Hot flashes

Zhou Heng's last memory was of a headache. Now, the headache has been replaced by aches and pains all over his body.

He lay on the rough straw mat, staring at the drafty tent roof—no, he didn't even have a tent, just an open-air straw mat—feeling like a salted fish that had been repeatedly beaten and left to dry overnight.

This is his fourth day in Dingziying. Four days is enough for a former rich kid to gain a rudimentary understanding of the world.

Cognition mainly comes from listening—listening to Instructor Zhao Heita curtsing, listening to the veterans chatting, and listening to the complaints of fellow soldiers in the same battalion.

This place is somewhat like the Three Kingdoms stories his grandfather told him when he was a child.

The emperor is probably still sitting in a palace called Luoyang, but his words seem to have lost their power.

Every region has powerful figures who command troops; you can call them warlords or feudal lords, but whoever has the strongest fist calls the shots.

In the territory of Beiliang, the most powerful force is Marquis Zhenbei, Xiao Jue—who is also his nominal boss.

The boss has many competitors. There's a guy surnamed Qi to the east, and a group called Qianghu to the west; they're said to be quite unfriendly.

Occasionally, one could hear veterans muttering in the barracks, saying things like, "King Qi has reinforced his troops again," or "The Qiang and Hu tribes have arrived earlier this year than in previous years," their voices filled with worry.

As for the Dingzi Camp, Zhou Heng also figured it out.

The Northern Liang army was divided into ranks, with the Yellow (黄) and Black (玄) representing heaven and earth. The Yellow (黄) battalion, finding the name unpleasant, changed it to the Ding (丁) battalion. They were at the very bottom of the food chain, doing the hardest work, eating the worst food, and dying... possibly the fastest.

Here, what is real are soldiers, provisions, weapons, the land beneath their feet, and the military orders of Marquis Xiao Jue of Zhenbei above their heads.

The Northern Liang Army was like the sword of the Marquis of Zhenbei. And the Ding-character Battalion was probably the roughest and most easily worn part of the sword hilt.

"Knock knock knock—!"

The drumbeats were like thunder, sounding precisely at the third quarter of the Yin hour. Zhou Heng could now spring up within three seconds of the death knell sounding, though his movements were still unsteady.

The camp instantly came alive, or rather, descended into chaos. Hundreds of people surged towards the training ground from every corner, like murky streams. Zhou Heng mingled among them, mechanically taking steps, his eyelids still half-stuck.

Zhao Heita was already standing beside his ponies, holding a stick, like a door god. In the dim morning light, his face gleamed black—not in skin color, but in complexion.

"Look! Look!" Once the ranks were barely standing in a few crooked rows, he roared, "Yesterday, when the Xuanzi Battalion passed by, what did they look at us like we were? Like a bunch of ducks that had just learned to walk! Do you know what they said behind our backs? They said that the soldiers of the Dingzi Battalion wouldn't even need to fight on the battlefield; half of them would trip over themselves!"

Someone in the group muttered something under their breath; the content was unclear, but it certainly wasn't anything nice.

"Not convinced?" Zhao Heita's ears were sharp. "If you're not convinced, then train! Train until they can't utter a single word! Our Northern Liang army has four battalions: Heaven, Earth, Black, and Yellow. Why is our Ding-character battalion inferior to them? Huh?"

He paused, lowering his voice, which only made it more chilling: "I heard that the Marquis was inspecting the camp the other day, his brow furrowed so deeply it could trap a fly. Why? Because the scouts of the Prince of Qi in the east are becoming increasingly audacious, and the Qiang and Hu tribes in the west are also gathering. We, Beiliang, are caught in the middle! At this point, if our Ding-character Battalion is still in this sorry state..."

He didn't finish speaking, but everyone shuddered. Zhou Heng roughly understood: these "ducks" might soon be forced to go on the shelf and clash with the "wolves."

"Enough with the nonsense! First step: Zhan Zhuang (standing meditation)!"

Zhou Heng resignedly assumed the posture. After four days, he had mastered the "essence" of Zhan Zhuang: relax, but not really relax; exert force, but not too much; empty your eyes, but don't actually fall asleep—Zhao Heita was specifically targeting those who were dozing off.

