Conscripted

He was blocked by two thugs, one tall and one short, both wearing even more tattered clothes and with cloudy eyes.

"Hey kid, new here?" the taller one grinned crookedly. "Don't you know the rules?"

Zhou Heng instinctively stepped back: "What rules?"

"The rule is..." the shorter one leaned closer, reaching out to pat his face, "...to show some respect, okay?"

Zhou Heng turned his head to avoid the attack, his mind racing. Fight? In his current physical condition, he'd collapse at the slightest breeze. Run? There seemed to be an exit at the other end of the alley…

Before he could decide, Gao had already become impatient and reached out to grab his collar.

Zhou Heng instinctively dodged, tripped, and fell backward, his hands flailing wildly in the air, managing to grab a few broken bamboo baskets piled up nearby.

"Splash—"

The bamboo basket tipped over, kicking up dust. Zhou Heng landed hard on his backside, seeing stars. The two thugs paused for a moment, then cursed and tried to approach.

Just then, the sound of heavy, orderly footsteps and the clanging of metal scraping came from the alley entrance.

The thug's expression changed, and he turned and ran.

Zhou Heng was still sitting on the ground in a daze when a pair of leather boots covered in mud appeared in front of him.

"Another one." The owner of the boots—a soldier with a blank expression—muttered, bending down to lift him up.

"Wait! Sir! I didn't..." Zhou Heng struggled.

"A vagrant, unregistered, causing trouble in the street." The soldier ignored him completely, swiftly binding his hands behind his back with thick hemp rope, and tying him together with several other unfortunate men who had also been arrested. "By order of the Marquis of Zhenbei, conscripted to guard the border! Take him away!"

Zhou Heng was pushed and shoved as he walked in the middle of the group, his wrists aching from the rough hemp rope.

He turned around to argue, but saw the soldier's leader—a burly captain—squinting at him.

The gaze swept over him, lingering for a moment, especially when it saw his haggard but clearly defined face and his tattered but still intact coarse cloth clothes.

"Doesn't look like a repeat offender." The squad leader snorted. "Take him away! Send him to the T-shaped battalion!"

As dusk settled, a cold wind swirled up dust. Zhou Heng walked in the procession, surrounded by men with ashen faces and blank expressions.

He licked his chapped lips, looked at the gray sky, and had only one thought in his mind:

Does Dingziying provide meals?

At least give me something hot.

The procession walked for about an hour in the twilight. Zhou Heng was so hungry that his stomach was sticking to his back, and his legs were as weak as noodles. The escorting soldiers urged them on impatiently, and their whips occasionally cracked in the air with a frightening sound.

Finally, a patch of lights appeared ahead. It wasn't the warm, multi-lit city lights, but rather sparse, flickering torchlight that illuminated the chaotic outlines of tents and a simple wooden fence.

The air was thicker with the smells of sweat, horse manure, and a rather unpleasant odor from a large pot of food being cooked.

"We've arrived!" the captain roared. "Get your act together! Once you've entered this camp, you're the Marquis's soldiers! Your lives and deaths are up to fate!"

The wooden gate creaked open, and Zhou Heng was shoved inside. It was bigger and more chaotic than he had imagined.

In an open space, hundreds of people were queuing up to receive something. The line was crooked and noisy. In the distance, a series of unified shouts could be heard, like a training exercise.

The firelight illuminated the tired, numb faces.

The group of newcomers were led to a burly, dark-skinned man with a fierce face, wearing a dirty leather armor. The man was holding a stick and tapping his palms intermittently.

"Instructor Zhao, thirty-seven from the newly patched battalion," the squad leader reported.

The man called Instructor Zhao raised his eyelids, glanced at the group of dejected new recruits, and snorted, "Sending more crooked and ugly ones." He stepped forward, used a stick to lift the chin of a thin boy, looked at him, and then walked up to Zhou Heng.

The stick poked Zhou Heng's chest with considerable force. Zhou Heng was forced back half a step.

"You," Instructor Zhao looked him up and down, "what did you do before? You look so delicate and fair-skinned, you don't look like someone who does manual labor."

Zhou Heng licked his chapped lips, his mind racing. Claiming to be a rich second-generation heir from another world? Definitely not. He mumbled, "My family... runs a small business."

"Businessmen?" Instructor Zhao sneered. "Business has gone this far? Fine, now that you're here, whether you were a dragon or a worm before, you'd better coil up! Even a tiger has to lie low! Dingzi Camp has no shortage of people like you with your 'past'!"

He took two steps back, brandishing his stick, and boomed, "Listen up, all of you! My name is Zhao Heita, and I'm your instructor! From today onward, you eat the Marquis's food, wear the Marquis's clothes, and you have to serve the Marquis! There are three rules here: First, obey! Second, obey! Third, and most damn well, obey!"

"If you want to live, open your eyes wide and tighten your skin! Slacking off in training? Whip! Disobeying orders? Whip! Fighting without permission? Whip! Trying to run away?" Zhao Heita sneered, pointing his stick at a wooden pole standing at the edge of the camp, with some dark things vaguely hanging from it, swaying slightly in the evening breeze. "See that? That's what happens to you!"

The new recruits followed the gaze and let out a series of suppressed gasps. Zhou Heng squinted for a while before he could make out that they were several dried and shriveled human heads, and his stomach churned.

"Now, go over there and line up to get your food!" Zhao Heita pointed with his stick to a large, steaming pot and several large baskets in the distance. "After you get your food, find a place to sleep! Tomorrow at 3:45 AM, get up and assemble the moment you hear the drum! Anyone late will be punished! Dismissed!"

The rope was untied, and Zhou Heng rubbed his wrists, which were deeply marked by the rope, and numbly followed the crowd toward the large pot.

The so-called "food" consisted of a spoonful of murky soup with a few vegetable leaves and suspicious oil floating on it, plus two dark, hard mixed flour cakes.

Zhou Heng received a chipped earthenware bowl and some flatbread. Following the example of others, he squatted down and took a sip of soup.

It was salty, extremely salty, and had an indescribable strange taste. The pancake was so hard it could kill someone; he took a bite and almost broke his teeth.

But hunger overwhelmed everything. He slowly broke the flatbread apart, soaked it in the soup, and swallowed it whole once it had softened a little.

It tasted terrible, but he ate it quickly—there were already people eyeing the unfinished pancakes in other people's bowls.

By the time we finished this "meal," it was completely dark.

An old soldier came over and led the newcomers to an open space, pointing to the dry grass and tattered mats haphazardly spread on the ground: "This is it, find your own place to sleep! No noise or wandering around at night. If you hear the night patrol gong and are still moving, you'll be in big trouble if you're caught!"

There were no tents, no bedding, only the cold mud and rough, dry grass. The night wind was chilling to the bone.

Zhou Heng found a spot further inside, curled up, and lay down. The grass stalks beneath him made him feel uncomfortable all over.

Soon, the sounds of snoring, teeth grinding, and suppressed coughing filled the air. He looked up at the dark night sky, where a few cold stars twinkled, his mind blank.

Is this the military camp? Is this where he will be staying from now on?

He didn't know how much time had passed before he finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted and cold.