Chapter Thirty-Eight: Reporting the Victory to Commander Yang

In the eleventh year of the Chongzhen reign of the Ming Dynasty, on the fourth day of the tenth lunar month, near the hour of Shen (late afternoon), sparse snowflakes drifted through the air, dancing on the wind.

The snow around Changping was noticeably lighter, and the wind had softened. Chen Zhong was still patrolling outside the tent of Zhang Yan, a regional commander (Canjiang) of the Xuanfu Garrison. From time to time, he could see squads of cavalry galloping back and forth.

Inside the tent, only Zhang Cheng and his uncle, Zhang Yan, were present. They sat around a small table, speaking in hushed tones.

"Hmm, a banner from a Fen-de-boshi-ku (a Manchu military rank), along with his black-tasseled helmet and armor. However, of these heads, only about fifty belong to Manchu armored soldiers and infantry, forty are support troops or laborers, and the rest are mostly the heads of bondservants (Aha)." One could see the shock in Zhang Cheng's eyes as he looked at his uncle.

Zhang Yan grabbed Zhang Cheng’s hand and said with deep concern, "Cheng'er, since today's events have reached this point, I will certainly maneuver to protect you, but you must never be so reckless again."

"Please rest assured, Uncle. I will act with caution in the future and will not give you cause to worry," Zhang Cheng replied with great sincerity.

"Good. Your military achievements today are remarkable. I fear we must ask Commander Yang to take a share of the credit to ensure things go smoothly." As Zhang Yan spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on Zhang Cheng, his expression grave.

Zhang Cheng looked at his uncle and said calmly, "I was indeed rash today. I will leave everything to your discretion, Uncle."

"Rest assured, I will fight for you, but I worry that rising too quickly may not be a blessing." Zhang Yan looked at Zhang Cheng, seemingly anxious, and added in a low voice, "Judging by your performance lately, you have become more steady, but your prominence seems to be growing even faster. Alas, the tallest tree in the forest is the first to be felled by the wind..."

"Report, General."

Zhang Yan’s words were interrupted by a steady, capable voice from outside the tent.

"Come in," Zhang Yan called out loudly.

The tent flap lifted, and a middle-aged officer of medium height but sturdy build entered. He cupped his hands and said, "Reporting to the General, I have met with Yu Jin, the detachment commander of the Left Patrol under the young commander, and they should be arriving outside the main camp by now."

Zhang Cheng had already stepped to the left side of the tent, standing straight and expressionless.

Zhang Yan turned his head and said testily, "Let’s go, lad. Let us go and welcome our victorious troops back to camp."

As Zhang Cheng followed behind, he heard the middle-aged officer’s voice: "The young commander is impressive; it was truly a satisfying slaughter today."

"Officer Lin, if you call me 'young commander' again, I shall call you 'Uncle Lin'!"

Zhang Cheng joked with the officer, then looked at his square, dark-red face and whispered, "On this scouting mission, we slew the Tatars—how could the credit not belong to the Central Patrol? When the time comes, Uncle Zhiyi will surely be a proper Qianhu (Battalion Commander) in his own right."

The middle-aged officer was Lin Zhiyi, the detachment leader and deputy Qianhu of Zhang Yan’s Central Patrol. A veteran soldier nearing forty, he had followed Zhang Yan for over twenty years and was his most loyal subordinate. Zhang Yan treated him like a brother, so in private, Zhang Cheng addressed him as "Uncle."

Though not tall, Lin Zhiyi was physically robust, his square face etched with the marks of time. Having campaigned for years against Mongols, bandits, and the Jurchens, he had risen through the ranks from a common soldier to deputy Qianhu.

By rights, Lin Zhiyi should have been promoted to a full Qianhu long ago. When Zhang Cheng first joined the army, he had served under Lin, who had looked after him well and often attributed his own military merits to Zhang Cheng, allowing the young man to reach the rank of Qianhu at such a tender age.

Although his uncle, Zhang Yan, had orchestrated things from behind the scenes, it would have been impossible without genuine military achievements as a foundation. Because of this, Zhang Cheng had always treated Lin Zhiyi with the respect due an uncle.

"Heh heh, the young commander is being kind, starting to look after an old man like me." Lin Zhiyi joked, then leaned in closer and asked in a low voice, "My boy didn't perform too poorly, did he?"

Lin Zhiyi had two sons: the eldest, Lin Fangping, twenty years old, was a squad leader (Xiaoqi) in Zhang Cheng's personal guard; the younger, Lin Fangqing, was sixteen and still training at home. The purpose of mentioning the eldest was clear: he wanted Zhang Cheng to promote Lin Fangping.

Lin Zhiyi did not care about taking the credit for the kills himself; at his age, he had likely reached his ceiling. As long as he survived the battlefield, he would eventually become a full Qianhu.

But Lin Fangping was different. At only twenty, every bit of military merit mattered for his future. Moreover, Lin Zhiyi had noticed that Zhang Cheng was vastly different from before—he felt inscrutable, as if there were a hidden depth to him. If his intuition was correct, Zhang Cheng had a limitless future, and his son could rise alongside him to bring glory to the Lin family.

Thus, he did not intend to share in the credit himself, but he was determined to secure a bright future for his eldest son.

Zhang Cheng put his arm around Lin Zhiyi’s shoulder, squeezed firmly, and whispered in his ear, "Don't worry, Uncle Lin. Ping is doing well. He fought bravely on this patrol; a promotion to Zongqi (Company Commander) is all but certain."

