

These soldiers running across the 17th-century beach, aside from being a bit too short on average, were already indistinguishable from the troops of later generations.

The same buzz cuts, the same dark, stocky builds, the same cotton cloth shorts and cotton back vests — what lay exposed were bulging upper-arm muscles and thick legs.

Simple, yet not simple — that was exactly them.

The simple part was that on the scorching sand, most of these young men wore only a single pair of cotton cloth shorts, and many had even stripped off their two-finger vests. The not-simple part was that this one pair of cotton cloth shorts now represented the highest cotton-spinning and dyeing technology of this plane.

A few dart-leaf weaving looms, DIY-assembled with locally made frames from the Kiln District paired with imported core components, had only recently passed their trial runs. The dart-leaf loom's advantage is its good adaptability, so after the trial runs succeeded, the stockpiled Pine River cotton was quickly woven into canvas sails.

In the spare time between weaving sailcloth, the Textile Factory also trial-produced a batch of cotton grey cloth for making military uniforms. The color of the uniforms was light blue, the dye obtained by reacting natural indigo imported from Fujian with a small amount of benzene compounds produced by the chemical lab.

The scarce quantity and hard-won raw materials turned an unremarkable pair of military shorts into a high-tech product. Furthermore, considering that the transport of people and grain consumed most of the transport capacity, for a long time to come the Crossing Faction's textile materials would rely primarily on self-produced hemp crops. So this experimental batch of cotton military uniforms was exceptionally precious.

The 400-meter obstacle course was the best place to test a soldier's comprehensive surprise-attack capability.

With one whistle blast after another, batch after batch of soldiers began running hard on the beach, their smooth soles pressing into the warm sand and kicking up clouds of dust.

Today was the monthly assessment, and the scores would be recorded in their overall results, so every soldier gave it his all, terrified of being overtaken and shaming his squad or platoon. With tension came mistakes — falling off the ladder, failing to scale the high wall, getting a mouthful of sand in the Moat and shrieking in frustration when they couldn't climb out...

Wei Yuan, the commander of First Company, wearing a Mysterious Color T-Shirt and Mysterious Color Trousers with Battle Boots on his feet, was now holding a stopwatch and whistle while recording results. Watching the soldiers he had poured so much effort into training come panting across the finish line one by one, though his face remained stern, Wei Yuan felt quite proud inside.

These former refugees, once emaciated skeletons, had, after the Transmigrators' transformation of both body and mind, now become a later-generations army with muscle and combat skills. More importantly, they now possessed a sense of honor and a team mentality.

This was an era of comparing who was worse. In the same period, soldiers in Europe's Thirty Years' War relied on plundering and slaughtering civilians to raise their own pay. And the Great Ming's Guard Post Soldiers had been reduced to serfs a hundred years ago; within the Battalion Troops System, training once every five days made you an elite, once every three days made you the imperial guard — cruel corporal punishments like arrow-piercing camp parades pervaded the armies of this era.

So the Transmigrators didn't need to indoctrinate their soldiers with any isms or principles: eat your fill and dress well, train on schedule, get paid on schedule, separate beatings and scoldings from humiliation, have someone tuck in your blanket on night watch — honestly, this treatment was already the best in the world...

The moment he thought of honor, Wei Yuan suddenly raised an eyebrow. The next instant, he glanced to his side and found his monkey-like Orderly standing there mocking those who couldn't scale the high wall.

"Yang Er!"

"Here!"

"Which platoon is your establishment in?"

"Reporting, Company Commander — First Platoon!"

"Then why aren't you running? Waiting for me to treat you?"

"Yes, sir!"

Yang Er, with a large purplish-red birthmark on his face, bolted toward the starting line upon hearing this.

The current Yang Er was long past his original monkey-like image. Having just had his birthday, now considered an 18-year-old adult, Yang Er stood a head taller than the others. His once scrawny frame had grown lean and muscular, full of springy power like a cheetah.

The young man soon began his 400-meter obstacle course "performance." He vaulted the low posts with ease, used his run-up to "fly" over the Moat, sprinted all the way to the top of the high wall, and only then lightly tapped the wall's edge to flip his body over. As for the single-log bridge that others could only cross wobbling and swaying, for Yang Er it became a smooth, open path.

The entire obstacle course routine — the kid not only completed it with extreme speed, but with graceful posture and sweeping, expansive movements. Obstacles that were assessment items in others' eyes truly became a performance in his.

After the assessment ended, the overall scores were quickly calculated. This time, Yang Er's First Platoon took first place in total points.

Wei Yuan immediately announced the reward of an extra dish for the entire First Platoon.

Amid the cheers, Wei Yuan checked his watch and saw it was still early before dinner, so he said to Yang Er, "Play some ball." Yang Er immediately ran over to the express cart used to haul training supplies, fished around inside, and pulled out two orange basketballs.

Due to the lack of rubber, basketballs were now precious imported goods... Normally, the Transmigrators' basketballs were used for "hitting people," not for "playing basketball."

Seeing the kid hollering as he ran over holding up two basketballs, the 30 soldiers of First Platoon quickly gathered together, laughing and joking. When two unlucky souls got smashed by the basketballs, the game officially began.

Anyone hit by a basketball had to join the outer circle of hitters. Meanwhile, the people crammed together in the inner circle, who had been hard to dodge at first, would become more agile as the unlucky ones were steadily eliminated.

