Chapter 104: Arduous and Exceptional

Are the Ming troops truly just posturing, merely attempting to lure the Khorchin into a trap?

The answer is certainly no. Wang Pu is not merely posturing; he is setting a decoy, creating the conditions and opportunities for the Ming army to escape safely. He is simply waiting for the heavens to cooperate with another snowfall, and they will be able to leave this place.

Three days passed quickly.

These were three grueling days. For the past three days, everyone, including Wang Pu, had to gnaw on dry rations while huddled in the snow, wrapping themselves in blankets to share warmth. Even so, they shivered uncontrollably. One sentry posted in the dark fell asleep in the snow and froze to death.

Winter in Mongolia is truly brutal, and without the ability to light a fire, the days were unbearable. Yet, no matter how difficult, they had to endure; they had to hold on until the heavens sent snow once more.

Datong.

Zhang Zi’an had finally returned in triumph with his great army.

This expedition into Mongolia was a resounding success. They had seized over 800,000 head of livestock, including more than 600,000 sheep and goats, over 50,000 horses, more than 100,000 cattle, and nearly 10,000 camels. At market prices, these animals could fetch nearly two million taels of silver. After deducting the 600,000 taels owed to the border troops for back pay and pensions, there would be a surplus of over 1.3 million taels!

Of course, the livestock was tallied in several batches, and only Zhang Zi’an knew this total. The border soldiers only knew they had brought back many animals, but none knew the exact figure, and Zhang Zi’an had no intention of telling anyone.

In his midnight dreams, Zhang Zi’an often found it hard to believe it was real.

Before these animals were even converted into silver, Zhang Zi’an had already begun calculating how to handle this massive fortune. Having won a great victory and seized so much, he would certainly have to offer a large sum to the Emperor and the imperial ancestors. Zhang Zi’an figured he would have to send at least 500,000 taels. Then there were the rewards for the border troops—a few taels per man—and grease money for the deputy generals, guerrilla generals, and regional commanders, which would cost another 100,000 taels. That would leave him with nearly 800,000 taels.

How should he handle these 800,000 taels? Should he invest in farmland or properties?

Just as Zhang Zi’an was happily planning how to spend the money, a young eunuch entered the tent and reported, "Godfather, the guests you invited have all arrived and are waiting in the parlor."

"Is that so?" Zhang Zi’an’s eyes narrowed into slits with joy. "They are all here?"

The young eunuch nodded and smiled ingratiatingly, "All here."

Zhang Zi’an asked, "The Wang family doesn't know about this, do they?"

Zhang Zi’an wanted to sell this batch of livestock to other wealthy families in Shanxi while keeping the Wang family in the dark. The reason was simple: he did not want them to know the exact number of animals. He especially did not want Wang Pu to know, because Wang Pu had contributed the most to the expedition. If Wang Pu learned of the massive profit, he might ask for a share, and Zhang Zi’an would find it hard to refuse.

Therefore, it was better to bypass the Wang family entirely.

"They don't know," the young eunuch replied. "I have repeatedly instructed those wealthy families not to leak the news to the Wang family."

Zhang Zi’an nodded. "Well done."

"Thank you for the praise, Godfather," the eunuch said.

"Go," Zhang Zi’an ordered. "Invite the guests to the warm chamber; I will discuss business with them there today."

"Very well." The young eunuch bowed and left.

Soon, five middle-aged men entered the warm chamber, led by the young eunuch. Although they wore simple cloth robes and appeared rather rustic, they were actually wealthy merchants from Shanxi. This was due to the rules set by the Hongwu Emperor: merchants were only permitted to wear cloth, not brocade or silk.

While the wealth of these five merchants could not compare to that of the Wang family, any one of them could easily produce hundreds of thousands of taels of silver.

Zhang Zi’an remained seated, gestured toward the chairs near the stove, and said indifferently, "Please, sit."

"Thank you, Eunuch." The five merchants cupped their hands in thanks and sat gingerly on the edge of the chairs.

