Chapter One: Summoning the Troops

The clang of the gong, the thump of the drum, and the blare of the horns resounded through the military camp, where the pungent scent of horse manure lingered. Having only recently adapted to his identity as a scion of a military family, Xuan Chong adjusted his iron helmet and, restless and irritable, pounded his saddle with his fist—sometimes lightly, sometimes heavily, in a manner entirely lacking in discipline.

Sensing its master’s erratic behavior, the dragon-horse turned its head, snorting forcefully to warn Xuan Chong: “Keep your hands off me!” Then, with a defiant flick of its hindquarters, it scraped the ground with its hooves, kicking up a cloud of dust. Even if the beast didn’t use its hooves, its tusks, jutting out like those of a wild boar, were intimidating enough.

Xuan Chong could only step aside, retrieve a slingshot from his waist, aim it at the horse’s foul face, and then shoot at the ground. With a splatter of mud beside its hoof, the dragon-horse immediately lowered its head in submission. Xuan Chong put the slingshot away, snorted coldly, “You know your place!” Then, from his breast, he took out a handful of beans and offered them as a peace gesture.

As for the reason behind his foul mood—it had been a month since he took on the task of cracking down on illicit alcohol sales within the camp. The investigation nearly caused a small-scale mutiny due to mishandling. The matter escalated to the headquarters, and the family’s decision was clear: punishment and confinement for self-reflection.

Behind Xuan Chong, inside the tent where he was meant to reflect, lay a massive roll of silk manuscripts. He needed to memorize their contents for an upcoming inspection. If he failed the test in half a month, he’d be flogged in front of everyone. His recent interaction with his mount was merely a break to relieve the anxiety of memorizing texts.

Xuan Chong stroked the bean-eating dragon-horse and muttered, “You beast, at least you’re carefree.”

…

Xuan Chong was a transmigrator—not by chance, but through a system with all the requisite cheats. By the standards of web novels, this was a most “satisfactory” setup.

Yet Xuan Chong was deeply perplexed. He hailed from an age of smartphones and food delivery, but not all memories were intact. He couldn’t recall the exact year he transmigrated, his family circumstances, or even the flag of his homeland—all these were blurred.

The system claimed he was from the fortieth century, sent here for “educational practice.” Though some memories had faded, he was certain that the so-called fortieth century was unimaginably far away.

He opened the system interface once again and queried it.

The system recited, “Memory fuzziness may be due to forbidden knowledge encountered during transmigration. To protect the cultural ecology of this world, such knowledge has been sealed.”

Xuan Chong: “Forbidden knowledge—does that mean ‘sulfur, nitrate, carbon,’ ‘injecting hot air into blast furnaces for steel,’ or Newton’s ‘pulley theorem,’ ‘three-expansion reciprocating steam boiler’?”

Inwardly, Xuan Chong felt proud. The popular science videos of his previous life weren’t for nothing—even if he didn’t know the exact technical processes, with enough manpower and materials, he could figure out seventy to eighty percent within five years. Would this count as forbidden knowledge disrupting the world’s culture?

The system didn’t answer. Instead, it sent a meme: “You’re boasting.”

It offered a perfunctory explanation: “Forbidden information refers to any content filtered under the ‘Minor Protection Act.’ Any information you can now recall has already passed the audit.”

Xuan Chong: “What does ‘beep beep beep’ mean?”

System: “‘Beep beep beep’ means it’s censored.”

Xuan Chong nodded, then revealed his ulterior motive: “Fine, can you help me (memorize) military texts, maybe let me jot down some cheat sheets?”

System: “No.”

Xuan Chong: “Other systems can. Some protagonists have their systems scan the sect’s martial arts library. Can’t you just record a few notes for me?”

System: “System malfunction. Storage card capacity insufficient.”

Xuan Chong: “Come on, it’s less than ten thousand characters. And you’re telling me you’re out of memory?”

The system went silent, pretending to be dead.

…World introduction break…

After familiarizing himself with the world, Xuan Chong realized he might have been a bit arrogant. This realm possessed “Daoist magic,” “witchcraft,” and other arcane arts.

