Starting with a Wei Wu soldier

The morning light pierced the thin mist atop the eastern plateau, casting golden-red patches of light onto the newly rammed earth walls of Xinghuo Fortress. The air was thick with the mingled scents of wood ash, animal dung, and the lingering, faint stench of blood. Birds began to chirp, breaking the heavy, almost stagnant silence of the first night after the war.

Inside the fortress, on the west side, in one of the rows of earthen houses temporarily designated for the Murong tribe to rest, Murong Mingyue suddenly opened her eyes.

His body tensed before his mind could register it, his right hand instinctively reaching for his waist—only to touch a rough linen garment. Memories flooded back like ice water, instantly clear: yesterday's bloody battle, Bald He's rout, the corpses and wails strewn across the ground, those silent, iron-clad black-armored warriors, and finally, that young man standing in the firelight of the fortress gate, his eyes calm as still water…

She propped herself up, a sharp pain shooting through her left shoulder. Looking down, the blood-stained red dress was gone; she was now wearing a worn-out linen shirt, rough but clean. Her wound had been re-bandaged, the bitter scent of herbs emanating from beneath the white linen. The room was simply furnished—a couch, a small table, and a ceramic pot of water—but the floor was level and the roof was dark, far better than the dilapidated temples and caves she had slept in during her escape.

She heard hushed voices and footsteps outside the door; it was the women and children of the Murong tribe bustling about. She listened intently, and mixed in with the distant, rhythmic shouts, it sounded like many people were practicing simultaneously, and… the dull pounding and chanting?

She pushed open the creaking wooden door, and morning light streamed in. Several women who were drawing water from the well in the courtyard saw her come out and quickly put down their buckets and bowed: "Miss, you're awake? Is your wound still hurting badly?"

"It's alright." Murong Mingyue's voice was a little hoarse as she glanced across the courtyard. Her men had obviously gotten up as well; some of the lightly wounded were stretching their limbs, and children were beside their mothers, their eyes still showing lingering fear, but the near-death despair of yesterday was gone. She saw an old soldier who had been seriously injured and unconscious last night, now sitting against the corner of the wall, sipping millet porridge. His face was sallow, but his breathing was much more steady.

"Where did the medicine and food come from?" she asked.

"Miss, it was the foreman surnamed Wang from the fortress who delivered it before dawn. He said it was specially ordered by Lord Chen. The medicine is pounded grass paste; it feels cool when applied and is quite effective in stopping bleeding and relieving pain. They also provided the porridge and salted vegetables, and even brewed a medicinal soup for the seriously injured," an older woman replied, her face showing a mixture of disbelief and relief. "Miss, this fortress... has strict rules, but they don't seem to be harsh. There are also soldiers patrolling at night, keeping watch from a distance, and they don't bother us."

Murong Mingyue nodded slightly, but her heart skipped a beat. On the first night after a battle, people's hearts are most easily unsettled, especially for these newcomers, whose backgrounds are unknown. Ordinary fortified villages would either keep them under strict surveillance as if facing a formidable enemy, or simply refuse them entry. This Xinghuo Fortress not only allowed them to stay, but also provided them with medicine and food, and the night patrol soldiers maintained a respectful distance... This composure and discipline were extraordinary.

She strolled out of the courtyard. The scene inside the fort gradually came into view.

Near the fortress wall, a dark mass of about two hundred people were drilling. Divided into several teams, one team repeatedly practiced thrusting and parrying with wooden spears. Although their movements were somewhat clumsy, their steps were synchronized and their shouts were powerful. Another team, carrying simple wooden shields covered with straw mats, practiced parrying and coordinated advances. A third team, under the guidance of several black-armored elite soldiers, practiced the basic postures of nocking and aiming crossbows. The officers in charge had stern expressions and occasionally corrected the soldiers, but there was no beating or scolding.

Further away, in a newly cleared area near the west wall, a different scene unfolded. Dozens of able-bodied men—judging from their tattered clothes and hairstyles, some Han Chinese refugees, others newly captured Hu people—were digging a deep trench, while others chanted slogans as they rammed large wooden stakes into the ground, seemingly constructing some kind of fortification. A dozen or so guards, armed with long spears, stood watch nearby, their eyes sharp.

Although the roads inside the fort were dirt roads, they were kept quite clean, with no animal manure or debris piled up haphazardly. Simple watchtowers had been erected at several key intersections, with soldiers on guard with bows. Some early risers were already busy in front of their houses or in their allotted vegetable plots. Although their faces were pale, their expressions were calm, and when they occasionally talked, their voices were low and not noisy.

Everything was orderly, exuding a taut, upward-moving vitality. Murong Mingyue had traveled far and wide and seen many fortified villages, most of which were either lifeless or chaotic. Such a scene of rapid restoration of order after the war, with soldiers and civilians each fulfilling their duties, was truly rare. That Fort Master Chen's methods of governing the army and the people were indeed remarkable.

Just then, a boy of about fifteen or sixteen years old, dressed in a clean short-sleeved robe, trotted over and stopped five steps in front of Murong Mingyue. He clasped his hands in a fist and bowed, speaking clearly: "General Murong, are you well? I am Li Shu, the humble secretary of the fortress. I have come on the orders of the fortress lord to inquire about your health. If you are well, the fortress lord would like to invite you to the council hall for a discussion."

Murong Mingyue's gaze swept over him. The young man had clear, bright eyes and a measured demeanor. Although he called himself "Secretary," his physique and gait suggested he had some martial arts training. "Thank you for your trouble, Secretary Li. Please inform Fort Master Chen that Mingyue will arrive shortly."

Li Shu responded with a "Yes," but did not leave immediately. Instead, he said, "General, your injuries have not yet healed. Would you need a palanquin to travel? The lord of the fortress instructed that you should not force yourself."

"No need, it's just a minor injury, I can walk without any problems," Murong Mingyue waved her hand.

Li Shu then bowed and withdrew, walking nimbly away.

Murong Mingyue returned to her room, changed into her red clothes—washed and dried but still stained with dark red blood—and re-tied her disheveled long hair into a man's bun, securing it with a wooden hairpin. The bronze mirror was blurry, reflecting a pale yet angular face; beneath the weariness and weathered look in her eyes lay the unique fortitude of a daughter of the grasslands. She took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and walked towards the tallest and most orderly earthen and stone building in the fortress—the council hall.