Lin Zhiyi’s mouth split into a wide grin, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth as he whispered back, "Young commander, you are the one with the real power! Wiping out over a hundred Tatars in one go—just thinking about it makes me feel damn good." As he spoke, he lightly punched Zhang Cheng in the chest.

Zhang Cheng knew this was Lin Zhiyi’s way of expressing gratitude and his satisfaction with the care promised to Lin Fangping.

As they emerged from the tent, the snow seemed to lose its strength and thinned out. The large, goose-feather flakes disappeared, leaving only a few scattered specks, and the wind had died down significantly.

The guards had already prepared their horses. Zhang Cheng mounted his horse and followed his uncle, Zhang Yan, toward the camp gate, with Lin Zhiyi and Chen Zhong trailing behind.

At the gate, a cart pulled by two horses approached slowly. On it lay the bodies of two fallen guards and three severely wounded soldiers. Four other wounded men, still able to ride, followed slowly.

Yu Jin, the detachment commander of the Left Patrol, and Niu Sheng, the detachment commander of the Vanguard, were waiting at the gate. Seeing Zhang Cheng and the others, they trotted forward to greet them.

Zhang Yan said nothing; he dismounted and hurried to the side of the cart. When the wounded soldiers saw the regional commander, they struggled to rise. Zhang Yan waved his hand to stop them and said softly, "Rest well."

"I'll be fine, General. I still have more Tatars to kill!" one soldier said loudly. His excitement caused his wounds to pull, and he winced, sucking in air through his teeth without crying out.

Zhang Yan felt a pang of heartache and asked softly, "What is your name, lad?"

The soldier, lying on the cart, replied with trembling excitement, "Reporting to the General, my name is Li Changsheng."

"Good, good, good. Changsheng (Ever-Victorious)—a fine name your parents gave you. Rest well, recover, and then go kill more Tatars." Zhang Yan comforted him, truly fond of the name.

*Changsheng.* If only he could truly be ever-victorious!

Zhang Yan took two more steps and looked at the two corpses. He asked Zhang Cheng, "Are these your guards?"

Zhang Cheng nodded and said quietly, "Yes, they were my personal guards." He turned to Chen Zhong and ordered, "Lift the cloaks and show the commander."

Chen Zhong stepped forward and pulled back the bright red cloaks covering the two fallen men, revealing their faces.

The snow had stopped, the wind had ceased, and the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the earth once more. The late autumn sunset cast a glow upon their faces, seemingly adding a touch of vitality to them, warming the hearts of everyone present.

Zhang Yan stepped forward and leaned over to look at the fallen soldiers. They lay peacefully on the cart as if in deep sleep, their remains clearly having been tidied. Zhang Yan sighed, turned away, and waved his hand, signaling for the red cloaks to be draped back over the two heroes.

Li Zhiyi, the commander of the Central Patrol, also stepped forward to look. His heart tightened; seeing the scene, he couldn't help but worry for his own son, Lin Fangping. But what could he do? They were born into military households—if they didn't serve as soldiers and lick blood from the edge of a blade, what else could they do?

Once Chen Zhong had covered the bodies again, Zhang Cheng waved to Yu Jin, signaling him to enter the camp.

"Cheng'er, I will verify the heads of the Tatars before reporting them to Commander Yang," Zhang Yan said as he turned back toward his tent.

...

Inside the tent, Zhang Yan picked up a Tatar head. He examined the braided hair, the face, and finally the teeth. After checking over a dozen, he stopped.

He turned to Zhang Cheng and said, "These are indeed Tatar heads. As you said, half are bondservants, but it is still a great achievement."

"Zhiyi, go to Commander Yang's tent. Report that our unit, while out on patrol, encountered Tatars. Through the heroic fighting of our soldiers, we have slain 143 Tatars, captured 30 alive, and seized one banner of a Fen-de-boshi-ku, five banners of a Zhuangda, and countless weapons and armor. Request that the Commander send officers to verify the heads."

After Lin Zhiyi left to carry out the order, Zhang Yan beckoned Zhang Cheng to enter the tent.

"Cheng'er, I will do my best to preserve these credits for you, but Commander Yang is my superior in the Xuanfu Garrison—it is only natural that he takes a share of the glory."

With no one else in the tent, Zhang Yan spoke to guide him.

"Please rest assured, Uncle. I understand the rules of the Ming officialdom well enough; it is the same everywhere."

Zhang Cheng knew the unspoken rules of the Ming court—and indeed, any court. Even in his original world, it was the same. When you achieve merit, everyone comes to claim a piece of the pie. When you make a mistake, everyone abandons you, and you are left to face the consequences alone.

Zhang Yan was pleased with his nephew's attitude and continued, "Aside from the banners and the black-tasseled helmet and armor of the Fen-de-boshi-ku, I can let you keep the rest of the spoils. I doubt the Commander will care about such trifles."

Zhang Cheng nodded. For him, being able to keep one-third of the Tatar heads was enough. It would provide the opportunity to be promoted to a Guerrilla General (Youji Jiangjun), entering the ranks of senior officers, which would facilitate his future plans. Moreover, after this battle, many of his men would likely be promoted by one or even two ranks.

As for the horses, damaged armor, and weapons, those were things he desperately needed. In Zhang Cheng’s eyes, no amount of such supplies was ever enough.