The Grand Yao Dynasty—the place to which Xuan Chong had transmigrated. He was astonished to discover this dynasty used characters akin to his own, though the strokes were subtly different. The structure was fundamentally similar. The character “Yao,” denoting intertwined horizontal lines in hexagrams, shares its origin with the upper part of the character for “delicacies,” which refers to knife marks on roasted meat—a rarely used term in the twentieth century. Here, it was a crucial symbol for Daoist calculations.

In the military, “Livestock Talismans” were used to rear horses; “Dust-Raising Techniques” concealed cavalry movements; “Thunder-Cutting Spells” were affixed to beacon towers—all forms of Daoist magic.

The passage Xuan Chong had been struggling to memorize dealt with the army’s baleful aura and its correspondence with mountain and river hexagrams.

Here, humanity categorized all things into “Yin hexagrams” and “Yang hexagrams,” using formulas from ancient texts to deduce outcomes, manipulating the hexagram calculation system to trigger supernatural phenomena.

…Ten days later…

Having finished memorizing the nine thousand characters of the military texts in his uncle’s tent (the central command tent), Xuan Chong was spared the rod but remained confined for a while longer. He requested a batch of books to continue his studies.

At first, he was unaccustomed to the vertical seal script of this world, but as he transcribed and copied them on sand tables, he gradually grew comfortable with the arrangement, finding joy in reading more.

His family, supportive of his scholarly pursuits, sent him military classics and geographical annotations.

Immersed in this sea of books, Xuan Chong (also called Wu Fei) began to discern the flavor of the Grand Yao Dynasty.

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The Grand Yao belonged to an eastern “ritual monarchy”—the system emphasized it was not feudal.

Xuan Chong’s military family had five marquises; his uncle’s branch was the Pavilion Marquis, with seven hundred households under his fief.

By European feudal standards, this would be a count, entitled to forge armor and maintain troops, only required to follow the kingdom into battle and pay taxes—free to do as he pleased within his domain.

But in a ritual monarchy, officials must adhere strictly to ritual. No overstepping.

For example, his uncle Wu Hanluan, as a Pavilion Marquis, could have three hundred slaves but no more than a hundred retainers.

Retainers—those treated with honor by nobles. In Grand Yao, men of humble birth were expected to repay honor with loyalty: “If you treat me as a gentleman, I shall serve you as a gentleman.” So, while many slaves could be kept, they were only shown favor and authority, not righteousness. When a noble fell on hard times, slaves bound by favor and power would scatter, but scholars treated with ritual and righteousness would follow unto death.

Thus, after his period of self-reflection, Xuan Chong realized: in feudal times, when a ruler spoke of “equality,” it wasn’t charity, but a strategic investment to make peers wary.

Understanding this taboo, Xuan Chong became quietly anxious about his past carelessness.

His military clan could maintain workshops and produce a set number of bows, horses, and armor—the quantity determined by the official roster. But if the workshop produced more armor than allowed, they’d be accused of rebellion.

Early in his transmigration, Xuan Chong fantasized about gathering the family’s armorers for grand projects—steel and iron smelting—certainly an overstep. No one would indulge such madness, but had it succeeded, the entire family would have been executed, their bodies branded with the “Yao” character, roasted on iron plates.

Three hundred years ago, the emperor summoned the Marquis Qi to court, then ordered him boiled alive. The crime was overstepping: he recruited ten thousand men to mine copper and forge weapons.

After Marquis Qi was boiled, all lords trembled; for a century, none dared to overstep! The military handled troops, the legalists enforced laws, the Confucians governed, and the world remained orderly.

…

After his confinement ended, a messenger arrived at Xuan Chong’s tent, knocking once on the wooden clapper. Xuan Chong, deep in his books, immediately dressed and stepped out to receive orders.

A few breaths later, he confirmed with his personal guard that his punishment was lifted, and he was summoned by the general. He rushed to the horse stable, slapped his mount’s rump to rouse it, and found a “muscle-building pill” in his gourd, which he stuffed into the dragon-horse’s eager mouth.

