Hot flashes

The afternoon training consisted of a weighted march.

Each person carried a bag of sand weighing about 30 pounds and walked along the mountain path around the camp.

The road was rugged and uneven, and Zhou Heng was soon drenched in sweat, his shoulders aching from the rough hemp rope. The procession stretched out in a long line, with Zhao Heita riding his horse, shouting and urging them on.

As Zhou Heng reached a hillside, he saw another group training at the foot of the mountain in the distance. Those people were better equipped, their movements were more synchronized, and they exuded a chilling aura even from afar.

"What are you looking at!" Zhao Heita lashed his whip across the ground beside Zhou Heng, raising a cloud of dust. "That's the Heavenly Battalion! The Marquis's personal guard! Envious? If you're envious, then train harder! Train well, and maybe you can be reincarnated there in your next life!"

Zhou Heng shrank back, not daring to look again, and continued walking with his head down. In his heart, however, he thought, "The Heavenly Battalion... it sounds like it's several levels higher than the Ding Battalion."

Back at camp in the evening, everyone was exhausted, as if they had been pulled out of the water. Zhou Heng received his dinner, which was soup and flatbread as usual, but he ate it faster than usual—he was just too hungry.

After finishing his meal, he didn't lie down immediately. Instead, he found a slightly secluded spot and, in the last rays of daylight, checked the blisters on his feet. Then, he carefully wrapped them with a few clean strips of cloth that he had secretly saved.

He tore it off from a tattered pair of underwear that was no longer wearable, and washed it very clean.

Wang Laowu strolled over, saw his actions, and chuckled, "Brother Zhou, you really are... particular."

Zhou Heng didn't even look up: "Brother Wang, I'm just afraid of dying. In this place, even a small cut can fester and I might be done for." He remembered what Old Liu had said that morning.

Wang Laowu sat down next to him, remained silent for a while, and said, "This habit of yours...was it taught to you at home? Ordinary families don't pay this much attention to detail."

Zhou Heng paused in his work and mumbled an "Mmm".

Wang Laowu didn't press further, only saying, "It's good to be particular. It's your own life. But don't be too conspicuous."

Zhou Heng nodded.

At night, he lay on the straw mat, his whole body aching, but his mind was unusually clear.

He recalled what he had heard during the day: no one listened to the imperial decrees, the feudal lords fought each other for territory, Northern Liang was surrounded by powerful enemies, and the Ding-character battalion was a "sharpening stone" that could be used up at any time...

This is an era that doesn't care about reason, only strength matters. And he happens to be the one with the least strength.

He touched the jade pendant on his chest. The cool touch brought him some peace of mind.

Survive. First, find a way to survive.

The days dragged on like an old ox pulling a broken cart, amidst the sounds of drums, curses, and aches and pains all over.

Zhou Heng gradually figured out a set of survival rules for the Dingzi Camp.

Develop your strengths. Zhou Heng hasn't found any particular strength yet, but he has discovered a notable trait: he's prone to injury.

Not the kind of dramatic battle wounds, but rather various small, annoying injuries.

He'd get blisters from practicing with his knife, scrape his skin while running, and even a simple turn in his sleep at night could result in a cut from a blade of grass beneath him. The clean strips of cloth he'd secretly saved were being used up far faster than he'd expected.

That afternoon, they practiced shield blocking, in pairs. Zhou Heng's opponent was Zhang Tiezhu.

Zhang Tiezhu lived up to his name; he was as sturdy as a lump of iron. When he charged forward, wielding his heavy wooden shield, his momentum was comparable to a battering ram. Zhou Heng gritted his teeth and raised his shield to meet him.

"Bang!"

With a dull thud, Zhou Heng felt as if he had been hit by a calf. He staggered back several steps and landed hard on his backside, his shield slipping from his hand and rolling a long way. His arm was sore and numb, and his palms burned with pain.

Zhang Tiezhu stopped his momentum and scratched his head a little embarrassedly: "Brother Zhou, I'm sorry, I couldn't control myself."