The morning wind was still biting. Zhou Heng felt his legs go from aching and numb to tingling, then to numbness, and finally as if he had lost all feeling in them.

He tried to think of something else, like how at this time of day he usually just came back from a nightclub or woke up in a suite at a high-end hotel with hangover pills and a breakfast menu on the bedside table.

Now, the bedside table is cold, muddy floor, the hangover cure is overly salty vegetable soup, and the breakfast menu is the same old "hard pancake set meal".

"You!" Zhao Heita's roar interrupted his reverie, "What are you swaying for? Are your legs going weak?"

Zhou Heng jolted awake, realizing he was indeed swaying slightly. He tried to tense his muscles and steady himself.

"Add another quarter of an hour!" Zhao Heita said without any mercy.

Zhou Heng inwardly groaned, but dared not show any expression on his face. He glanced at Li Gou'er beside him, who was also trembling slightly, clearly nearing his limit.

Zhang Tiezhu in front was steady, but the muscles in his neck were taut like iron.

Time passed slowly. When it was fully light and Zhao Heita finally called a halt, Zhou Heng felt that his legs were no longer legs, but two wooden stakes stuck in the ground.

It was breakfast time. While queuing, Zhou Heng noticed the unusually somber atmosphere. Several veterans were huddled together, whispering amongst themselves, their faces grim.

"Have you heard?" When it was Zhou Heng's turn to get his food, Old Liu, the cook—the one Zhou Heng had been pestering for hot water—was ladling soup while lowering his voice, "Two men died in the rear camp yesterday."

Zhou Heng's hand trembled, almost dropping the bowl: "How did he die?"

"What else could happen? The wound wasn't treated properly, it festered, he had a fever, and he didn't make it through." Old Liu sighed. "They were all from the Dingzi Camp. Last time they ran into Qi Wang's scouts and got injured. They weren't fully recovered even after being carried back."

Zhou Heng looked at the murky soup in his bowl and suddenly felt nauseous. He silently walked to a corner and squatted down. Wang Laowu, Li Gou'er, and Zhang Tiezhu quickly gathered around.

"Did Liu tell you that too?" Wang Laowu asked. Seeing Zhou Heng nod, he spat and said, "Damn it, our camp's medicine and medics are always the worst. The good stuff is always reserved for the Tiandixuan Camp."

"My fellow villager is an auxiliary soldier in the Xuanzi Battalion," Zhang Tiezhu said in a muffled voice. "He said that in their area, minor injuries are practically fatal. Here..." He didn't finish his sentence.

Li Gou'er's face turned pale: "Brother Zhou, what if we get injured..."

Zhou Heng didn't speak, but subconsciously touched his chest—there, the clean lining strips were carefully folded.

He had secretly saved this money, in case he got injured, and he certainly wouldn't rely on the dirty rags and dubious ointments in the camp.

"Don't think about that now," Wang Laowu broke the silence. "Eat the pancakes, and practice your knife skills this morning."

The swordsmanship training in the morning was more grueling than the spear training. The wooden swords weren't much lighter than real swords, but they required much more strength and skill to wield.

The instructor was a one-eyed veteran who didn't talk much. He demonstrated the basic movements of chopping, slashing, and sweeping a few times, and then let them practice on their own.

Zhou Heng swung his sword a few times, and felt like his arm was about to break. His movements were even more appalling; it was less like practicing with a sword and more like chopping wood, and a completely haphazard, disorganized kind of chopping.

The one-eyed instructor surveyed him, looked at him for a moment, and shook his head: "Your wrists are dead? Use your waist! Use your shoulders! What about embroidery? Huh?"

Zhou Heng tried twisting his waist to move his shoulders, and then his arms to swing out. This time, the sound of the wooden sword cutting through the air seemed a little more pleasant, but his center of gravity didn't keep up, and he stumbled, almost falling over.

The coach's lips twitched slightly, but he didn't scold him anymore and moved on to the next person.

During a break, Zhou Heng was so exhausted that he sat down on the ground to catch his breath.