Too many female prisoners, a special forces soldier transmigrates and marries wildly.

When Lin Feng regained consciousness, the first thing he smelled was a strong, strange odor mixed with the smell of sweat, blood, and cheap cosmetics.

A cacophony of noise filled the air: men's laughter, women's sobs, and officers' gruff shouts.

He suddenly opened his eyes.

His vision was somewhat blurry, but he could make out that he was leaning against an earthen wall, wearing tattered and dirty leather armor, and holding a chipped longsword in his hand. Around him were dozens of soldiers in similarly ragged clothes, all craning their necks and peering into an area enclosed by a wooden fence, their eyes gleaming with the hunger of wolves.

"What am I...?" Fragments of memories flooded back like a tide.

Lin Feng, an ace of the Chinese "Sharp Blade" special forces, was shot multiple times and fell into an abyss while covering his teammates' retreat during a border interception mission.

When he opened his eyes again, he was a lowly soldier in the northern border army of the Great Yan, a common soldier in the seventh squad of the Beacon Fire Battalion. Last night, the original owner's sentry unit was attacked by Di Rong cavalry. In the melee, he was hit on the head with a blunt object and was carried back to the camp unconscious.

"I've transmigrated..." Lin Feng accepted reality almost instantly. Years of living a life of constant danger had given him a beast-like adaptability. He immediately began to assess the environment, his physical condition, and potential threats.

But the scene before him left even this veteran, who was used to seeing life and death, somewhat bewildered.

Inside the wooden fence ahead, a dozen or so women stood huddled in a row, trembling. Most of them were disheveled, their faces filled with terror, some with tear stains and dirt on their faces. Their ages ranged from their teens to their early thirties, and their appearances varied, but it was clear that even in their disheveled state, a few of them still possessed undeniable beauty.

Outside the fence, an officer wearing half-body armor and with a full beard was holding a roster and loudly reading aloud:

"...Centurion Zhao Dayong has beheaded eleven people! According to the ironclad rules of our border army, he may choose one of the female prisoners as his wife and send her back to her hometown to settle down!"

"Zhao Dayong, come forward and choose!"

An even louder uproar erupted from the crowd. Envy, jealousy, squabbling... all sorts of voices mingled together.

A burly man with fresh scars on his face pushed his way through the crowd and stood before the fence. He puffed out his chest and scanned the women with undisguised possessiveness and smugness, as if selecting merchandise.

Memories belonging to the original owner of the body flooded Lin Feng's mind: the "Military Merit-Based Wife Reward System" of the Northern Border Army of the Great Yan—soldiers who accumulated ten confirmed enemy heads (or major battle achievements) would be granted a privilege: to choose one of the female prisoners of war as their wife. After selection, the army would arrange for clerks and guards to send the woman back to the soldier's hometown to settle down. Border soldiers had a long leave to visit their families every two years.

This was a method devised by the imperial court to boost the morale of the border troops and to ensure that these men, who had survived countless brushes with death, would have a future. For the vast majority of border soldiers struggling on the brink of life and death, this was the only tangible hope in their bleak lives.

A home. A woman who belongs to me.

Zhao Dayong is already making his selection.

He first pointed to a plump and attractive young woman: "Raise your head."

The woman looked up, trembling, tears welling in her eyes.

"Where are you from? How old are you? Have you ever been married?" Zhao Dayong asked directly.

A clerk nearby answered on her behalf: "This woman is the wife of a herdsman from the Di Rong Heihe tribe. She is nineteen years old and her husband had already died in battle when she was captured."

"You've been married before..." Zhao Dayong stroked his chin, seemingly a little disgusted, and looked away.

He looked at another one. This one was younger, probably only sixteen or seventeen, slender, with delicate features, but a fresh whip mark on his face, and his eyes were like those of a frightened fawn.

"What about this one?"

"The daughter of a nobleman from the Baihe tribe, seventeen years old, and unmarried. She has a somewhat fiery temper; she injured two of our brothers when she was captured," the clerk added.

"Oh? The daughter of a nobleman?" Zhao Dayong's eyes lit up, but seeing the unyielding hatred in the girl's eyes, he hesitated. "I'm afraid she can't be tamed..."

His gaze continued to wander.

Lin Feng stood against the wall, calmly observing everything. In his previous life, he had been all alone, dedicating everything to the mission and the defense line. Now, watching this almost primitive "rewarding merit," he felt little moral judgment—chaotic times have their own rules. He simply absorbed the information quickly and assessed his own situation.

