Chapter 382

Looking at the endless flames surrounding the camp, the Southern Frontier troops judged the enemy numbered at least a hundred thousand. These torches twisted and snaked through the night, like a crimson giant serpent, staining the black sky crimson. The flickering fire radiated rolling heat, as if rising from the very depths of hell as karmic flame.

Yet they had only seventy thousand troops, trapped in encirclement, forming a tiny besieged city, silently awaiting the verdict of fate. Many new recruits were pale with terror, legs trembling, some even collapsing to their knees. Their faces were ashen, pupils constricted, expressions dazed, as if already lost within the shadow of death.

Amid the howling autumn wind, they even felt the chill of the Northern Frontier soldiers’ blades—a sensation that sent shivers down their spines. It was the cold hand of Death beckoning, its invisible scythe brushing each man’s nape. Instantly, the entire camp fell silent, save for the biting wind howling—making the usually boisterous Southern Frontier army appear solemn beyond measure, yet signaling only despair and death.

Most deadly of all, Jia Tong still slept soundly in his Regional Military Commissioner’s mansion, utterly unaware of the peril outside. Whether senior officers or common soldiers, all clenched their teeth in near-desperate silence, awaiting fate’s judgment. Encircled on all sides and leaderless, the bloodthirsty stares of the Northern Frontier troops constantly pressed upon the fragile nerves of the seventy thousand Southern Frontier troops, on the verge of collapse. Most of the soldiers—mostly new recruits—were already pale as paper, lips white, trembling helplessly in place, slumped on the ground like stray dogs.

The fact that their chance of survival was nearly zero filled them with despair. A helpless sense of utter powerlessness overwhelmed them, growing ever stronger. Some soldiers had already broken down, crying out to their officers for mercy; most others sat with deathly gray faces, waiting for Death to deliver the final stroke. This despair and terror threatened to swallow the entire camp whole.

This endless night, with the biting wind howling, froze the seventy thousand Southern Frontier soldiers into shivering tremors. They sat or crouched, shoulders pressed together for warmth, yet the cold still pierced through—frozen drool dripping from their lips glimmered faintly under the moonlight.

The new recruit Li Xiaolong knelt on the ground, eyes brimming with tears. He looked up at the distant moon and the star-strewn sky, as if begging the gods for a hand. Li Xiaolong buried his face in his arms and wept bitterly, only the sound of sobs and sniffles escaping him. His clothes were soaked through with tears, trembling violently in the cold wind.

Another young soldier, Ma Qixian, also held back his tears, scooping up a handful of yellow earth and scattering it over his head. His movements were frantic and uncoordinated, grains slipping through his fingers. He bit his lip hard, desperately suppressing his inner panic, yet two clear tears still spilled from his eyes. “Live to go home and see Mom… live to go home and see Mom…” he muttered, voice hoarse and pained.

Soldier Li Tianhe’s face was as white as paper. He gripped his longsword with all his strength, knuckles white, veins bulging. Cold sweat mixed with tears streamed into his eyes, forcing his brows to furrow tightly, unable to open them. Li Tianhe’s body trembled slightly, teeth clenched, as if fighting a final battle against pain.

The teenage soldier Zhao Xiaoming’s legs buckled, and he collapsed heavily to the ground. He clasped his hands together and frantically prayed to heaven, his expression anxious and terrified. Suddenly, he threw his head back and let out a piercing, ear-splitting scream of unbearable agony. “Spare me… I’m not even eighteen yet…” he begged incoherently, voice choked and hoarse, heartrending.

These soldiers were all only sons, having joined the army barely a month ago. They had once been vibrant youths, now terrified into soul-shattering panic by the shadow of Death.

This sound was like a boulder cast into a still lake, triggering a chain reaction. Soldiers who had stood expressionless moments before now dropped their weapons, crashing to the ground with thuds. Some knelt to beg the gods; others wept aloud; still more turned ashen and collapsed. In an instant, nearly all seventy thousand Southern Frontier troops had discarded armor and weapons, kneeling prostrate on the ground, the clatter of falling gear echoing as “clangs” and “thuds.”