Zhang Zi’an poked the charcoal in the stove with fire tongs and said, with a tone neither warm nor cold, "I have invited you here today because there is a major matter I wish to discuss."

The five merchants exchanged glances. The eldest among them said respectfully, "Please, Eunuch, just give us your orders."

Zhang Zi’an cleared his throat and said, "You must have heard about the recent military campaign in Mongolia, right?"

The five merchants nodded hastily. Of course, they had heard of such a major event, but they couldn't discern Zhang Zi’an’s intent and dared not speak. Privately, they thought that if this old eunuch intended to distribute the costs of the campaign among them, there was no chance of that happening.

"It is like this," Zhang Zi’an continued. "We won a great victory and seized a large number of livestock from Mongolia. I intend to sell these to provide back pay for the border troops. Of course, I will not let you suffer a loss; I can guarantee that the transactions will be at market price."

"Oh, so that's it."

"So they want us to buy cattle and sheep."

"That is no problem; our business is slaughtering, after all. This is our trade."

The merchants felt relieved. The eldest asked, "May I ask, Eunuch, how much livestock is there? How much silver should we prepare?"

"Not much," Zhang Zi’an replied coolly. "In total, about two million taels."

"Ah!?"

"Two... two million taels!?"

The five merchants gasped, stunned. "What?" Zhang Zi’an’s face darkened, and he said sinisterly, "Each of your families has assets worth over a million. Is it difficult for each of you to come up with 400,000 taels?"

The merchants complained, "Eunuch, if you had sold us these cattle and sheep half a month ago, even 500,000 or 600,000 taels per family would have been possible, but now it’s impossible."

"Why impossible now?" Zhang Zi’an asked coldly.

The eldest merchant replied, "Some time ago, the Wang family suddenly began selling off their assets in Shanxi. The five of us pooled together two million taels in cash and bought up all their holdings in the province. Now, all the liquid silver in Shanxi is in the Wang family’s vaults. We don't have much cash left."

"What?" Zhang Zi’an was astonished. "Is that true?"

"It is."

"Eunuch, it’s not that we don't want to buy, but we truly don't have that much silver on hand."

"We can't gather two million at once. How about we five pool together 200,000 taels to buy a portion of your livestock first? How about that?"

Zhang Zi’an was still skeptical. "Did you really buy all the Wang family's industries?"

"Of course it's true," the five merchants replied in unison. "Everything except the Wang family mansion—we bought all their other properties in Shanxi."

"Strange," Zhang Zi’s muttered. "What are the Wangs doing, selling all their property? Are they giving up their livelihood?"

The five merchants asked in a low voice, "Eunuch, what about the livestock..."

Zhang Zi’an snapped out of his thoughts and said irritably, "Go back and gather the silver. Get as much as you can."

"Yes." The five merchants bowed and left.

Sanbula River.

In the blink of an eye, two more days had passed. The heavens still had not sent snow, and the Khorchin were behaving themselves, sending no one to sneak up the mountain. It seemed the "Dragon King Cannons" had terrified them. They had adopted a stance of guarding the southern hills, determined to starve the Ming troops to death on the mountain.

Of course, the Khorchin still dispatched patrols to circle the mountain occasionally, just in case the Ming troops tried to flee by climbing down the cliffs.

As time passed, the situation on the mountain became increasingly dire.

Because they had not eaten a hot meal for so long and could only gnaw on dry rations with ice and snow, many soldiers’ physical conditions began to deteriorate. Anxiety and restlessness started to permeate the tents. Wang Pu ate the same rations as his men, feeling that both his body and spirit were approaching their limits.

Enduring in this frozen, snow-covered wasteland was a subhuman existence.

There was no entertainment, no sound, no warmth—nothing. The soldiers could only huddle in low, dark tents, staring at one another. When hungry, they gnawed on rations; when thirsty, they scraped up snow. The world seemed to have come to a standstill. Even worse, except for Wang Pu, no one knew why they were doing this or how long it would continue.