They were physically weak, malnourished, poorly equipped, and of lowly status.

But in his soul dwells a king of soldiers who has experienced countless life and death battles and mastered the art of modern warfare.

"Ten heads... in exchange for one wife..." Lin Feng silently pondered this rule, and something long dormant seemed to be ignited deep in his eyes.

It wasn't just simple desire for women, but something more fundamental—in this strange and cruel world, he needed to find a foothold, an anchor. The concept of "home," even if it initially stemmed from such barbaric rules, was enough to fuel his struggle.

Zhao Dayong finally made his choice.

He pointed to a woman standing in the middle. The woman was about twenty years old, tall, with a healthy tan. Although her hair was disheveled and her clothes were tattered, her features were striking and well-proportioned, especially her eyes, which, despite their fear, possessed a calmness unlike that of the other women. She was wearing modified Di Rong clothing, but with differences in the details.

"She's the one!" Zhao Dayong grinned. "With that physique, she looks like she can do hard work, and she'll be good at bearing children too!"

The clerk flipped through the register: "This woman's name is 'Su Mo,' a member of the 'Shanyue Tribe,' a subordinate tribe of the Di Rong. Her tribe is skilled in herbal medicine and route finding. She is twenty-two years old and, according to records, has never been married."

"The Mountain Moon Clan? That's rare. She's the one!" Zhao Dayong was very satisfied.

The officer nodded and announced loudly, "Centurion Zhao Dayong has chosen female prisoner Su Mo as his wife! Register her! Arrange for her escort back home immediately!"

Two soldiers immediately stepped forward and led the woman named Su Mo out of the fence. The woman's body was stiff, but she did not struggle. She simply lowered her head and was led to a tent in the side where these "wives of meritorious officials" were specially placed.

Zhao Dayong retreated back into the crowd, smugly accepting the compliments and envious teasing from his comrades.

"Zhao, you're so lucky!"

"That figure, wow!"

"When you visit your family again, remember to treat the brothers to drinks!"

Lin Feng withdrew his gaze from Su Mo's retreating figure. The woman glanced up at the noisy crowd one last time, her eyes filled with complex emotions—despair, resignation, and a hint of barely concealed resentment.

Just then—

"Enemy attack! Di Rong cavalry! Three miles to the north!"

The piercing sound of a police whistle cut through the air above the camp.

The soldiers who had just been watching the commotion suddenly erupted into chaos.

"Assemble! Seventh Company! Swordsmen and shieldmen in front, archers behind!" Zhang Kui, the company commander of Lin Feng's company, roared.

The crowd scattered in panic, running to their respective positions. Lin Feng, gripping his knife, followed the nine men of the Seventh Company towards the low wall on the north side of the camp. As he ran, he quickly checked his equipment: a broken knife, a soft bow, half a quiver of inferior arrows, and nothing else.

Outside the low wall, amidst the swirling snow, the figures of a dozen or so Di Rong cavalrymen were faintly visible, charging towards the camp with a whooshing sound. They clearly intended to take advantage of the camp's slight relaxation due to the "wife selection" to launch a raid.

"Archers! Free fire!" Zhang Kui roared.

Sparse arrows flew out, most of them landing crookedly in the snow in front of the cavalry, while a few were easily brushed aside by the Di Rong people.

The distance was rapidly closing. The cavalrymen howled like wolves, their scimitars gleaming coldly in the snow.

"Prepare for battle!" Zhang Kui's voice trembled. They were infantry, and being charged by cavalry in the open field meant their chances of survival were slim.

Lin Feng narrowed his eyes. The original owner of this body was a decent archer, but this body was currently trembling slightly due to weakness and tension. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Memories of facing desperate situations countless times in his past life flooded back, overwhelming the fear in this body.

He ducked behind a mound of earth about half a person's height, took out his short bow, and nocked an arrow.

He didn't aim at the cavalryman charging at the front with the fiercest momentum. Instead, his gaze quickly scanned the area and instantly locked onto a Di Rong archer on the flank who was slightly behind and was drawing his bow, preparing to launch a shot.

Calculate distance, wind speed, horse speed, lead time...

These instincts etched into the soul began to operate.

The bow is drawn to its full extent—using the back-strength technique of modern archery to forcibly enhance the performance of this soft bow.

"Whoosh!"

The arrow left the bowstring, tracing a low, flat path through the wind and snow.