The encircling Northern Frontier troops revealed knowing smirks, occasionally letting out a few derisive hisses. They exchanged glances, seeing ambition, greed, and the thrill of vengeance in each other’s eyes. One Northern Frontier soldier watched the absurd, tragic scene with morbid interest, then spat contemptuously at the slumped Southern Frontier soldiers.

Jiang Mingyu stood high above, gazing down with a detached expression, nodding slowly as he stroked his saddle, as if organizing a plan already formed. His gaze swept over the fallen soldiers all around, eyes cold, showing not a trace of pity.

Jiang Mingyu turned his head, not looking directly at anyone, and asked casually, “Where is Jia Tong now?” His voice was low and calm, utterly devoid of emotion.

A surrendered soldier looked up, voice trembling with fear: “T-Territorial Commissioner’s mansion… he’s… already asleep.” He immediately bowed his head again, shivering all over, hands clenched so tightly his fingernails nearly dug into his flesh. Other soldiers remained utterly silent, straining to listen, many even holding their breath, terrified of drawing Jiang Mingyu’s attention.

Jiang Mingyu sneered, lips curling, a flicker of mockery in his eyes. He ordered Tukesiluo: “Go fetch him. Bring him here—but don’t kill him.” Tukesiluo didn’t hesitate. He immediately led a group toward the Regional Military Commissioner’s mansion. His expression was icy, steps firm, showing no hesitation. His long blade glinted coldly in the moonlight. Several trusted subordinates followed behind, radiating lethal intent.

Seeing Tukesiluo depart, Li Goudan and others eagerly began seizing control of the camp and taking over the city gates. They beamed with excitement, eyes gleaming, lips curled in smiles, striding briskly toward the gate. Several soldiers already carried the Northern Frontier banners, preparing to plant them atop the walls, symbolizing Tagang’s change of hands.

The Southern Frontier soldiers on guard at the gate were panicked, staring at the rising Northern Frontier banners, still reeling from shock. Their faces were pale, legs too weak to stand, yet they dared not move. Dozens of Northern Frontier warriors with long swords now stood at the gate, glaring menacingly, ready to crush any sign of resistance.

Jiang Mingyu had not forgotten his earlier promise. He stroked his white beard, gazing gently out the window, and had already ordered the army’s physicians to tend to the old guide’s mother.

Several physicians entered the guide’s dilapidated tile house with their medicine chests. The old woman lay on a hard wooden bed, her face yellow and frail, deeply wrinkled, eyes sunken, expression exhausted. With all her strength, she lifted her head—and at the sight of the physicians, a flash of joy lit her eyes. Her furrowed brows finally relaxed, and she whispered weakly, “They’ve come… the doctors have come.” The lead physician bowed respectfully to the old woman, gently asking about her condition. The other physicians swiftly opened their chests, Quchu silver needles, decoctions, moxibustion tools—preparing for diagnosis and treatment.

One young physician lifted the tattered wool blanket covering the old woman’s legs. Both limbs were grotesquely swollen, covered in dark purple bruises, skin lax, with signs of ulceration.

“This is caused by prolonged lack of movement and poor circulation,” the physician muttered, frowning, unable to suppress sympathy for the woman’s plight.

Another physician carefully palpated the old woman’s pulse. He held her withered wrist firmly, nodding occasionally, measuring her pulse and respiration, jotting notes on paper. The physician had gray hair and an air of seasoned expertise. “You likely suffer from multiple ailments—heart, lungs, spleen, liver, kidneys. We’ll treat you comprehensively now,” he said gently, offering the old woman a reassuring smile.

The old woman’s son knelt beside the bed, trembling with emotion, eyes already red. He softly asked if she felt any other discomfort, gently stroking her withered hand, his gaze filled with sorrow. The old woman gripped her son’s hand tightly, tears welling in her eyes, whispering repeatedly, “Thank you… thank you…” her gratitude overflowing.

“Your body has always been weak, and the recent trauma has been too great. You now need rest and recuperation,” the lead physician said, handing several packets of herbal medicine to the son, patiently instructing, “Take these decoctions on schedule, and mix them with mutton broth to replenish blood and promote circulation. I’ve also prescribed remedies to strengthen the spleen and resolve phlegm, to prevent heart attacks… I’ll send someone regularly to check on you. Rest assured.”