Zhou Heng waved his hand, trying to stand up while supporting himself on the ground, but then he hissed and gasped – his palm had been cut by a sharp pebble while he was supporting himself on the ground, and blood was seeping out.

"It's broken again?" Zhang Tiezhu leaned over to take a look.

"It's just a minor injury." Zhou Heng instinctively reached for a strip of cloth, but stopped halfway through—the last bit of clean cloth had been used to wrap his ankle that morning.

He could only wipe the blood off his filthy clothes and pick up his shield.

This scene was witnessed by Zhao Heita, who was not far away.

He strolled over carrying a stick, glanced at Zhou Heng's bleeding palm, then at his obviously out-of-place blocking stance, and snorted, "Delicate skin, all show and no substance."

Zhou Heng lowered his head and accepted the scolding, inwardly retorting: "My skin is delicate! I used to get regular skincare treatments, okay!"

Zhao Heita stopped cursing and pointed at him with the stick: "You, come with me."

Zhou Heng's heart skipped a beat, thinking he was about to be put through extra training again. Dejected, he followed Zhao Heita to a relatively quiet spot on the edge of the training ground, where an old soldier was applying tung oil to several damaged shields.

"Old Wu," Zhao Heita said to the old soldier, "this kid acts like it's his life if he gets a little cut on his hand. Do you have any extra... what kind of cloth?"

The veteran, known as Old Wu, raised his head. A scar ran diagonally from his forehead to his chin, making him look even fiercer than Zhao Heita. He squinted at Zhou Heng: "Him? That 'meticulous' guy who insists on drinking boiled water and washes his hands three times before eating?"

Zhou Heng felt a chill run down his spine; he hadn't expected his "reputation" to have spread to this level.

Old Wu curled his lip, rummaged through an old wooden box next to him, and tossed over a wad of dusty but still relatively intact coarse cloth: "That's all, use it sparingly. Our camp doesn't have that many fussy rations."

Zhou Heng took the cloth. It felt softer and finer than the coarse cloth issued in the camp. Although it wasn't exactly clean, it was much better than the hem of his clothes. "Thank you, Uncle Wu."

Old Wu waved his hand and continued applying his tung oil.

Zhao Heita said to Zhou Heng, "See? If you keep being so delicate, next time you get hurt, you'll have to tear your own pants leg to fix it." After saying that, he picked up the stick and left.

Zhou Heng held the wad of cloth, his feelings complicated.

Back in the group, Zhang Tiezhu and Li Gou'er both gathered around.

"Brother Zhou, what does the coach want with you? Did you get beaten up?" Li Gou'er asked with concern.

"No, they gave me some of this." Zhou Heng showed off the coarse cloth.

Wang Laowu strolled over, glanced at the cloth, then at Zhou Heng's hands, and said knowingly, "Even your boss can't stand your 'casual wipe' anymore?"

Zhou Heng was a little embarrassed: "I was just... afraid of getting infected."

"Infection?" Zhang Tiezhu didn't understand.

"It's just... the wounds festered, he got a fever, and then..." Zhou Heng remembered the two soldiers who died in the rear camp, but didn't finish his sentence.

Everyone fell silent. After a while, Wang Laowu patted Zhou Heng on the shoulder: "It's good to be particular. Your life is your own."

Training continued. This time, Zhou Heng carefully tore the cloth into several strips and wrapped them around his easily chafed palms and the area between his thumb and forefinger. The effect was immediate; at least it didn't hurt as much when swinging the shield.

After dinner, Zhou Heng took his water bag and went to Old Liu, the cook, to get some more hot water.

Old Liu was washing the pot when he saw him and said irritably, "Here you are again? Don't you get tired of doing this every day?"

Zhou Heng forced a smile: "Uncle Liu, there's nothing I can do. My stomach is weak, and I really can't handle drinking raw water." This was true; he had tried it once and almost collapsed from diarrhea.

