Chapter 60: The Return Journey

The torrential rain stopped, leaving the sky like a washed, tattered rag tinged with a desolate leaden gray.

Across the muddy grassland, a battered army crept forward slowly. Horse hooves sank into the water-logged soil, making squelching sounds.

No more groans of wounded soldiers could be heard within the ranks. Those who could not walk were left behind in that storm, their bones and final battle cries washed away together into this foreign soil.

Fan Tong's vanguard battalion marched on the flank of the formation, as silent as a pack of ghosts. Wu Mang's makeshift stretcher was carried by turns among several soldiers, completely covered by the dark red banner bearing the character "Wang".

"Captain, the Tartars' wolf-smoke is gone." Bao Nianfeng's throat was completely ruined, his voice sounding as if it were being squeezed out of a leaky box.

Fan Tong looked back. Those soul-snatching trails of wolf-smoke had vanished into the horizon at some unknown point.

Kökö Temür's cavalry had vanished into thin air, just as abruptly as they had arrived.

No one cheered, nor did anyone breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone was like a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit—stretched for too long, they had lost the strength to snap back.

After marching for two more days, a scouting party galloped in from the south. They bore no wounds, their armor was clean, and their horses were well-fed and strong. They brought news from the Western Route Army.

In the western sector of Northern Yuan, the Western Route Army led by Feng Sheng and Fu Youde had successively broken through Xiliang and Yongchang, sweeping across Mt. Shaolin, with their military blade pointing directly at the heartland of Northern Yuan. With his supply lines cut off, Kökö Temür had no choice but to abandon the pursuit and march back to reinforce the western front.

As the news spread, a glimmer of life finally returned to the dead silence of the troops.

A soldier walking along suddenly buckled at the knees, collapsing into the mud. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, his shoulders heaving violently as suppressed sobs broke from him.

When one person cried, a second and a third followed. Soon, the weeping merged into a single sound.

They were safe.

On the day they returned to the Beiping encampment, the weather was gloomy.

There were no horns of triumph, no cheers from the common folk. The guards opened the city gates and, gazing upon this ragged army where every single man bore wounds, silently doffed their helmets.

Fan Tong was wrapped entirely in bandages, looking like a giant white rice dumpling. Instead of returning to his own tent, he sat alone by the entrance of the vanguard camp.

This place had once been the liveliest spot in the entire Beiping camp. Wu Mang would gather the brothers here around a campfire, chewing on jerky while boasting and talking loudly.

Now, it was empty and desolate, quiet enough to hear the mournful howling of the wind sweeping through the tents.

Fan Tong fished a piece of dried meat from his tunic—the very last batch. He broke off a small piece and placed it on the bare ground beside him.

"Wu Mang, you bastard," he muttered in a low, hoarse voice. "You ran off before settling accounts with me. You didn't even get to count the gold and silver treasures I newly acquired. When you get down to the netherworld, what will you use to buy wine from King Yama?"

The wind blew, but nothing answered.

"That blockhead Bao Nianfeng is even worse at arithmetic than you. Who's going to keep the books for me from now on?"

He shoved the rest of the jerky into his mouth and chewed hard. Yet the meat, which usually tasted so savory and rich, now felt as dry as wood shavings, leaving a bitter astringency that made his eyes sting.

Zhu Di appeared behind him at some point, quietly sitting down as well without saying a word.

The two men sat there like that, gazing at the empty camp and watching the sky darken bit by bit until the final glimmer of light was swallowed by the night.

Yingtian Prefecture, Fengtian Palace.

Zhu Yuanzhang sat upon the dragon throne, his face as dark as water. Below the dais, civil and military officials held their breath in absolute terror.

The battle report from the Lingbei Campaign lay upon the imperial desk.

The Central Route Army under Xu Da had suffered a disastrous defeat, losing nearly twenty thousand men. The Eastern Route Army under Li Wenzhong had routed, with casualties exceeding half their force.

The atmosphere in the great hall was suffocatingly oppressive.

A censor stepped forward with trembling steps, his voice shrill: "Reporting to Your Majesty! The defeat in this battle was entirely due to the commander-in-chief Xu Da's blind pursuit of glory, which caused tens of thousands of soldiers to leave their bones buried in the grasslands! Your minister earnestly implores Your Majesty to severely punish Xu Da as a warning to others!"

"This minister seconds the motion!"

"This minister seconds the motion!"