“Thank you, Doctor! Thank you, Doctor!” The son accepted the medicine packets, eyes brimming with tears, bowing deeply. He carefully helped his mother lie back down, covering her with a thin quilt, his face radiant with gratitude. The old woman weakly nodded to the physicians in thanks, a glimmer of comfort and hope in her eyes.

Jiang Mingyu understood that using the old woman to pressure the guide had been a necessity forced by circumstance. He sighed, gazing beyond the city walls, his eyes filled with regret and compassion. He resolved to do everything possible to heal the old woman, to make amends for the harm she had suffered.

While the camp was still in chaos, Tukesiluo had already brought Jia Tong, clad only in his night robe, before Jiang Mingyu.

Jia Tong shuffled forward, his once-neat hair now disheveled, strands of white falling over his forehead. His eyes, sunken and dark, were filled with despair and grief. Once the supreme commander of Tagang, his former glory was gone; he now appeared broken and pitiful. His carefully coiffed topknot had unraveled, exposing his forehead, long untouched by sunlight, its deep wrinkles clearly visible. Once a fearless warrior on the battlefield, now a prisoner, his cruel fate was unbearable.

“I… surrender,” he croaked, voice dry and hoarse. These words were a nightmare to him. On the edge of life and death, he had finally chosen survival, abandoning pride, bowing to the enemy. As the city’s highest commander, he now had nothing left.

Jiang Mingyu nodded faintly, showing no trace of triumph. He understood Jia Tong’s inner turmoil and pain, and his tone softened with pity: “Then I accept your surrender.”

“I believe, Commander Jia, that your wisdom and insight make you aware the situation is now irreversible,” Jiang Mingyu said, raising his voice slightly, his tone carrying an unyielding authority.

Hearing this, Jia Tong felt as if his insides were burning. A crushing wave of humiliation swept over him. His hard-earned reputation had crumbled overnight. To become a surrendered general, forced to publicly read his surrender document in his own former city—this humiliation was worse than death.

Jia Tong bit his lip until it bled, veins bulging on his forehead. He choked back a sob, his face a mask of self-loathing. At this moment, he wished only to vanish into a crack in the earth and never emerge again.

Jiang Mingyu noticed Jia Tong’s distress and softened his tone further: “I mean no humiliation. You are well-respected in Tagang. Your voluntary surrender will prevent others from rebelling.”

Jia Tong finally yielded. He clenched his teeth, suppressing the agonized groan rising from his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, held back, and he gave a weak nod of assent. Everything he had built had vanished in an instant, leaving not a shred of dignity.

Thus, the situation in Tagang gradually stabilized. Jia Tong, his face twisted with pain, read the surrender document before the townspeople. Upon hearing the news, the populace accepted reality, offering no further resistance. Jiang Mingyu exhaled softly—his greatest concern had finally been resolved.

Watching Jia Tong read the surrender document under the scornful stares of the crowd, his body and spirit shattered, Jiang Mingyu felt a flicker of pity for him.

Jiang Mingyu rubbed his temples, turned to Jia Tong, and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone: “There is one final matter I wish to entrust to you. If you agree to assist me, I will grant you your freedom and ensure your safe departure from Tagang.”

Jia Tong snapped his head up, eyes blazing with disbelief and joy, like a caged bird finally seeing the sky. His dark-rimmed eyes widened, voice trembling as he asked, “Y-Your Majesty… is this true?” This was his only hope—grasping it might mean rebirth.

But before Jiang Mingyu could answer, Tukesiluo’s face was already etched with anxiety. He frowned deeply, reaching out to dissuade Jiang Mingyu from this reckless decision: “Brother, this is too dangerous. I disagree…”

But Jiang Mingyu remained unmoved, shaking his head firmly: “I’ve decided. No more talk.” His gaze burned, his tone absolute.

Jia Tong felt a shudder run through his entire body—all despair vanished in an instant. He forgot his humiliation and shame, nodding frantically: “Your Majesty, I will give my all—I will not fail your trust!”

