Chapter 58: The Moon Waxes and Wanes

Zhao Jin already had a fair understanding of how the Great Ming mobilized its troops. Every campaign always drew soldiers from various provinces and border garrisons, commanded by civil officials as supreme commanders and led into battle by military officers. The two great wars — aiding Korea against the Japanese pirates and suppressing Yang Yinglong in Bozhou — had nothing to do with the Xuzhou Guard, to say nothing of the battles against the Tartars along the Nine Borders; the Xuzhou Guard was even less involved.

His own uncle had left Xuzhou as a teenager to seek his fortune, and for some unknown reason had taken part in so many battles.

Zhao Zhenxing recounted it all in great detail — the clashes with the Japanese pirates, the fighting against the Miao tribal soldiers of the southwest, the bloody melees with the Tartars, and even the infighting among government troops, the suppression of mutinies, and private duels. He told every bit of it.

Although Zhao Zhenxing was no great orator, everything he described was something he had lived through himself, and hearing it carried a visceral, heart-shaking power. At first Zhao Jin thought his uncle was merely reminiscing, but after every story they would spar, and Zhao Jin came to realize that his uncle meant for him to absorb that hard-won experience.

In Zhao Jin's fourteenth year — the autumn of the forty-second year of the Wanli reign — Zhao Zhenxing somehow got hold of a halberd and spent two months teaching it to Zhao Jin. By then Zhao Jin had already attained a certain mastery in martial arts, and he could tell that his uncle's skill with the halberd was quite ordinary; his movements were rather unpracticed.

In the eleventh month of that year, Zhao Zhenxing fell ill. Neither Zhao Jin nor his parents were caught off guard by this illness, because over the past few years Zhao Zhenxing's body had been weakening day by day — it was only a matter of time.

After taking to his sickbed, Zhao Zhenxing was still lucid. He carefully instructed Zhao Jin to lock every door, front and back, of that shop, so that no one could slip inside. Zhao Jin did exactly as he was told, though his heart was heavy with worry. He thought to himself that Second Uncle must be delirious from his illness — could he really believe that shop still needed guarding?

Zhao Zhenxing was taken into Zhao Zhentang's home. Zhao Zhentang was well-off and willing to spend whatever it took to cure his younger brother, but the one who stopped him was Zhao Zhenxing himself. From his sickbed he made it perfectly clear: "I've known this day would come for a long time. Big Brother, don't waste your money on me."

Zhao Zhentang cursed his younger brother out, then summoned the most renowned physicians in Xuzhou city. After examining him, every one of them gave the same verdict: "His body has been drained by old wounds and can hold out no longer. Medicine can at best buy him a few more days."

All the medicines that could be taken were taken, along with a great many tonics and pills brought back from Yangzhou and Nanjing. Zhao Zhenxing's condition still showed no sign of improvement, and at last everyone understood that the doctors had spoken true.

Day by day, Zhao Zhenxing's coughing grew more violent, and the hours he slept grew longer. Yet every day he still pressed Zhao Jin to train, asked him about his daily sparring matches, and told him stories of his own past.

In the first month of the forty-third year of the Wanli reign, Zhao Zhenxing's spirits unexpectedly rallied a little, and the whole family managed to celebrate the New Year with some joy. By the second month, Zhao Zhenxing had passed away.

The mourning hall was set up in Zhao Zhentang's home. As the direct nephew and the sole male of the younger generation, Zhao Jin donned the full hempen mourning garb to see his uncle to his final rest.

"So-and-so has arrived!" the master of ceremonies at the door intoned. Kneeling in place, Zhao Jin woodenly bowed in acknowledgment.

Among all the guests who came to pay their respects, only a handful had actually known Zhao Zhenxing. Most came for the sake of Zhao Zhentang's standing.

First came Zhao Zhentang's colleagues from the yamen's constabulary and the minor clerks of the Six Offices, then the leading figures of every stripe from Xuzhou city's high and low circles — all came to offer a stick of incense and leave a funeral gift.

Zhao Jin's friends all came as well. At fifteen, one was already old enough in that era to take a wife and father children, and their interactions with Zhao Jin had taken on a more formal character.

"So what if I've chopped heads? How does that mean my killing aura is too heavy, that I'd offend the spirit of the departed? I can't even keep my own brother company!"

Amid the ritual responses and bows, Zhao Zhentang's drunken ranting could be heard from a side room. Because an executioner bore too heavy a blood-reek, he was barred from the mourning hall, which only deepened the already foul-tempered Zhao Zhentang's gloom. He had called a few friends over to drink with him.