The dragon-horse swallowed the bean-like pill with glee, snorted joyfully, lowered its nearly two-meter frame to let Xuan Chong mount, then kicked up white smoke beneath its hooves and flapped its nascent dragon wings, rising two meters above the ground to speed toward the main tent.

The hoofbeats stirred up clouds, and the dragon-horse soared as if lifted by an effect similar to ground-effect vehicles, impressing Xuan Chong with the marvels of this world.

Arriving at the central command, he saw, outside the tent, a sword-wielding cultivator. This clan brother, on training from his sect, casually flicked a “lightness talisman” onto Xuan Chong, who suddenly felt gravity slip away and floated down from the horse like a feather.

After being dismounted by Daoist arts, Xuan Chong clasped his hands in thanks, but the brother formed a Daoist seal and transmitted, “Little Sparrow (Wu Fei’s childhood name), the general awaits you in the camp.”

Xuan Chong was annoyed at the nickname but thanked him, hurrying into the main tent.

His boots stepped onto leather mats; axes and halberds lined both sides. His uncle, General Wu Hanluan, set aside a silk scroll.

Xuan Chong glanced at the scroll. In military affairs, bamboo slips usually recorded officer positions and regulations—they were easy to copy and distribute. Daoist arts were recorded on jade disks and tortoise shells, while silk often bore maps.

Any document on the leader’s table was important.

Xuan Chong noticed the scroll had just been drawn, suggesting a “new map.” He recalled recent gathering of provisions and restrictions on merchants selling salt southward—clearly a shift in strategy toward southern tribes.

Wu Hanluan, sickly but stout, watched his nephew peering at his desk, snorted coldly, and with a sweep of his hand sent an invisible force that toppled Wu Fei.

Wu Hanluan set down the silk scroll, raised his eyes, “Entering the tent without saluting—do you want a flogging?”

Wu Fei scrambled up and knelt properly, muttering, “Ten lashes means three days in bed, a hundred breaks your leg. Who knows if misfortune might turn to fortune? If my leg’s broken, I can lie flat and rest.”

Wu Fei: “I acknowledge my fault and am willing to accept military discipline.” But his delivery was flat, like a schoolchild reciting aloud without emotion.

Clearly, such lack of emotion was disappointing. The director—his uncle—stepped in to warn him.

Wu Hanluan drew his blade; the surge of killing intent terrified Xuan Chong. Though he knew his uncle was only threatening him, he took several steps back, ready to flee. But two guards at the tent’s entrance crossed axes to block his escape.

Wu Hanluan stared at his clueless nephew until his legs trembled. Then he put away the blade, sighed, and said, “Yuanchang (courtesy name), I know you wish to learn the Dao, but you don’t have the fate for it!”

Wu Fei replied quickly, “Uncle, I know. I lack talent; this life is just for fighting.”

As a transmigrator, Xuan Chong had already investigated, and every clan’s response matched his uncle’s: in the Grand Yao, each Daoist sect could only accept a limited number of disciples.

For some reason, Xuan Chong was rejected by all sects. The reason—bluntly put—was “impure Daoist heart.”

He cursed those Daoist priests: If they don’t want to recruit, just say so, don’t make excuses.

…Xuan Chong was fixated on those immortal sects. If he ever got a chance, he’d make a big move…

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The various sects, clans, and the court were intertwined in ways impossible to untangle. For example, the Wu family actively sent people to the nearby Qinghua Sect. Each southern campaign saw sect disciples from the Wu family descend to assist the army.

(It was much like the tale in “Investiture of the Gods,” where Huang Feihu meets Huang Tianhua.)

Xuan Chong’s interpretation: his cousin Wu Hengyu must have benefited from his uncle’s bribes and stayed at the sect, while he himself, deemed “lacking in talent,” only got a token stay, sweeping the grounds for two years before being sent back to the army—unfair!

At first, Xuan Chong was frustrated at not being able to pursue immortality after transmigrating, but over time, as he learned more, he gradually accepted it—especially after realizing he’d missed the best opportunity for cultivation. Though he felt he was being somewhat “willful,” the dissatisfaction of failing to achieve his goals lingered.