He immediately spurred his horse into a gallop, racing wildly toward Gebao. He gripped the reins so tightly his knuckles turned white, teeth grinding until they bled. Years of resentment erupted now, surging with unprecedented bitterness and rage.

Jiang, you will regret today’s decision. I will return with an army, to wash away this disgrace—I will humiliate you once more. He swore silently within. If given the chance to rebuild, he would never let it slip away.

He whipped the reins sharply, the lash cracking against the horse’s flank. The thunderous hooves pounded the solid earth, the galloping steed a vision of power and grace. It sped faster and faster, as if responding to the rider’s fury and hatred.

Jiang Mingyu watched Jia Tong’s retreating figure, lost in thought. He knew Jia Tong would return. He must prepare—no room for complacency. “Feng Xi,” he called to his strategist beside him, “Monitor his movements. If necessary, send men to Gebao. Above all, prevent the Wei clan from gaining the upper hand.”

Feng Xi bowed respectfully, pondering the reasoning. After a moment, he asked, “Your Majesty, is this decision based on recognizing the Wei clan’s overwhelming strength? Are you seeking to rally Tagang’s remnants as a defensive countermeasure?” His eyes gleamed with cunning—he had already grasped Jiang Mingyu’s deeper intent.

Jiang Mingyu smiled faintly, nodding, clearly pleased with Feng Xi’s perceptiveness. The chessboard was now set—he would let his enemies witness his brilliance.

Jiang Mingyu immediately ordered Tukesiluo to send a swift messenger back to Jincheng to convey a message to Zhuge Yu: instruct him to dispatch four more civil officials to Tagang to take charge here and the three future provinces to be conquered.

Tukesiluo promptly responded, turning to leave—when Jiang Mingyu raised a hand to stop him.

“Wait. Why the rush? I haven’t finished,” Jiang Mingyu said, stroking his white beard, his expression grave, brows slightly furrowed. He tapped his chin with a finger, a glint of cunning in his eyes.

“Now that the Western Xia situation is stable, the Nine Northern Provinces must also be at peace.” He spoke slowly, each word deliberate, “Order Zhuge Yu to immediately dispatch fifty thousand elite troops here. This is critical to the coming campaign—no delays allowed.”

Tukesiluo bowed again, spine straight. He strode out of the tent, vanishing swiftly into the fading glow of the setting sun.

Jiang Mingyu turned and summoned Feng Xi. Feng Xi entered calmly, a faint smile on his face.

“Feng Xi, immediately dispatch scouts to Lingtaicheng,” Jiang Mingyu said, pacing toward him, arms crossed. “After careful consideration, I’ve decided to take Lingtaicheng first, then march south to capture Jingxiang.”

He paused, his sharp gaze fixed on Feng Xi: “You yourself said the Wei clan’s power is immense—we must sever its wings before striking it down. This move must be executed perfectly.”

Feng Xi’s lips curled into a faint smile. He nodded gently, informing Jiang Mingyu that the scouts had already been sent—even before Jiang Mingyu had spoken. Clearly, he had anticipated Jiang Mingyu’s strategy.

Jiang Mingyu heard this and inwardly praised him. He gave a knowing “hmm,” his gaze toward Feng Xi now filled with appreciation and admiration.

Jiang Mingyu then inquired about the guide’s old mother. Feng Xi replied respectfully: the physicians had examined her; she was merely elderly, with no serious illness. She had regained consciousness and was now being cared for in the rear hall of the Regional Military Commissioner’s mansion, attended by a dedicated guide and several servants.

Jiang Mingyu’s brow furrowed slightly, then he nodded slowly. He stroked his beard, his expression serious yet intrigued: “Then I shall go see her myself. After all, she contributed to the capture of Tagang.”

With that, he strode purposefully into the mansion, Feng Xi following respectfully. As they passed the corridor, Feng Xi smiled faintly, watching Jiang Mingyu’s resolute back vanish at the corridor’s end. He understood Jiang Mingyu’s concern for the old woman—and admired even more the warmth beneath his authority.