His father's grumbling, his mother's weeping, the oppressive, gloomy atmosphere of the mourning hall, even his own knees gone numb from kneeling — Zhao Jin paid none of it any mind. His thoughts were wholly fixed on the words his uncle had spoken in his final moments.

After falling ill, Zhao Zhenxing knew with perfect clarity that his death was near. He calmly began to set his affairs in order, and even during that time he never ceased pressing Zhao Jin.

"Big Brother, Sister-in-Law, this boy Xiaojin has a clear head and a mind of his own. When things come up in the future, listen to what he has to say."

"Everything I own I leave to Xiaojin."

What Zhao Zhenxing said to his elder brother and sister-in-law was very brief. The rest of his words were all for Zhao Jin. This came as no surprise to Zhao Zhentang and He Cuihua — Zhao Zhenxing and Zhao Jin were uncle and nephew, but also master and disciple. In the eyes of the wifeless, childless Zhao Zhenxing, he had probably long since come to regard Zhao Jin as his own son.

Once only the uncle and nephew remained in the room, Zhao Zhenxing lay there and said weakly: "Xiaojin, let me first tell you about my past…"

Although Zhao Zhenxing had never spoken much of it, over the past few years Zhao Jin had managed to piece together the general picture.

It was much as he had guessed. His father and uncle had endured a bitter childhood, but both believed that martial skill could lift a man above his station.

Both brothers trained well, but it did little to help them make a living. Training in martial arts meant they could not put their full strength into farming, which in truth made them a burden on the household. The family toiled all year for a meager harvest, and because of their Hundred-Household status, they also had to bear the infamy of exploiting the military households.

After one mass brawl, the higher-ups in the Xuzhou Guard thought Zhao Zhenxing showed exceptional promise and wanted him to inherit the Hundred-Household post. Zhao Zhenxing had no wish to contend with his elder brother for the position, nor did he want to remain at home as an added burden. Moreover, Zhao Zhenxing could sense that every post in the Guard was hereditary, and Xuzhou lay in the heartland of the empire — there would be no wars to fight, no chance whatsoever to rise.

The Xuzhou Guard offered none, but in the other places where the Great Ming waged war — the lands of the Nine Borders — there were abundant opportunities. Because battles broke out there constantly, military officers of every rank were forever recruiting soldiers. With skill and courage, a man might well be chosen as a personal retainer in a general's household guard, win merit and glory on the battlefield, and rise to command and nobility.

Zhao Zhenxing first went to Liaodong to enlist, serving under Liaodong Regional Commander Li Rusong. He followed him into Korea to fight the Japanese pirates, passed through life and death, and earned no small amount of merit. But Zhao Zhenxing discovered that as an outsider, he had virtually no chance of promotion or command.

There, every advantage belonged to the Li family itself and had nothing to do with outsiders. It was not just a common soldier like Zhao Zhenxing — even troops from outside the Liaodong command were ruthlessly squeezed out.

Disillusioned, Zhao Zhenxing left the Liaodong Garrison and went to Datong. But it did not take long for him to realize that it was no different from Liaodong. At some unknown point, the system along the Nine Borders had become indistinguishable from that of the inland Guards. Winning command and nobility had nothing to do with your valor or strategic mind; the key was your birth and background. If you were the scion of a military house, or held an inherited Thousand-Household or Commander rank, your rise was naturally swift. Without those, all your achievements simply became another man's wedding dress.

Unwilling to give up, Zhao Zhenxing went to the southwest. The court had mobilized over two hundred thousand troops to crush the rebellion of Yang Yinglong in Bozhou, but Zhao Zhenxing's experience there was the same as before.

In battle, Zhao Zhenxing was wounded by a poisoned arrow. Though he received timely aid, it left him with a chronic injury, and he could only return to Xuzhou a defeated man.

Looking back on the past, there was not a trace of wistful emotion on Zhao Zhenxing's face — only a deep, somber gloom.

In truth, Zhao Jin had heard many of these things in bits and pieces over the course of his martial training; this telling merely strung them all together.

"Xiaojin, back then I was just like you. I thought that with a body full of skill, I was full of heroic ambition. But look at me now — covered in old wounds, with nothing to show for it." Zhao Zhenxing's voice was hoarse, and he spoke with the utmost gravity.

The uncle who had taught him martial arts with such focus and dedication was now saying such things. Zhao Jin remained silent. Zhao Zhenxing laboriously turned over to look at him and said earnestly: "Xiaojin, you are still young. There is still time to turn back. Follow your father and become a constable. The title may not sound fine, but it will give you a life of comfort, with food and clothing without worry."

"I will not give up martial training!" Zhao Jin answered, his words firm and absolute.