Had anyone else been leading them, the troops would have mutinied long ago.

This was a test of endurance, a tempering of the spirit. The Ming soldiers' enemy was not another army, but themselves. They had to overcome unimaginable hardships with sheer will, enduring a world as cold, lonely, and monotonous as death itself.

On the fifth day, the Khorchin could no longer restrain themselves. They sent 500 men to attempt a sneak attack at night, only to be blasted by the Dragon King Cannons once more. The Ming soldiers, finally finding an outlet for their frustrations, poured all their rage upon the luckless Khorchin.

The Khorchin left another 200 corpses on the mountain and returned to their quiet state.

However, on the night of the sixth day, a turning point finally arrived. The damned heavens finally sent snow again, and the opportunity had arrived.

That night, the sky was pitch-black.

Wang Pu ordered his personal guards to wake the men sleeping in their tents one by one. They quietly moved to the edge of the northern cliff, where sixty prepared ropes were lowered. Following Wang Pu’s command, the soldiers, who had been dreaming of leaving this place, began to climb down the cliffs.

As for the warhorses on the mountain, they were abandoned. If the men could return alive, there would be no shortage of horses.

Wang Pu hadn't wanted to leave nearly ten thousand horses to the Khorchin, but killing them would have made noise and aroused suspicion. Furthermore, the snow had come suddenly, leaving them with no time. Killing ten thousand horses would have taken too long, so he had to let it go.

In less than two hours, over 2,700 soldiers had descended the cliff.

As Wang Pu had predicted, the Khorchin never believed the Ming troops would risk climbing down, so their patrols were lax. They only circled during the day and never came out at night.

In fact, the Khorchin were hoping the Ming troops would flee by cliff, as it would force them to abandon their horses and march on foot through the snow—where they would be easy prey. On the grasslands, a man's two legs could never outrun a horse's four.

But the cunning Wang Pu would never grant them such an opportunity. He had already calculated everything.

The last men down, Scarface and Big Beard, hauled up fifty-nine of the ropes. The final rope was pre-cut halfway down the cliff face. Once they reached the bottom, a few men pulled hard, snapping the final rope. Even if the Khorchin patrols circled the north side tomorrow, they would find no traces.

As for the footprints left behind, Wang Pu had prepared for that, too. He had instructed Big Beard to stay behind with fifty men; once the main force had cleared the area, they would bring snow to cover and erase all tracks. With the snow still falling heavily, by morning, every trace would be completely hidden.

But that was not the most brilliant part. The most brilliant part was that the suffering the Ming troops had endured for the past six days had finally paid off.

For the previous six days, the Ming troops had neither lit fires nor made noise. They had hidden in their tents, making the mountain appear abandoned. Thus, even if the Ming soldiers had already left, the Khorchin at the bottom of the mountain remained oblivious.

Furthermore, since the Khorchin had just sent troops to test them the previous night, they wouldn't send anyone else to their deaths for a while.

Four hours later, the eastern horizon began to show a faint light. The snow was falling heavily, and the traces left by the Ming army at the foot of the cliff were now only faint impressions. If the Khorchin patrols had emerged then, they might have spotted something.

If they had, Wang Pu and his men would have been finished.

Being hunted by 24,000 Khorchin cavalry across an ice-covered plain without horses—one could imagine the outcome without even thinking.

True, historically, Li Ling had once used 5,000 infantry to repel 100,000 Xiongnu cavalry. The odds had been even more lopsided, but there were preconditions: Li Ling’s 5,000 men were genuine infantry with shields, spears, archers, and ample supplies. They could kill back the Xiongnu attacks time and again.

But Wang Pu’s 2,700 men were dismounted light cavalry. They had no supplies, and while they possessed muskets, their ammunition was nearly depleted, and their Dragon King Cannons were few. Moreover, the climatic conditions they faced were unimaginably harsh.

