Chapter 66: Charcoal in the Snow

Fang Hetong led Wei Yuan to a small ancestral hall in the village. It had been modified: a square table stood in the center, upon which lay a map.

Wei Yuan glanced at the map and immediately recognized it as hand-drawn—the terrain surrounding Quyang County. The map was exquisitely detailed, marking even small rivers and earthen mounds with perfect clarity; the brushwork was superb, every stroke and line worthy of admiration.

Fang Hetong invited Wei Yuan to sit and exchanged names.

Fang Hetong belonged to a minor sect called Bai Feng Academy in this prefecture. He was thirty-eight, and after more than twenty years of arduous cultivation, he had finally forged his Dao Foundation. Bai Feng Academy had only its head Mianqiang achieved a Law Form; the remaining Qiba Dao Foundations had no hope of advancing further—a typical small, insignificant sect. If not for Bian Ning Prefecture’s frontier location, constantly plagued by foreign incursions and sparse population, no one would have come here, and Bai Feng Academy would never have been assigned as a fourth-tier sect.

Seeing Fang Hetong, Wei Yuan truly felt the depth of Tai Chu Palace. In Tai Chu Palace, human-grade Dao Foundations were nearly extinct; even earth-grade ones were called trash; only heavenly-grade ones earned the sect’s fleeting attention, and to gain serious regard, one needed at least a rare heavenly-grade foundation like Yan Ming’s.

Bai Feng Academy had only its head as an earth-grade Dao Foundation; all others were human-grade. With no promising successors, once the head passed away, they would be expelled from the fourth-tier sects.

Wei Yuan himself had cultivated for ten years without achieving a Dao Foundation, firmly at the bottom of Tai Chu Palace. Fang Hetong had spent over twenty years forging a human-grade Dao Foundation, yet in Bai Feng Academy, he was considered middle-to-upper tier. Yet in combat, Wei Yuan had once defeated the earth-grade Xu Du when his muscles were fully developed; after blood fusion, he could reliably defeat human-grade Dao Foundations wielding magic treasures. Now, unless Xu Du wore the full set of Bao Yun’s equipment, he wouldn’t survive a single glance.

After exchanging names, someone brought a cup and a bowl. Fang Hetong said: “Brother Wei, you’ve traveled far—surely you’re hungry. We have little to offer, but please make do.”

The cup held water—not clear, with sediment at the bottom, yellowish in hue. The bowl contained coarse rice, topped with a few wild greens, steamed together with the rice.

At that moment, a shout came from outside: “We’ve marched dozens of li! We thought we’d get a decent meal down here—and this is what we get? Even dogs won’t eat this!”

Wei Yuan’s figure flickered, and he was already outside the ancestral hall. He saw a young auxiliary soldier, early twenties, with a reckless air, raising his wooden bowl to smash it on the ground.

Before Wei Yuan could move, an old auxiliary soldier with half-gray hair seized the young man’s wrist. The young soldier felt his arm locked in iron bands; his bones cracked with every twitch. He cried out in pain: “Ow! What are you doing? My bones are breaking!”

The old soldier snorted: “This is Master Fang’s territory. Every grain in your bowl was saved from his own mouth! If even one grain falls, you’ll pick it up and eat it!”

The young soldier dared not reply further. He sullenly sat back on the steps, muttering: “I’m new here—I didn’t know Master Fang was here…”

Fang Hetong also stepped out of the hall and greeted several veteran auxiliary soldiers. The veterans, who moments before had all the demeanor of hardened thugs, now stood rigidly straight before him, radiating a faint air of martial solemnity. Wei Yuan hadn’t expected Fang Hetong to command such respect among these hardened soldiers.

The two returned to the hall. Fang Hetong sighed bitterly: “To be honest, we ran out of grain several days ago. For the past few days, we’ve only issued half the normal rations—barely holding on.”

Wei Yuan had seen the hardship here, but hadn’t expected it to reach starvation. Xijin hadn’t suffered any disaster—how could the frontline be out of grain?

Fang Hetong asked hopefully: “Brother Wei, have you heard any news about military pay?”