The civil official faction, like sharks smelling blood, stepped forward one after another, aiming their spears directly at the God of War of the Great Ming.

Zhu Yuanzhang did not speak. He merely tossed a memorial lightly down the steps.

"Have a look, all of you."

A eunuch picked up the memorial and read it aloud in a high-pitched voice. It was the victory report from Feng Sheng, commander of the Western Route Army.

Operating deep in enemy territory on a solitary expedition, the Western Route Army had won battle after battle, capturing tens of thousands of Northern Yuan royalty, officials, military personnel, and civilians, and seizing vast herds of cattle and sheep. Had Kökö Temür not turned back to reinforce, Feng Sheng would have nearly fought his way straight through the northern desert.

Inside the hall, an absolute silence fell.

Zhu Yuanzhang's gaze slowly swept across every single person, his voice calm yet carrying an unquestionable majesty.

"In warfare, when has there ever been victory without defeat? If Xu Da has committed crimes, We shall naturally deal with them. But the merit of Feng Sheng cannot go unrewarded either."

He paused, shifting his tone: "Though this battle was lost, it has also made Us see one thing clearly. The bones of Great Ming's soldiers are forged of hard iron! Even trapped deep in encirclement with rations cut off, not a single man begged for surrender!"

In the end, the punishment for Xu Da was merely an imperial edict of reprimand and a forfeiture of one year's salary.

A political storm capable of shaking the foundations of the state was thus casually brushed aside by Zhu Yuanzhang.

Deep in the night, within the Qianqing Palace.

Zhu Yuanzhang dismissed his attendants and sat alone beneath the lamp. What he was reading was not memorials singing praises, but a confidential intelligence report from the Brocade Guard.

The secret report detailed the various exploits of Fan Tong's vanguard battalion:

"...Their combat tactics are vicious to the extreme, specializing in attacking the enemy's lower extremities; neither men nor horses are spared..."

"...They are recklessly brave, particularly adept at piercing enemy formations. With the bodies of a shattered force, they punched straight through tens of thousands of enemy troops and severed the enemy chieftain's command banner..."

"...Their commander, Fan Tong, is unruly in speech and behavior during peacetime and passionately fond of good food, yet his tactical decisions in the heat of battle are exceptionally ruthless..."

At the end of the secret report, a description of Zhu Di was also attached.

"His Highness the Prince of Yan, under the alias Zhu Hu, decapitated dozens before the battle lines and commanded with absolute composure. His demeanor was that of a frenzied tiger; he is no longer the man of the past."

No emotion could be read on Zhu Yuanzhang's face. He merely tapped his fingers lightly against the table.

After a long while, he picked up his brush and wrote a line of characters on a blank imperial decree.

He wrote very slowly, every single character piercing through the paper with forceful vigor.

"Decree: Fan Tong, a Thousand-Man Commander of the Beiping Camp, is to expand his vanguard battalion to three thousand men. The required soldiers, armor, and rations are to be preferentially allocated from the Beiping treasury."

Writing to this point, he paused, as if pondering something.

The Brocade Guard's report had also mentioned a matter that deeply intrigued him: the physical stamina of the soldiers in Fan Tong's vanguard battalion far exceeded ordinary men, as if they possessed an endless reserve of strength. It was rumored that they were raised on a secret medicinal formula concocted by Fan Tong.

A medicinal formula?

Zhu Yuanzhang's small eyes narrowed, a sharp glint flashing momentarily.

He raised his brush and added another sentence to the end of the imperial decree.

"Additionally, Xu Da is ordered to secretly investigate the recipe of the elite-strengthening medicine used by Fan Tong and whether it can be mass-produced. If any results are obtained, report back immediately via an eight-hundred-li urgent courier!"

When he finished writing, he placed the decree into a specially crafted wax pellet, stamped it with his private seal, and handed it to a Brocade Guard standing in the shadows outside the door.

"Deliver this to Beiping immediately and hand it to Xu Da in person."

"As you command."

The figure of the Brocade Guard vanished into the night.

Zhu Yuanzhang stood up, walked over to the window, and gazed out at the deep northern night sky.

The defeat at Lingbei pained his heart, but it also revealed another possibility.

What if all of Great Ming's armies could fight like Fan Tong's vanguard battalion?

Then who under heaven could ever withstand the iron hooves of his Zhu family's sons?

The emperor's gaze pierced across mountains and rivers, landing for the very first time truly upon that fat man far away in Beiping, who was still quietly grieving for his fallen brothers.