So he asked the system, “System, they say I can’t cultivate immortality. What do you think?”

System: You lack talent. Don’t go down that path.

Xuan Chong grumbled inwardly, “What does ‘lack talent’ even mean? Why?”

This transmigrated Wu Fei had an elder sister and a younger sister, both taken as disciples by a female sword immortal, and his cousin had succeeded in building his foundation at the sect.

Xuan Chong was deeply disgruntled; a voice inside him roared, “I am a transmigrator, I have a golden finger, I want to cultivate, build foundation, condense a core!”

Coming from an era of “ordering food on a phone,” and having spent nights reading novels, Xuan Chong longed for immortality.

Though the golden core of this world’s Daoist sects did not grant mythic powers like “moving mountains and seas,” each faction possessed skills to counter immortality—for example, the military could gather baleful energy to suppress spiritual energy. The chronicles recorded immortals who, after losing their “three flowers,” were no different from mortals when facing barrages of arrows.

In this realm, “ascension” didn’t take one to a celestial world, but rather, transformed the cultivator into an energy state that departed the planet for another—what they called “small worlds.”

Wu Fei: But living for centuries was real. He blamed a certain monkey for his childhood bias: of the three thousand Daoist paths, longevity was the only goal.

Now, having his “life pursuit” interrupted by the world’s NPCs, he felt it wasn’t the worst start, but the sensation of his ambitions being forcibly redirected was unpleasant.

…

Wu Hanluan put away the blade, picked up the silk, and asked Xuan Chong, “Do you know where you went wrong?”

He referred to last month’s investigation of illicit alcohol in the camp.

Xuan Chong looked up, “Nephew mishandled it. I should have investigated quietly, while outwardly treating them with smiles.”

Wu Hanluan replied coldly, “At least you’re learning.”

Xuan Chong answered as he did because his uncle’s guards had recently shared information: the implicated soldiers had all been quietly transferred out during his confinement. Wu Hanluan had stabilized them first, then dealt with the matter discreetly.

With this standard answer, if Xuan Chong couldn’t figure it out, he’d be a giant baby.

He realized his mistake was not in being “ruthlessly impartial.” Homemade liquor in the army wasted provisions and led to brawls—something Wu Hanluan abhorred. Had Xuan Chong understood his uncle’s stance, he wouldn’t have acted so recklessly.

Upon reflection, Xuan Chong saw his biggest flaw was not being ruthless enough. He tried to follow procedure, giving the bootleggers time to react and spread rumors.

The army was nothing like the atomized society of his previous life; it was full of kinship and brotherhood—a blow to one could rouse many. Enforcing discipline required swift action before the troublemakers could mobilize; delay meant greater chaos and harder repairs.

Thus, when Xuan Chong’s crackdown nearly caused a riot, Wu Hanluan immediately calmed matters by confining him, then dealt with the issue gradually.

…

Wu Hanluan was displeased that Wu Fei spent his confinement dreaming of immortality, but now, as he once again asked his nephew’s reflections on last month’s events, he was unexpectedly satisfied with his attitude—his nephew was making rapid progress!

Wu Hanluan’s assessment: Knowing the problems in one’s actions and no longer being stubborn—that is the greatest virtue.

From ancient times, father and son fought side by side; a family relied on its own.

Wu Hanluan: “You’ve read your military texts. Today, I’ll test you.”

Xuan Chong looked up, “Please assign the troops, General.”

Wu Hanluan nodded and tossed a bamboo token like a green arrow out the tent, striking the third drum in line. With a dull thud, the white jade bird carved on the drum suddenly came alive and soared into the sky. A subordinate entered.

Wu Hanluan ordered, “Old Zhao, go to the platform and beat the drum.”

Zhao clasped his fists, “Understood.”

Wu Hanluan watched his nephew, his gaze clearly saying, “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

As a transmigrator, Xuan Chong looked up. Though nervous, the “troop assignment protocols”—much like twentieth-century traffic regulations—he had memorized for three months. He was confident he would pass.

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