That afternoon, time seemed to stand still and slow within the commander’s tent, like solidified amber.
The charcoal fire crackled occasionally in the copper basin, and the ink sticks were ground evenly on the inkstone, producing a soft, rustling sound.
Several civil officials in charge of people’s livelihood and warehousing were pointing at an open map, discussing in hushed tones the allocation of supplies and winter relief for various cities around the year-end.
Their voices were calm.
Gu Anqi, as usual, tended his small stove, gently fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan, controlling the switching between the civil and military fires.
Achen, like an unchanging shadow, stood in his usual spot, his eyes lowered.
“Report!
Urgent military intelligence!
Hou Xia’s troops have amassed 50,000 cavalry and have broken through the Beilu Pass, advancing rapidly towards the Three Cities!” The tent flap was violently flung open with tremendous force, and a blast of cold wind, carrying the stench of blood, rushed in, causing the candlelight inside to flicker violently.
It cast panicked shadows on the map and the faces of the men.
A scout stumbled in, his body and face covered in grime and congealed blood.
His armor was torn, and a deep wound on his shoulder, though simply bandaged, still oozed dark red blood.
He almost fell to his knees, his chest heaving violently, each breath a wheezing sound like a broken bellows, yet with his last ounce of strength, he held a battle report, marked with urgent sealing wax and adorned with three blood-stained crimson feathers, high above his head.
“Clang!
“A civil official dropped his teacup and shattered it on the ground, splashing brown tea onto a corner of the map.
All sounds—conversation, grinding, even breathing—came to an abrupt halt.
All eyes were focused on the battle report representing the most urgent military intelligence.
The air seemed to freeze, with only the gurgling of the medicine pot on the stove, oblivious to the impending crisis.
Feng Qinghe was slightly bent over, holding a vermilion brush, marking a newly discovered wintering water source on the map.
Upon hearing the report, her hand, which had been suspended in midair, froze.
A drop of full vermilion ink slowly dripped from the tip of the brush, spreading a small, glaring red mark among the mountain ranges on the map, like a wound.
She did not immediately take the battle report, nor did she even look at the nearly exhausted scout.
She slowly and steadily straightened up, gently placing the vermilion brush on the brush mountain.
Feng Qinghe’s eyes were sharp as an eagle’s, sweeping across every face in the tent, whether filled with fear or anger.
“This is the fifth time.” She spoke, her voice not loud but clearly drowning out all the noise in the tent, carrying a calm that seemed to be brewing a storm.
“Right on time, right at the end of the year.” There was no joy or anger in her tone, no gnashing of teeth in hatred, nor the excitement of facing an enemy, only an indifference that seemed to have been anticipated and settled, as if stating something as natural as “the wind is about to blow.” She finally reached out and took the battle report, quickly unfolding it.
Her gaze swept across the paper, her pupils contracting slightly before returning to normal.
She didn’t look at it a second time, casually handing the report to Hongzhu, who had been standing by her side with an equally grave expression.
Her voice suddenly rose, carrying an undeniable decisiveness: “Beat the drums!
Raise the tents!
All generals, assemble at the three cities!” “Yes!” Hongzhu didn’t hesitate and turned around to quickly step out of the tent to relay the order.
In an instant, a crisp and urgent voice rang out outside the tent.
The deep, resonant beat of the war drums, like the pounding heart of a beast, boomed out!
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
One after another, growing more urgent and heavier, like rolling thunder rumbling across the camp, carrying a palpable sense of urgency that made blood boil and hearts tremble, brutally awakening the seemingly tranquil military camp.
Footsteps, the clatter of armor scales rubbing together, the neighing and clattering of horses being led out of the stables, the roars of commands from officers of all ranks, the thunderous thud of soldiers rushing to assemble… countless sounds, driven by the drumbeats, intertwined, boiled, and exploded wildly, merging into a cacophony of war!
After giving her instructions, Feng Qinghe looked up, her gaze sweeping over the lingering medicinal aroma before settling on Gu Anqi’s calm face.
She suddenly asked softly: “Mr.
Gu, tell me, if a medicine is too potent, is it better to use a strong fire to attack it directly or to simmer it over a low flame and work it out slowly?” Gu Anqi paused slightly in the hand holding the fan, raised his eyes to meet Feng Qinghe’s deep gaze, and smiled gently: “Reporting to Commander Feng, it depends on the severity of the symptoms, and also on…
whether the person taking the medicine can withstand it.” Feng Qinghe remained silent.
Inside the tent, only the bubbling of the medicine and the silent undercurrent before the map could be heard.
Ah Chen stood in the shadows, his eyes still closed, as if he hadn’t heard anything.
Almost simultaneously, Hongzhu returned.
She was not empty-handed but was carrying a set of neatly folded soft armor that gleamed with a dark blue light and a longsword with a sheath.
The soft armor seemed thin, but it faintly shimmered with a metallic luster.
The longsword was simple in design, and although there were no ornate patterns on the sheath, it exuded a chilling aura.
Feng Qinghe didn’t even glance at the armor and longsword.
She simply raised her arms and spread them out.
Hongzhu stepped forward in perfect unison, her movements swift as the wind.
She skillfully removed Feng Qinghe’s outer robe, revealing the sleek, close-fitting outfit beneath.
She then unfolded the soft, blue silk armor and gently slipped it over Feng Qinghe’s head.
The armor clung to her body perfectly, instantly outlining her tall and graceful figure.
It diminished some of the scholar’s elegance, giving her more of a warrior’s agility and strength.
The blue light shimmered, not appearing cumbersome, but rather exuding a light and dangerous aura.
Hongzhu then held out both hands and presented the ancient longsword.
Feng Qinghe reached out and grasped the sword hilt.
The moment her fingertips touched the hilt, her entire aura changed!
If she was a deep pool or an iceberg before, then at this moment, she was a sharp blade already unsheathed, its edge fully revealed, exuding a chilling killing intent!
She didn’t even fully draw the sword, just held it casually, and the temperature inside the tent seemed to drop several degrees.
Gu Anqi had already stopped decocting the medicine and was quietly watching this scene.
He saw this female general transform in an instant from a strategist to a killing god about to personally lead the battle, not wearing heavy iron armor but only soft blue armor and using only a sword—what confidence this was, or rather, what a battle habit ingrained in her bones.
Ah Chen remained standing in the shadows, but his arms-crossed posture had changed.
He leaned forward slightly, like a cheetah that had caught the scent of blood, his gaze fixed on Feng Qinghe and the sword in her hand.
That long-lost connection between top-tier martial artists made his aura dangerous and excited.
The footsteps, hooves, and roars outside the tent had merged into a boiling sea, intertwining with the ever-increasing, increasingly urgent, and heavy war drums.
Each beat struck the heart of everyone in the command tent and also struck the borderland that was about to be engulfed by the flames of war.
Hongzhu fastened the last buckle on Feng Qinghe’s soft armor.
Feng Qinghe gripped the sword hilt, no longer looking at anyone.
She turned and strode towards the tent.
Her soft armor gleamed coldly as she moved, and the sword, not yet fully drawn, seemed to thirst for blood.
A great battle is imminent.