In short, had the Khorchin discovered their trail, Wang Pu and his men would not have survived.

Fortunately, the Khorchin patrols did not appear until noon, by which time all traces had been completely buried by snow. Wang Pu and his 2,700 men had long since vanished into the vast, snowy wilderness. Strangely, however, they did not flee south, but headed northwest.

Five days later, when the Khorchin sent a small group to probe the mountain again, they were shocked to find it completely empty.

By then, Wang Pu’s forces were already over 200 miles away.

The Khorchin were unwilling to let the fat prey fly away and sent scouts to find traces in the snow, but it was in vain. Three more snowstorms followed the Ming army’s departure, making it impossible for the Khorchin to find any clues. With no choice, they divided their 20,000 cavalry into three teams to search toward Ge'erhai, Yan'ehai, and Chahanhai.

Wang Pu’s cunning had once again saved his army.

The Khorchin believed the Ming troops would flee south and never imagined they would turn and head northwest. Over the next ten days, the three teams of Khorchin cavalry reached the Ming border but dared not cross it. They returned empty-handed to the Sanbula River and dispersed back to their tribes.

By then, Wang Pu and his army had already crossed the Xilamulun River and reached the foot of the Yin Mountains.

These fifteen days of marching were an arduous ordeal. Many brave veterans did not die on the battlefield or by Mongol blades, but died miserably from the cold. Because they feared detection, they dared not light fires. The few tents were reserved for the wounded, while others huddled together for warmth.

Often, when someone reached out to nudge their comrade awake in the morning, they would find them frozen into an ice sculpture.

The bitter cold was not their only enemy; hunger followed closely behind.

Wang Pu had originally prepared half a month’s rations, but after waiting on the mountain for five days, they had only ten days' worth left when they started. No matter how much they rationed, it could only last another five days. Now, the rations were nearly gone, and everyone would soon have to eat snow to survive.

Throughout the journey, they encountered no Mongol camps, so raiding for food was a fantasy. This wasn't just bad luck; in this weather, the Mongols had long since driven their livestock to winter camps in the mountainous edges of the grasslands, where the valleys offered shelter from the wind and blizzards.

As he walked, Wang Pu felt hunger pangs. He reached into his ration bag, took out a hard, cold steamed bun, broke off a small piece, put the rest back, and shoved the piece into his mouth along with a handful of snow.

The sudden cold of the snow made him gasp, but he had to endure, using his body heat to melt the snow into water and soften the bun before he could swallow.

Yet, even for such a cold, hard bun, some had nothing to eat.

Wang Pu turned his head and noticed Lü Liu looking away. He asked unclearly, "Liu, are you hungry too?"

"Not hungry," Lü Liu quickly shook his head. "I just ate."

"Is that so?" Wang Pu asked, half-doubting. "You haven't finished your rations?"

"No," Lü Liu patted his ration bag. "Look, General, it's still full."

Wang Pu saw that Lü Liu’s bag was indeed still bulging. He felt his own, which also had a bit left, and believed him. He frowned and forced the hard, bitter bun down his throat. Just as he turned to continue marching, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Lü Liu collapse.

Wang Pu spun around to find Lü Liu unconscious. A young man who had looked full of vigor just moments ago was now unresponsive. Zhao Xin, who was walking nearby, knelt and pried open Lü Liu’s eyelids, sighing, "This brother is starved to the limit. He’s dying."

"Starved?" Wang Pu widened his eyes in shock. "That can't be."

Zhao Xin said gloomily, "General, he is truly starving."

Wang Pu’s gaze fell on the bulging ration bag at Lü Liu’s side, then on the other soldiers, whose bags were all flat. He touched his own bag, which still had a bit left, and suddenly understood. He knelt and unhooked Lü Liu’s bag.

When he opened it, there was no food inside—only stones and clumps of mud.