“Military pay?” Wei Yuan was taken aback again.

Before this mission, the palace had clearly stated that all soldiers’ rations and pay were the responsibility of Xijin’s local government. Of course, those bringing personal retainers had to pay themselves. So when Wei Yuan took command, he didn’t ask, and Wang Delu never mentioned military pay at all.

“You’ve never received pay? Aren’t those men outside civilian militia?” Wei Yuan asked in surprise.

When entering the village, Wei Yuan had noticed most of Sha Yang’s inhabitants were men, with only a few strong women and elders handling logistics. Under Xijin’s military system, males aged twelve to fifty-five were conscriptable; only those over sixty were considered elderly. And these men bore traces of cultivation—even if brief, the best among them had only strengthened his muscles by two-tenths, yet they were already distinct from ordinary people. Common farmers never forged their bodies.

Civilian militia normally farmed; when conscripted, they received half the pay of border troops. In Datang’s military system, border troops were regular soldiers, unlike county auxiliary forces. So the half-pay of civilian militia roughly equaled eighty percent of auxiliary pay.

Wang Delu said he’d assign extra civilian militia to Wei Yuan. Wei Yuan assumed they meant the village’s three hundred or so men—he’d been satisfied, seeing their cultivation traces. But now, from Fang Hetong’s tone, they hadn’t received any pay at all.

This was wartime, and this was the frontline defense. The imperial court should have already allocated military pay and rations. To withhold food and pay during wartime—mildly speaking, it invites mutiny; severely, it’s an attempt to overthrow the dynasty.

Seeing Wei Yuan’s expression, Fang Hetong understood. He sighed: “I heard rumors—the imperial court’s military pay, twenty thousand taels, has already reached the county. I assumed that once you arrived, you’d bring the pay along. But I didn’t expect… ah! Poor brothers out there—they’ve followed me for three months, fought seven or eight battles, lost over thirty men, yet not a single copper coin of pay, and no word on compensation.”

“Master Fang, don’t worry—I brought some military supplies.”

Wei Yuan remembered the three boxes of military supplies he’d carried. These could solve the immediate crisis. He moved the three boxes to the center of the room and opened them one by one.

Each military supply box was a one-foot cube of iron—small in appearance, yet each weighed nearly a hundred jin. Inside, two boxes contained neatly stacked dried meat. This was Tai Chu Palace’s special military ration: each strip no thicker than a finger, dissolving into broth when soaked, enough to sustain one for a full day. Even a fully muscle-forged giant needed only two strips per day.

The third box held Pure Water Pills and various antidotes and wound treatments. One pill dropped into a large vat of water made it safe to drink. For a well, just three pills sufficed for a day’s clean water.

Two boxes of rations, one box of medicine—perfectly balanced, enough to sustain a hundred-man force for half a month. But Wei Yuan suddenly realized: Tai Chu Palace claimed local authorities would handle all rations and pay, yet gave each person three boxes of supplies, and forbade abandoning them en route. Clearly, the True Persons above had foreseen this exact scenario.

Fang Hetong stared at the three boxes, his hands trembling. He gripped Wei Yuan’s arms, repeating: “Snow in midwinter, charcoal delivered! Snow in midwinter, charcoal delivered!”

By the end, the old man’s eyes reddened, a few tears falling helplessly.

Wei Yuan quickly comforted him, then helped Fang Hetong sit. Fang Hetong wiped his tears with his sleeve and sighed: “Forgive me for showing weakness, Brother Wei—it’s just been unbearable these past months.”

After calming slightly, Fang Hetong hesitated: “I know these are military rations, shouldn’t be diverted. But these men outside have fought for months without pay or food—some families already lost elders to hunger. If possible… could we spare some for their families?”

“Of course!” Wei Yuan answered without hesitation.

Fang Hetong suddenly rose, bowing deeply to Wei Yuan: “I thank you on behalf of our villagers, Brother Wei!” His body trembled, as if to kneel.

Wei Yuan swiftly lifted him up, soothing him repeatedly, finally calming the man in his thirties.

(End of Chapter)