Old Liu snorted, but still picked up the spoon and ladled water for him from the small pot that had been kept warm beside him: "You're such a fussman. There are thousands of people in the whole camp, and you're the only one who comes every day asking for hot water. People who know you think you're picky, but people who don't think you're some kind of young master."

"No way, Uncle Liu," Zhou Heng said, taking the water pouch. "I'm just... afraid of losing my life."

"Cherish your life?" Old Liu wiped his hands, glanced at him, and said, "If you cherish your life, don't join the army. Especially our Ding-class battalion."

Zhou Heng filled his water pouch and casually asked, "Uncle Liu, how long have you been in the camp?"

"Thirteen years," Old Liu sighed. "I've been here since the old Marquis's time. I've seen plenty of people, but not many are as...special as you."

"The old Marquis?"

"That was the current Marquis's father." Old Liu seemed to have opened up. "Back then, it was even harder than now. The territory of Beiliang wasn't as big as it is now, and people from the east and west were trying to take our share. The old Marquis was a real man; he led us through sheer hardship to achieve this situation. It's a pity..." He shook his head and didn't continue.

Zhou Heng wisely refrained from pressing the matter, thanked him, and left. In his heart, however, he pondered that the Xiao family of Beiliang had built their fortune through hard work and struggle in a chaotic world; it hadn't been easy.

Back at his sleeping quarters, it wasn't completely dark yet. Zhou Heng found Wang Laowu, Zhang Tiezhu, and Li Gou'er huddled together, whispering something with serious expressions.

"What's wrong?" Zhou Heng leaned closer.

Wang Laowu looked up and lowered his voice: "I just heard from the villagers who delivered firewood that the bandits in the mountains to the north seem to know we're going to cause them trouble."

Zhou Heng's heart tightened: "And then?"

"And then?" Li Gou'er's face turned pale. "Then they spread the word that if anyone dared to attack, they would... they would fight to the death, and they would specifically target those wearing T-shaped uniforms."

Zhang Tiezhu clenched his fists: "Damn it, who are you trying to scare!"

Wang Laowu remained relatively calm: "I'm not bluffing. That gang of bandits has been entrenched in the mountains for years, they know the terrain well, and they're definitely prepared. If we new recruits really face them, we're likely to suffer losses."

Zhou Heng felt his mouth go dry. He recalled the novels and movies he had read before, where bandits were always routed as soon as a large army arrived. Why were they being threatened with death before they even set out?

"Does the coach know?" he asked.

"Of course they know," Wang Laowu said, "but it's no use knowing. The military order has been given and can't be changed. It probably just means we need to... be more careful."

Be more careful? Zhou Heng looked at his hands, which were wrapped in strips of cloth, and wondered if this "carelessness" would be enough when facing bandits who knew the terrain well and had made all sorts of threats.

That night, he lay on the straw mat, unable to sleep.

He touched the jade pendant on his chest, then touched the wad of coarse cloth that Old Wu had given him in his arms.

He stared at the dark night sky and began to think seriously: What could a modern soul who was extremely afraid of death and had a bit of a cleanliness obsession do in a rookie camp in the era of cold weapons, besides keeping himself relatively clean, to increase his chances of survival?

Lost in thought, he drifted off to sleep.

In his dream, he wore a gleaming suit of armor and wielded a spear with gold trim, invincible in his path.

Bandits lay sprawled at his feet, all bruised and battered. Zhao Heita clapped his hands in admiration. Old Liu brought over steaming hot meat soup, while Wang Laowu, Zhang Tiezhu, and Li Gou'er looked at him with eyes full of worship…

"Thump! Thump! Thump!"

The drums sounded.

Zhou Heng opened his eyes to find himself still on a cold straw mat, his body aching, and another day about to begin that was utterly devoid of beauty.

He sighed.

Sure enough, dreams are often the opposite of reality.

But at least, the broth in my dream smelled pretty good.