Chapter Thirty-Six: The Thoughtful Chang Geng

The scent of food wafted temptingly from the camp, making Kaeming’s mouth water, yet she felt utterly drained, leaning against a slender tree. Soldiers hurried past her, busy with their own tasks, paying her no mind. Her left arm bore the badge of honor—a wound, wrapped in layers of white cloth. The army medic had examined it and assured her it was nothing serious, just a flesh wound. If she’d suffered this injury back in modern times, her mother would have been beside herself with worry.

She sighed, noticing Gouzi approaching with two bowls of rice, smiling at her. Her stomach, usually eager for food, churned violently at the sight. “Gouzi, I can’t eat,” she said, turning her head away, determined not to look at the bowl. She hated her own stomach; it was empty, yet the sight of rice made it spasm, impossible to swallow.

“The first time you kill someone, it's always like this,” Gouzi said, setting the bowl down and unscrewing his water flask. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Get used to it?!” She whipped her head around, glaring. Even Gouzi said such things?

He handed her the flask, speaking gently, “If you can’t eat, have some water.”

Kaeming snatched the flask from his hand, annoyed, and drank two deep gulps.

“When I killed for the first time,” Gouzi’s gaze turned distant, recounting his memories, “it was during the war against the Northern Palace. Their commander at the time was Yinghuo, a master of talismans. He conjured a thick fog, trapping us in a maze, and then their soldiers launched a surprise attack. I was timid, and my legs gave out at the sight of weapons. An elder brother fighting beside me shielded me with his back and was killed instantly. When I saw the blood, I lost my mind, hacking at people madly, unable to distinguish friend from foe, until I collapsed. When I woke, I saw only the desolate plain, littered with mutilated corpses, crows perched atop them, feasting.”

Gouzi drew a deep breath; the scene was so bloody it must haunt him still. Kaeming gripped the flask, quietly listening.

“We lost that battle,” Gouzi continued. “The main force had retreated, leaving me alone on the field. No food, no water, and my will to survive had never been stronger. I found a horse slain in battle, skinned it, and carved meat from its body as I wept.”

Kaeming stared at the small, unremarkable Gouzi in disbelief. He had endured such unimaginable hardship?

Gouzi continued calmly, “Eventually, I made it back to camp. After that, I couldn’t stand the sight of meat and vomited for a whole month.” He smiled at her. “It’s all in the past. See? Now I’m just fine.”

“Gouzi…” Her eyes shimmered, words failing her.

“All soldiers go through this,” he said quietly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Kaeming felt a strange restlessness inside. She lifted the flask and drank.

“Kaeming! Who’s Kaeming?” A rough voice rang out suddenly.

Startled, Kaeming nearly choked, coughing violently; her hand reached out nervously. “I am.”

The man who called looked at her—a broad, sturdy soldier. He scrutinized her, puzzled. “You’re Kaeming?”

“Yes, that’s me,” she replied softly, unsure why he regarded her so oddly.

“The commander wants to see you,” he said, turning away immediately.

Commander? Changeng? Kaeming exchanged a glance with Gouzi, both surprised.

She followed the soldier across a stretch of muddy ground to a white tent. The man stopped her: “Wait.” He bowed forward, announcing, “General, Commander Yu, Commander An.”

A gentle female voice responded, and several people emerged from the tent, their footsteps receding. Kaeming turned her face away, hiding behind the soldier, barely able to breathe. Was Da Yin inside?

“Come on!” The soldier glanced back, seeing her pale face, and mocked, “Just seeing the general and commanders scares you like this? What a coward.”

Shaking his head, he lifted the tent flap and called inside, “Commander, I’ve brought the person.”

A lazy voice responded.

The soldier gestured for her to enter, and Kaeming shuffled in, taking small steps.

The tent flap closed, muffling the outside noise. Inside was quiet. Kaeming glanced around. Neat tables and chairs, stacks of documents, and a simple cot. A young man reclined there, dressed in casual clothes, hair loosely tied, a large bloodstain on his left chest, wrapped in white bandages.

Changeng was watching her, his bright eyes blinking. “Water,” he said.

She didn’t understand.

“I said I want water! Are you stupid?” He pointed impatiently at a half bowl of water on the table.

Kaeming hurriedly picked up the bowl and handed it to him. “Commander, water,” she murmured.

Changeng frowned, glaring. “Can’t you see I’m injured? How am I supposed to drink?”

She froze. This little tyrant was so hard to please. Without hesitation, she supported his right arm, helping him sit upright, and carefully brought the bowl to his lips.

Changeng finally took a sip, satisfied.

“Take it away,” he said. She released her hold.

He glared again. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Kaeming broke out in cold sweat. She’d run into someone who always found fault.

She set the bowl aside, steadied herself, turned, and stood respectfully. “Commander, what can I do for you?”

“Can’t I call you without a reason?” Changeng snorted.

Wiping her brow,

“What made you join the Fourteenth Squad?” His sharp gaze bore into her. “Did you offend someone?”

“I volunteered… I didn’t offend anyone…” she tried to sound calm.