Amid the clamor and jeering laughter of over a hundred onlookers, only a few soon remained in the inner circle. Because by now more than 20 people had taken their positions in the outer circle — even if both basketballs missed, they would immediately be caught by someone on the opposite side and then hurled from front and back simultaneously. In this situation, a normal person would quickly be overwhelmed.

The most agile was still the kid.

No matter how perilous the situation, no matter how bizarre the angle the basketballs came flying in from, the kid could always contort into some awkward yet fluidly extended poses to evade the attacks in time.

... There was a reward for the person who held out to the very end — usually, getting out of one day of duty.

After the soldiers of all three platoons had each played a round of "basketball," the sky was already filled with red-baked clouds. The beautiful seaside sunset scenery enveloped Dayuan Island.

At a single command, Wei Yuan began organizing the troops for a review. After a few brief remarks, each platoon was handed over to its platoon leader to be marched back. The soldiers now ran over to the side of the beach, put on their training shoes — actually just Liang Straw Sandals — pulled on their cotton back vests, then lined up, singing songs, and headed toward the barracks.

And a certain company commander, standing 1.93 meters tall, walked over to the express cart. The kid Orderly had long since tidied up the "half-local, half-foreign" cart neatly, so Wei Yuan plopped his rear down onto the cart's cast-iron bed, making it creak and groan chaotically.

The next moment, Yang Er gripped the black ebony handle and started the battery-powered cart. In the setting sun, the cart merrily traced S-curves along the beach toward Shang Hall, with a giant sitting in the back, smoking a cigarette in silence.

That evening, the extra dish in the Mess Hall was scrambled eggs with tomatoes — not much, just one basin.

The brothers of First Platoon were all eyebrows blooming with smiles, while the few Transmigrator Officers naturally went through that routine of giving away their own food: they gave their extra dishes to the poor souls of Second and Third Platoons.

It was precisely this not-so-clever method that proved the most effective. From their Recruit days until now, the unit's collective sense of honor had been slowly built up through these everyday moments.

After eating, each squad had free time.

Wei Yuan first returned to the company headquarters and held a brief meeting with the three Transmigrator platoon leaders, then ran over to Han Bo's place to inquire about the latest intelligence from Fujian. After a flurry of busywork, seeing that the sky had gone completely dark, he returned to the company headquarters.

Back at the company headquarters, he saw Yang Er, the kid, sitting idly by the door cooling off. Wei Yuan gave a slight smile and said to the kid, "Tonight, knife practice," then went inside to retrieve the short knife hanging on his wall.

By the time he came back out, Yang Er at the doorway was already waiting there holding a wooden knife. After stepping outside, Wei Yuan used his 1.93-meter height to his advantage, reaching up to lift the iron-plate lamp on the porch so the bulb could illuminate the area in front of the door.

"Attack and defense, 10 reps each — begin!"

As Wei Yuan's words fell, Yang Er raised his wooden knife and began drilling the basic movements.

Wei Yuan's maternal grandfather was a Republic of China martial artist, so Wei Yuan had learned quite a few routines in his youth. Later, after Wei Yuan went to Africa and became a mercenary, he gradually set aside the things he'd learned when he was young — in the 21st century, opportunities to use cold weapons were simply too rare. You have to understand, in Africa even buddies carried AKs; daggers and the like were never used, let alone long or short knives.

He never imagined that after crossing over, his family craft would see the light of day again.

The 17th century had far too many places where cold weapons could be used, so on the Army's training syllabus, bayonet grid battle training was a very important foundational course.

As for Yang Er, who was right now repeatedly hacking and slashing with his wooden knife — after Wei Yuan had heard the story of the kid's deceased street-performer father, on a whim the idea of taking a disciple had struck him, and that was how he began teaching the kid knife work. It was a sort of hobby.

And the wooden knife in Yang Er's hand was not the military's standard-issue Military Spike, but a replica of the Black Crocodile Combat Knife in Wei Yuan's hand, with a total length of only 60 centimeters.

This short knife, whose curve appeared graceful but was in truth bizarre, was mostly treated as a collector's piece to be toyed with in later generations. To truly use it in life-or-death combat on the Battlefield, the wielder of such a knife needed not only solid fundamentals but also a devious heart.

Wei Yuan was that kind of person. People were usually misled by his giant-like stature, thinking him a straightforward, galloping man... but he was not. You could tell from his fondness for playing with the Black Crocodile — a knife with a highly sweeping curve designed primarily for swift slashes and thrusts — that this man was actually quite insidious.

And so Yang Er had been roped into this routine, learning knife techniques unlike anyone else's.

"Smack!" — a knife sheath landed on someone's backside. "How many times have I told you, center of gravity — center of gravity comes first! Why are your movements so big? Are you stir-frying vegetables?!"

They had barely reached the third round of attack and defense postures, and the kid was already getting lectured by someone again. Poor Yang Er was full of helplessness: there were only six simple movements in total — slash, chop, thrust, parry, block — and from the start of his apprenticeship he had practiced them countless times, but the Abbot was never satisfied. Every time, he got hit.

"That's not how my dad taught it back then!" the kid muttered under his breath, rubbing his backside.

"Your dad was a street performer! What I'm teaching you is for killing people!"