The Di Rong archer had just released his bowstring and tossed an arrow into the air when he suddenly felt a chill in his chest. He looked down and saw a crude Yan army arrow embedded in the gaps of his leather armor, piercing his chest cavity. He opened his mouth, but uttered no sound, and fell off his horse.

"What a fine arrow!" someone exclaimed from the side.

Lin Feng remained expressionless, and the second arrow was already nocked. This time, he aimed for the eyes of the leading warhorse.

"puff!"

The arrow pierced the horse's eye with pinpoint accuracy. The warhorse reared up in agony, violently throwing its rider off its back. The rider landed with a sickening snapping sound, his neck breaking, and rolled a few times before going still.

Two arrows, two enemies crippled. Although not direct beheadings, the precision and composure of the arrows left the Seventh Squad members around them speechless.

The Di Rong people's charge was halted. They had not expected that this seemingly weak Yan army would have such sharp archers.

"Kill!" Zhang Kui seized the opportunity and led his men out from behind the low wall.

The melee begins.

Lin Feng didn't rush forward. He knew that close combat with his body would be suicide. He crouched back down on the mound of earth, like a lurking viper, his cold gaze sweeping across the battlefield.

A Di Rong cavalryman swung his sword and cut down a Yan soldier, shouting excitedly, his side completely exposed.

Lin Feng's third arrow struck the weak spot where the leather armor was attached under his armpit.

The arrow pierced through the leather seams and embedded itself deeply in flesh. The cavalryman's roar abruptly ceased, his scimitar fell from his hand, and he collapsed, clutching his wound.

Three arrows, and three enemies are rendered unable to fight.

The remaining Di Rong cavalrymen were terrified. They let out a few strange cries, turned their horses around, abandoned their dead and wounded comrades and several unclaimed horses, and fled in panic into the snowstorm.

The battle is over.

Three Di Rong corpses were left in front of the camp (two of which were killed by Lin Feng's arrows), along with two dead horses. On the Yan army's side, one soldier was killed and four were wounded.

Everyone was panting, still shaken.

Zhang Kui, clutching the cut on his shoulder, walked up to Lin Feng, his eyes wide with suspicion as he looked him up and down: "Lin Feng? You... your archery skills..."

"I've practiced before, but I'm still rusty. It was just a coincidence," Lin Feng said calmly, slinging his short bow back onto his back. He knew he should keep his skills hidden, but in the situation just now, if he hadn't intervened, he or many of his companions might have died. Showing his value appropriately was also a way to survive.

"A coincidence? All three arrows were just a coincidence?" Veteran Wang Hu grinned, patting Lin Feng on the shoulder. "Not bad, kid! You've been hiding your true strength! If it weren't for you, even more of us would have died!"

Zhang Kui nodded, his expression softening considerably: "Good! You deserve credit! At least two of those three barbarians should be attributed to you! Cut off their heads, and hand them in according to the rules for the due process!"

According to the rules of the border army, such small-scale encounters with cavalry, and the capture of heads, required inspection and recording by officers before they could be counted as personal military merits.

Lin Feng watched as the soldiers began to behead the Di Rong people. The bloody scene made him frown slightly, but he quickly adapted. This was the rule of this world.

"Squad leader," he asked, "how is the merit calculated for a beheading of a scout like the one we just saw?"

While having his wounds bandaged, Zhang Kui replied, "The heads of ordinary Di and Rong cavalrymen count as one level. If there are any coordinated attacks, the squad leader might adjust the number. If there are any minor leaders among them, their identities might be verified and they could count as two levels. Once you collect ten levels, you can go and choose a wife, just like Centurion Zhao did." He chuckled, glancing at Lin Feng, "What? Tempted? With your archery skills today, if you keep up the good work, you might have a chance!"

The other comrades who had also escaped death laughed, but their laughter contained less of their usual contempt and more of their approval and envy.

Lin Feng didn't laugh. He just silently watched Di Rong's corpse being dragged away, and the tent in the distance where the "meritorious wife" was temporarily housed.

The direction Su Mo was led in.

Ten heads.

A wife.

In this cold and chaotic world, it is the starting point that can be called "home".

The wind and snow lashed against his face, rough and cold. But something inside his chest was beating strongly.

In his previous life, he defended the country's borders until his death.

In this life, he will fight his way out and build a fortune for himself.

He weighed the chipped knife in his hand and cast his gaze into the depths of the vast snowfield.