Wang Pu’s eyes grew hot, and he turned his head away. He knew everything now. No wonder that whenever Wang Pu was asleep, Lü Liu had often been rummaging in the dark near Wang Pu’s ration bag. Wang Pu had thought the boy was trying to steal his food, but the truth was the opposite: Lü Liu had been sneaking his own limited rations into Wang Pu’s bag while eating snow himself to survive. That was why he had starved to this state!

"Someone!" Wang Pu lifted the unconscious Lü Liu and roared in agony. "Come here!"

The struggling soldiers gathered around. Tang Sheng and Monk Zhang squeezed to the front, asking, "General, what are your orders?"

"Dig!" Wang Pu pointed at the ground, shouting fiercely. "Dig out the dried grass under the snow, as much as you can. Light a fire immediately!"

"General," Zhao Xin whispered, "lighting a fire in broad daylight makes us a target. What if we attract Mongol cavalry?"

"I don't care about that anymore!" Wang Pu roared. "We're going to freeze or starve anyway. If we're going to die, why not get warm before we go? Quick, dig! Dig out the grass and light the fire!"

The freezing soldiers cheered, gathering their strength to scrape away the snow and cut the dried grass. Fortunately, the snow near the Yin Mountains wasn't deep. Soon, they had huge piles of grass. They ignited them, and the flames roared to life, finally enveloping the half-frozen soldiers in long-lost warmth.

Wang Pu and Zhao Xin brought Lü Liu to the fire, roasted a bun from their rations until it was warm and fragrant, softened it in melted snow, and carefully fed it to him. Zhao Xin thoughtfully placed snow in his iron helmet, hung it over the fire with his saber, and once the water was warm, fed it to Lü Liu. With the warm water and bits of bun in his stomach, Lü Liu slowly opened his eyes, his spirit slightly restored.

Seeing the bun in Wang Pu’s hand, Lü Liu struggled to sit up. "General, this..."

"Don't move," Wang Pu pressed him down gently. "You brat, you’ve really tricked me this time."

"General," Lü Liu said softly but sincerely, "this army can afford to lose Lü Liu, but it cannot lose you. If you starve to death, the rest of the brothers will have no hope."

Wang Pu’s heart ached, and he nearly wept again.

He felt both happy and sad—happy because he had finally won the absolute loyalty of his men, who were willing to die to protect him. He believed there were others like Lü Liu. Was this not the army he had dreamed of?

But he was sad because he couldn't bring such good men back to Datong. They were at the end of their rope. Unless a miracle occurred, it would be lucky if half of these 2,000 men survived.

If they were unlucky enough to encounter a large Mongol cavalry unit, it would be the end for them all.

Datong, the Wang family mansion.

Chen Yuanyuan sat in the warm chamber, gazing through the window at the snow. It had been nearly a month since Wang Pu led the army out. Xiao Qi and Master Zhen had returned over half a month ago, but there was still no word from Wang Pu. Her longing for him grew daily, and she spent her time staring out the window, eyes filled with sorrow.

The side door creaked open, and Nenniang entered with a bowl of ginseng soup. Seeing Chen Yuanyuan sitting by the open window, she hurried over to close it. "My lady, you are with child now; you cannot neglect your health like this. The nanny said catching a cold could disturb the pregnancy."

"Is it really that serious? It hasn't even been two months yet."

A faint blush appeared on Chen Yuanyuan’s fair face, but her hands instinctively moved to her lower abdomen. Her beautiful eyes softened, and a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth—filled with joy, intoxication, and deep happiness.

Nenniang placed the soup on the table and reached to help Chen Yuanyuan.

Chen Yuanyuan gently pushed her hand away. "No, I can do it myself."

"My lady," Nenniang said happily as she watched Chen Yuanyuan sip the soup, "if the General knew you were pregnant when he returns, he would be so happy."

At the mention of Wang Pu, all the happiness on Chen Yuanyuan’s face turned into melancholy. She set the soup down, sighed softly, and rested her chin on her hand, looking out with no appetite. "Him? Who knows when he’ll ever return?"