“Volunteer? Who would volunteer for a death squad!” Changeng sneered. She dared not reply.

“Don’t you know the rumors? The Fourteenth Squad is a suicide unit—plainly, a death squad.” His broad fingers tapped the edge of the cot, his eyes roaming over her. “How about I transfer you to another unit?”

Kaeming suddenly looked up, meeting his teasing gaze, and replied nervously, “Commander, please don’t!” Dai Yuheng had sent her to the death squad with ill intentions. If she stayed put, nothing would happen, but if she tried to escape his control, she’d likely be killed instantly.

“Why not?” Changeng smiled with pointed irony. “You’d rather stay in the death squad than leave; seems the person you’ve offended is quite influential.”

She didn’t know how to respond, standing dumbly. The tent flap rose again, and the soldier entered. “Commander, it’s mealtime.”

Changeng nodded. The soldier placed a tray loaded with food on a small table beside the cot, carefully arranging it.

Changeng leaned over, inspecting the dishes, and stirred a bowl of clear soup. Floating atop were green onion leaves and soft white tofu—quite appetizing.

Kaeming seized the chance to bow. “If there’s nothing else, I won’t disturb your meal and will take my leave.”

Before she could turn, Changeng said coolly, “Did I give you permission to leave?”

She looked at him in surprise. He kept stirring the soup, not even glancing up. The soldier watched them with an even stranger expression.

“This bowl of soup is yours,” Changeng tossed the spoon aside and looked at her. “Consider it a reward for saving my life.”

Kaeming’s mouth hung open, speechless. Saving his life, and all she got was a bowl of soup? Was this an honor or mockery? Was his life worth just a bowl of soup?

She found it amusing but couldn’t say so. She thanked him, accepted the soup respectfully, and exited the tent.

Once outside, she couldn’t suppress her laughter, snickering quietly. Was Changeng simply thick-skinned, or what? Rewarding her with just a bowl of soup? Looking at the fragrant dish in her hands, her smile faded.

Maybe he wasn’t thick-skinned after all; perhaps he’d noticed she had no appetite and offered her something light. Could it be that even rough-edged Changeng had moments of subtlety? Hard to imagine—maybe she was overthinking.

The commander could lie in the tent and recover, but lower-ranked soldiers had no such privilege. Kaeming still had to train and follow the squad into battle the next day. Fortunately, her injury wasn’t serious, or she’d have been in for a rough time.

The battle with the Southern Palace was inconclusive. For several days, their commander, Sikong, didn’t appear, only unfamiliar officers took the field. Both sides skirmished, exerted some effort, then withdrew at the sound of the gong.

Da Yin’s brows furrowed ever deeper, meeting constantly with the other commanders in the tent.

“General, the Emperor has given us only ten days. We can’t afford to delay.”

“Southern Palace knows this—they’re using delaying tactics. Why not raid their camp at night?”

“The timing isn’t right,” Da Yin replied, dismissing the meeting.

On the fifth day, at dawn, Kaeming was leaning on a banner, bored, when suddenly a young officer charged from the enemy camp—it was Sikong, missing for days. His silver armor gleamed, heroic and striking. Kaeming perked up instantly.

The short-bearded commander of the Central Palace rode out to meet him. Sikong raised his spear, and the two clashed several times. Sikong seemed distracted, listless. The short-bearded commander, by contrast, grew fiercer, forcing Sikong back.

“That’s odd, what’s going on?” Kaeming muttered. Gouzi crept up and asked, “What is it?”

“Sikong isn’t himself,” she replied softly. The valiant warrior who once fought Changeng was gone.

“Maybe something happened in Southern Palace. His complexion doesn’t look good,” Gouzi observed.

“Oh?”

Sikong feinted, then turned to flee. The short-bearded commander shouted, chasing after him.

“Trying that old feint again?” Kaeming shook her head. Too predictable.

Sikong turned back, this time wielding his spear instead of a bow. But the short-bearded commander wasn’t reckless like Changeng; he dodged, struck, and drove his weapon into Sikong’s armor.

Sikong cried out, falling.

Kaeming gasped, standing involuntarily. Was it over so easily?

The short-bearded commander advanced to capture Sikong, but two Southern Palace warriors rushed out, parrying his spear. Da Yin raised his hand, and a fierce shout rang out: “Kill!” The Central Palace cavalry and infantry surged forward.

Southern Palace poured forth, desperately rescuing the fallen Sikong. The two rescuers were slain by Central Palace soldiers. Blood rained, the land changed color.

This time, Kaeming played it smart—no more pretending to be a hero. She hid behind the banner, cautiously avoiding stray arrows until the gong sounded, signaling victory.

Back at camp, the short-bearded commander was lavishly praised, even Da Yin rewarding him with gold and goods. Southern Palace lost two generals, hundreds of soldiers, over a hundred taken captive, and many horses and supplies seized.

That night, the Central Palace celebrated, soldiers laughing and feasting. Kaeming held her bowl of wine, watching the revelry, and couldn’t shake the sense that something was amiss.