Chapter 37: The Philosophy of a Bowl of Meat Soup

The night at the Beiping military camp was so still that one could almost hear the sound of wounds forming scabs.

Zhu Di lay on the hard wooden cot, his eyes wide open. The darkness above the tent felt like a heavy shroud, pressing down on him until he could barely breathe. His physical wounds throbbed with pain, yet this bodily suffering was nothing compared to the tearing of his soul. Every time he closed his eyes, the blood-soaked grasslands would rush toward him. The dull thud of a mace shattering a skull, the sensation of warm liquid splattering across his face, the vengeful glare in the eyes of the Yuan general before he collapsed, the way Old Hu had stared at the sky with such obsession before he died, and the sight of his brothers lying in pools of blood, their bodies cooling bit by bit—each scene and frame played over and over in his mind like a searing iron, hissing as it branded his consciousness.

Who am I?

I am the Prince of Yan of the Great Ming, the barrier of the northern frontier upon whom my Imperial Father places such high hopes. Since childhood, I have studied the art of war, intending to uphold the Kingly Way and drive out the barbarians.

But I am also "Zhu Hu"—a butcher who, once he picks up a mace, can crush an enemy’s skull without a moment’s hesitation.

These two identities were like two wild beasts locked in a cage, tearing at each other within his heart, threatening to chew him to pieces. He felt an unprecedented agony. The benevolence and morality described in books seemed so ridiculous on the blood-drenched battlefield. He could no longer bear this torment.

With a sharp creak, Zhu Di sat up abruptly, threw on an outer robe, and strode out of the tent. He needed an answer. Perhaps only that fat man who had created the monster known as "Zhu Hu" could provide it.

Inside Fan Tong’s tent, the lamps were burning bright. A rich, overpowering scent of meat forced its way into Zhu Di’s nostrils. Fan Tong was shirtless, his rolls of fat trembling with every breath as he clutched a leg of lamb, roasting and dripping with grease, eating with his mouth full of oil. Seeing Zhu Di enter, he merely lifted his greasy chin and gestured casually toward a stool nearby.

"Sit."

Zhu Di did not sit. He remained standing like a spear, his voice filled with an irrepressible hoarseness and confusion. "Why must we fight in that manner? Why... do I feel like I am becoming less and less human?"

Fan Tong stopped gnawing on the lamb leg. He looked up, his eyes squeezed into slits by his fat, and scrutinized the Zhu Di before him. After a long silence, he set down the meat and scooped a bowl of thick, black, steaming broth from a large pot hanging over the fire, handing it to Zhu Di. Inside the soup, chunks of meat were mixed with unrecognizable herbs, emitting a strange, gamey stench.

"Drink it, then listen to me."

Zhu Di stared at the bowl without a second of hesitation; he took it and downed it in one gulp. The scalding broth slid into his stomach, and a familiar, wild heat surged through his limbs and bones. The restlessness and strength originating from the depths of his bloodline were awakened once more.

Only then was Fan Tong satisfied. He picked up the lamb leg again, tore off a large chunk of meat, and chewed vigorously, speaking with his mouth full.

"Kid, let me ask you: what is the most important thing on the battlefield?"

Zhu Di was silent for a moment. "Victory."

"Bullshit!" Fan Tong spat out a bone and cursed. "It’s staying alive! Only by staying alive do you have the right to talk about victory! The dead are just a pile of stinking meat for the crows!"

His voice was not loud, but it struck Zhu Di’s heart like a heavy hammer. "You want to talk about benevolence and morality, about the conduct of a gentleman, with the enemy? I’m telling you, those bastards would turn around and use your skull as a wine cup and your skin as a horse whip!"

Fan Tong pointed to his own fat face, grinning in a way that chilled the bone. "What is the root of war? It’s not those fancy formations in military manuals—it’s looting! Looting territory, looting grain, looting women, looting the right to survive! Whoever wins gets to eat large portions of meat and drink from large bowls of wine! The losers don’t even qualify to be someone else’s meal!"

"You think you’re cold-blooded? You think you’re cruel?" Fan Tong sneered. "That’s because everything you’ve read before was written in books. Books are written by people, and the authors decide what you are allowed to see. But the wolf on the grasslands doesn’t write books; it only uses its teeth to tell you that the sheep is meant to be eaten!"

Zhu Di’s body began to tremble uncontrollably. Fan Tong’s words were crude and vulgar, yet they acted like a sharp blade, peeling away the high walls of the "Kingly Way" he had built since childhood, exposing the bloody reality beneath.

"Fighting a war isn't about who memorized the tactics best; it’s about who has the darker heart and the crueler hand!"

Fan Tong stood up, walked over to Zhu Di, and slapped his shoulder heavily with a hand like a palm-leaf fan. "You have to learn to see yourself as your enemy. If you were that barbarian we had surrounded in the camp, starving to the point where your chest touched your spine, and you saw a group of us 'fat sheep' looking so robust, what would you do? Would you run over and say, 'Brother, give me a bite to eat'? No! You would only think about the fastest way to slit our throats, roast our meat, and stuff it into your belly!"

"Between nations, there are no friends, only interests! The only safe enemy is a dead one!"

Every word of Fan Tong’s was like a boulder cast into the already turbulent lake of Zhu Di’s heart, stirring up monstrous waves. All the military strategies and maneuvers he had studied seemed so ridiculous in the face of Fan Tong’s simple, brutal "laws of survival."

Indeed, the art of war is the art of deception. But the "deception" he had understood before was about strategy, calculated maneuvers, and grand planning. The "deception" Fan Tong taught him was about shamelessness, ruthlessness, and stopping at nothing.

Which was more effective? The answer was self-evident.

"You have talent, kid." Fan Tong looked at the intense struggle in Zhu Di’s eyes and chuckled. "You can handle the 'heavy medicine' I’ve fed you. Remember, those things in the books teach you how to be superior to others, how to govern the world. What I am teaching you is how to be a living Yama in a pile of corpses."

He leaned into Zhu Di’s ear and whispered, "Stay alive first. Once you’re fed, then you have the right to think about those other things. We also have to see the future Ming for our dead brothers."

After saying this, Fan Tong ignored him, turned, and sat back down by the fire, grabbing the lamb leg to continue his frantic feasting.

Zhu Di walked out of the tent, feeling soul-lost. The cold wind of the late night blew against his face, but he felt no chill—instead, he felt an unprecedented clarity. Fan Tong’s "twisted logic" had taken root and sprouted in his heart like a black seed. He was still confused, still struggling, yet for the first time, he felt he had touched upon the essence of a more primal, powerful, and dangerous force.

He looked back at the brightly lit, meat-scented tent, then glanced at his own hands, which seemed to still carry the scent of blood.

How should he walk the path of the future? Should he continue to cling to those books of sages and be a high-and-mighty prince? Or... should he become the "living Yama" that Fan Tong described, with a dark heart and a ruthless hand?

Zhu Di stood in place for a long time, his shadow stretched long and thin under the moonlight.