Late Ming Dynasty: Summoning players from Liaodong to support the Ming Dynasty

That delicate face, which was already pale, turned as white as a sheet of paper at this moment.

Su Qingying's lips trembled, and her once calm eyes were instantly overwhelmed by an indescribable, extreme fear.

Chu Ze did not press further.

He simply turned around calmly, picked up the warm copper kettle from the charcoal stove beside him, poured a cup of still-warm water, and handed it to her.

The air was filled with mist, carrying a hint of warmth.

Su Qingying stood frozen in place, not going to answer.

Chu Ze didn't urge him. He placed the water glass on the table next to him and began to speak to himself in a steady tone, as if he were recounting a past event that had nothing to do with him.

"Five years ago, when I first arrived in Liaodong, I was just an unknown nobody."

"I have no relatives or friends, no one to rely on. Every day when I open my eyes, the first thing I think about is whether I can live to see nightfall."

"I've seen how fast the Tartars' swords can be, and I've seen entire villages of Han people turn into skeletons in the snow overnight. I understand that kind of fear."

His words lacked any general's authority; instead, they sounded like those of a survivor revealing his wounds to another survivor.

Although carefully packaged, the loneliness and despair permeating his words are the most authentic portrayal of his five-year journey through time.

Inside the study, only the occasional soft crackling of the charcoal fire could be heard.

Su Qingying's violently trembling body gradually calmed down.

She slowly raised her head and looked at Chu Ze's profile. On that face, which appeared sharply defined in the firelight, there was no interrogation or coercion as she had imagined, only a bottomless calm.

She hesitated for a moment, then finally reached out and picked up the glass of water that was still warm.

The warm touch came from my fingertips, dispelling some of the chill that had seeped into my bones.

Chu Ze noticed her change, but he didn't press her about Hu Yongqiang.

He changed his perspective, to a more roundabout and gentler one.

"I just want to know, how are those Han Chinese who were forced to fight for the Later Jin doing?"

"Where were they usually positioned during battle?"

This question, like a plucked string, did not touch upon Su Qingying's most feared memories, but instead stirred up a deeper sense of compassion within her.

She held the water glass, head bowed, and remained silent for a long time. The water reflected her pale, bloodless face and empty eyes.

Just when Chu Ze thought she wouldn't answer, she finally spoke, her voice dry as if it had been sanded, each word tinged with blood and tears, broken and intermittent.

"It's not good... I'm not doing well at all."

"The men from our village who were abducted were all incorporated into the Han Army Banner and became cannon fodder for their attacks on cities and strongholds. As for us family members, we became the chains that bound them, and we were kept in dark and gloomy barracks, like livestock."

Her knuckles turned white from gripping the cup so tightly that she almost crushed it.

"The Tartars didn't treat them like human beings. They ate worse than dogs and lived in worse conditions than pigsties. It wasn't a place for humans to live; it was a cellar filled with the stench of sweat, mold, and despair. They only had half-cooked rice bran to eat each day, so clear that you could see your reflection in it, and sometimes there were even insects floating on it. The children cried all night long because they were hungry, and if they cried too loudly, they would be beaten and kicked by the Tartar soldiers and subjected to cold curses."

She took a deep breath, as if she couldn't continue speaking otherwise.

"Their whips were never out of their hands. Any glance, any complaint, could bring a brutal beating. I saw with my own eyes Aunt Zhang from next door being dragged out by a Tartar soldier just because she wanted to ask for some hot water for her sick child. She was whipped with a water-soaked cowhide whip until her skin was torn and bleeding, and she lay on the ground for two days before she died. And her child just stood by and watched..."

"The only way to survive is to fight for them on the battlefield. The Tartars drive our men to the front lines to wear down the enemy's arrows and cannon fire. They say that only by achieving merit, especially... the 'first merit,' cutting off the first enemy's head, can one receive a reward."

First and foremost merit.

Chu Ze keenly caught the word.

Su Qingying's thoughts seemed to be drawn by this word, sinking into deeper memories.

Her eyes, which had been filled with fear, now showed a complex expression, a mixture of contempt and pity.

"But what was the reward? Nothing more than a few dry, hard flatbreads or a small bag of moldy grain. For this little bit of food that could keep their wives and children alive for a few days, they had to turn their knives against their own people. The blood on their hands was the blood of our Han people! When the men who had performed meritorious service returned, their eyes were numb, like empty shells. And those who did not return... their remains were never found."

"I remember... there was a Han Chinese banner general who, in order to claim the credit for the siege, forced his soldiers to use their lives to fill in the moat."

"What they crave most is to be the first to achieve merit. Therefore, some ambitious generals are never content to be cannon fodder during sieges. They will volunteer to take on the toughest challenges and fight the most crucial battles."

After he finished speaking, the study fell silent once again.

After Su Qingying finished speaking, she seemed to have all her strength drained away, and just stared blankly at the swaying water in the cup.

But in Chu Ze's mind, a monstrous storm was brewing.

They volunteered to tackle the toughest challenges!

He instantly connected this message with Hu Yongqiang's scheme to swindle the city.

This logic seems to make no problem.

Deceiving the city gates to open would be a great achievement, no matter what.

But now that this secret letter is in his hands, will the Later Jin people consider the risk of the plan being leaked?

A tiny doubt quietly took root in Chu Ze's mind.

Looking at the woman before him, still immersed in her sorrowful memories, he no longer saw her merely as a source of information.

Despite such immense fear and pressure, she was still able to analyze the inner driving force of the Han Banner soldiers in a clear and logical manner.

This insight, this logic—he's a natural-born manager.

This is a talent whose potential was buried by war.

He couldn't let her dwell on the shadows of the past any longer.

Chu Ze made up his mind.

He wanted to pull her completely out of that quagmire of fear.

Chu Ze abruptly changed the subject, no longer discussing anything related to war.

He pulled out a scroll from the messy pile of documents on the desk.

That was a list of materials needed for mass production of cement that Zhou Keke had just sent over.

The paper was covered with all sorts of crooked numbers written in charcoal: how many truckloads of limestone, how many loads of clay, how many people were needed to mine it, how many craftsmen were needed to renovate the brick kiln...

It was so densely packed that it made one's scalp tingle.

Chu Ze handed the list to Su Qingying, a perfectly timed, self-deprecating smile on his face.

"I have a problem here, more troublesome than fighting a war."

Su Qingying was taken aback by his sudden action. She subconsciously took the list covered with scribbles and looked at Chu Ze blankly.

"The allocation of lime, clay, and manpower throughout the city is now a complete mess. The accounts don't match up, and supplies often go missing. The quartermasters in charge just keep telling me that we don't have enough manpower."

Chu Ze shrugged, perfectly portraying the helplessness of a general.

He looked at Su Qingying, his deep eyes carrying a solemn, even pleading, tone.

"Miss Su, would you be willing to help me sort out this mess of accounts?"