Chapter 65: The Only One

The personal guard shouted several times, throat straining, until a few people slowly crawled out of the earthen hut and shuffled over to Wei Yuan, forming a ragged cluster.

“Line up properly! Step forward—why are you hiding behind? Let the Immortal see you clearly! Are you looking for a beating?”

From the moment those soldiers emerged from the hut, Wei Yuan’s heart had sunk. Now, before him, there were barely thirty men—old and young, the few in their prime emaciated, their eyes dull and lifeless. Their armor hung loose, belts untied; only a handful carried personal weapons—some horn-tipped daggers, none of the straight blades issued by the Western Jin.

A single glance told Wei Yuan their cultivation levels: only a few had strengthened their sinews and muscles, barely halfway through the forging process, their methods crude and ineffective—their physical refinement barely better than nothing.

“These are all the auxiliary troops?” Wei Yuan’s face darkened.

“All of them. Every last auxiliary soldier is here.”

Seeing Wei Yuan’s expression, the guard added, “The war’s been going on for half a year. The strong and fit were all transferred out long ago. Those left in our backwater are the ones no one wanted—just these.”

Wei Yuan asked, “Where did my two fellow disciples select their troops?”

The guard said, “Immortal, you saw they paid the Immortal silver. With that money, they could temporarily recall soldiers assigned elsewhere. Since it’s a loan, you have to give the original commanders something in return—doesn’t that make sense?”

The guard’s slick tone made Wei Yuan want to say nothing more to him. He knew it was useless to argue. The Tai Chu Palace had warned him of the Western Jin’s corrupt governance, but he hadn’t expected it to be this bad.

According to Western Jin military regulations, a border county should have three hundred auxiliary troops and a thousand civilian militia. The militia farmed normally, trained during off-seasons, and were conscripted in wartime.

Wei Yuan knew the military systems of all states. Of the five who came with him, two didn’t need auxiliary troops at all. Even if the two ahead had used Immortal silver to requisition the best soldiers, there should still have been over two hundred auxiliary troops left—but now Wei Yuan saw only thirty-odd, all old and weak, not one having completed sinew-muscle forging. Under military regulations, none of them qualified.

Without thinking, Wei Yuan knew something was amiss. But he was here to defend the land, not to clean up the Western Jin’s military corruption. Since only these men were available, he extended his hand and began pointing, preparing to select twenty who still looked passable.

The guard hurriedly said, “Too many, too many! Immortal, the county needs defenders too—you can take at most ten.”

Wei Yuan coldly replied, “I traveled ten thousand li to resist the Northern Liao, yet you obstruct me at every turn. Very well—I’ll report this matter to the True Person immediately, and submit a memorial to the Regional Governor as well.”

The guard quickly smiled and said, “Immortal, please calm down! The county’s defenses are dangerously thin—if the barbarians break through, tens of thousands of civilians will die. The Captain’s plan is this: you take fewer auxiliary troops, and the village militia will make up the difference. Your defense zone already has three hundred militia, many of them young and strong. Their leader, Master Fang, is even a Dao Foundation high cultivator—this is unique across all defense zones!”

A Dao Foundation cultivator could indeed match a hundred auxiliary troops. Wei Yuan’s expression eased slightly. Time was short, so he randomly picked ten auxiliary troops and left the county, heading toward the three villages under his command.

The villages were twenty li from the county. Wei Yuan had no mount and walked. Tall and long-strided, he was followed by ten auxiliary troops—old and young, the eldest with half-gray hair, the youngest seeming even younger than Wei Yuan’s actual age. But Wei Yuan roughly estimated their average age to be at least thirty-five or thirty-six.

They ran the twenty li. To Wei Yuan’s surprise, none of the ten fell behind. The sun had just passed noon, blazing overhead; the villages were already visible in the distance.

Wei Yuan went straight to Shayang Village—the largest and most forward. Around it stood walls of rammed earth and stone, about a zhang high.

Before this journey, the Tai Chu Palace had distributed intelligence: Gan Prefecture was remote, its people fierce. The Northern Liao raided constantly, and local bandits ran rampant. Residents here all built fortified compounds for protection—minimum, earthen walls.

The walls still bore scars of weapons; arrows remained embedded in the parapets, evidence of recent battle. Now, many men on the walls hauled stones and packed earth, striving to raise the walls higher.

The arrival of Wei Yuan and his group drew attention from the workers. Soon, one man climbed the wall and called out, “Who are you?”

A zhang-high earthen wall posed no obstacle to Wei Yuan. He leapt lightly and landed before the man, displaying his identity badge: “Wei Yuan of the Tai Chu Palace, appointed by my sect to defend this region against Northern Liao incursions.”

The man, tense moments before, relaxed and beamed. “So you’re a high disciple of the Immortal Sect! We’ve been waiting for you!”

Wei Yuan studied the man closely. His face was caked in dust, hair tangled and uncleaned for days, tied in a loose knot. His clothes were filthy—stained with sweat, grime, and old blood, their original color long gone. He wore a scholar’s robe, but the hem had been torn off for mobility.

Thin and gaunt, with a short beard and sunken eyes, he looked like he hadn’t slept well in days—yet his gaze remained sharp, bright, and burning.

From their first meeting, Wei Yuan sensed this man carried an unusual bearing. Using his Qi-Viewing Art, he was surprised to see a soft white glow at the man’s third eye—the mark of a completed Dao Foundation. This must be Master Fang, the one the guard mentioned—a true Dao Foundation cultivator.

But in Wei Yuan’s eyes, the glow was dim, insubstantial, lacking any divine radiance—clearly a mortal-grade Dao Foundation.

Wei Yuan bowed again: “You must be Master Fang. I didn’t know you were also on the Immortal Path.”

The man laughed. “Don’t call me Master—I’m Fang Hetong, ‘He’ and ‘Tong’ from ‘harmony in difference.’ I come from a minor sect. I only hoped to study the sages’ teachings; achieving Dao Foundation was already luck. I can’t compare to your Immortal Sect. This isn’t a place for talk—follow me.”

He ordered the gate opened, let the auxiliary troops enter, then shouted to the workers on the wall: “Work harder! Raise the wall another half-zhang today! An extra zhang of wall saves lives!”

The men on the wall roared in agreement, working faster.

Descending the wall, Wei Yuan surveyed the village. Houses were built of rammed earth, thatched roofs, doors of woven branches—few had wooden planks. Many men sat slumped against walls, basking in the sun, bandaged, stained with blood. One man, sitting, suddenly slumped sideways and collapsed. Two others rushed to catch him, calling his name, but he gave no response.

Fang Hetong strode over, slapped the man’s chest, sent a thread of magic power into him—the man gasped awake and vomited a stream of yellow-green bile.

“Give him food and water, but slowly,” Fang Hetong instructed. He ordered two men to carry the man away for treatment, then turned back to Wei Yuan.

(End of Chapter)