Whetstone

The rumors spread like wildfire through Dingziying, becoming increasingly bizarre.

There are already seven or eight versions of the news that the bandits of Beishan are going to "go all out" against the Dingzi Battalion.

Some say the bandit leader swore a blood oath to sacrifice the heads of one hundred members of the Dingzi Battalion to his flag; others say the bandits dug countless traps on the mountain path, just waiting for them to fall into them.

The most outrageous version says that there was a sorcerer among the bandits who could summon wind and rain and turn beans into soldiers—this version was scoffed at by Wang Laowu: "If they could really turn beans into soldiers, why would they be bandits? They would have been imperial advisors long ago!"

Regardless of the version, a tense atmosphere has indeed descended.

The training intensity had quietly increased again. Zhao Heita cursed less frequently, but his expression was more somber, and the force with which he struck people with the stick was noticeably greater.

Even when Old Liu, the cook, was ladling soup, he no longer complained about Zhou Heng's "fussiness." He just gave him an extra half spoonful of thick soup and muttered, "Eat more, save some strength."

Fueled by fear, Zhou Heng's "meticulousness" began to take a strange turn.

He carefully tore the wad of cloth that Lao Wu had given him into strips of varying sizes, scalded them with the little bit of boiling water he had saved up, dried them thoroughly, and then sorted and stored them away.

The long ones are used for emergency bandaging of large wounds, while the short ones are used for wrapping hands.

He even tried to dye some strips of cloth a less noticeable dark color with grass juice—but failed, leaving a messy yellowish-green stain, which Li Gou'er laughed at as looking like "wiping pus off".

"Brother Zhou, what are you trying to achieve by doing this?" Li Gou'er asked, puzzled as he watched Zhou Heng organize his fabric storage like a hamster hoarding food.

"Just for peace of mind." Zhou Heng didn't even look up. "In case... I mean in case, things get chaotic and the physician can't take care of everything, we can manage on our own, just for a while, maybe we can hold out until we get back."

Zhang Tiezhu picked up a strangely dyed strip of cloth and weighed it in his hand: "Will this thing even work?"

"It's better than just covering it with mud." Zhou Heng snatched back the strip of cloth, carefully folded it, and said, "Brother Zhang, you're strong. If any of the brothers fall, help them up so they don't get trampled. Li Gou'er, you have sharp eyes, so watch out for any stray arrows or stones."

Wang Laowu leaned to one side with his arms crossed, watching Zhou Heng assign "tasks," and after a long while said, "Brother Zhou, you don't look like you're going to war, you look more like you're going to... be a镖师 (bodyguard/escort)?"

Zhou Heng paused, then said with a wry smile, "Brother Wang, I'd like to go on a delivery mission, at least I know the way and where the dangers are. But fighting a war... I'm completely in the dark."

His words expressed the sentiments of many new recruits.

No one knew exactly what the bandit stronghold looked like, how many people there were, what their weapons were, or how to fight it. Zhao Heita only said, "Follow me and obey my orders," but what were those orders? Nobody knew.

This fear of the unknown reached its peak on the evening before departure.

The order was finally officially issued. The Ding Battalion was to dispatch two teams, about two hundred men, led by a captain surnamed Sun, in conjunction with a team of elite soldiers from the Xuan Battalion. They were to set off at dawn three days later to wipe out the bandits of "Black Wind Stronghold" in the North Mountain. Almost all of these new recruits were on the list.

Zhao Heita assembled the team, without shouting as usual. He stood at the front, his gaze sweeping over the young, fearful faces.

"Are you scared?" he asked, his voice low.

No one answered.

"You're right to be afraid." Zhao Heita twitched the corner of his mouth, but his expression was hardly a smile. "It was my first time on the battlefield, and my crotch was all wet."

Someone below couldn't help but chuckle softly, then quickly suppressed it.

"But fear is useless," Zhao Heita continued. "The more afraid you are, the faster you'll die."

Remember this: once you're on the mountain, don't just be afraid. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears perked up! Follow your squad leader and your platoon leader! If they tell you to charge, don't hesitate; if they tell you to retreat, don't look back! If you lose your composure, you'll be the one who dies, and you'll drag your comrades down with you!

He paused, then emphasized, "We are the Ding-type Battalion, that's true. But the Ding-type Battalion is also part of the Northern Liang Army! Don't bring shame to the Northern Liang Army! And don't bring shame to yourselves! If we win, we'll come back and feast! If we lose..." He didn't finish his sentence, but everyone understood.

After the meeting ended, the atmosphere was so oppressive it was almost palpable. No one joked or laughed; everyone silently packed their meager personal belongings.

Zhou Heng wrapped his clothes in several layers and stuffed them into the innermost part of his body. He then checked his shoes again—the straw sandals were almost rotten, but he had reinforced them with leather ropes he had found, hoping they wouldn't break halfway.

At night, he lay on the straw mat, listening to the heavy breathing around him, knowing that many people were still awake.

"Brother Zhou," Li Gou'er suddenly called to him softly, "Do you...do you think we can come back?"

Zhou Heng gazed at the dark night sky, remained silent for a moment, and then said, "I don't know."

"I'm scared," Li Gou'er's voice trembled slightly. "I haven't gotten married yet."

"I'm scared too," Zhou Heng said honestly. "I... I still have many places I haven't been to, and many delicious foods I haven't tried." He wanted to talk about Michelin three-star restaurants, Antarctic travel, and space hotels, but he figured no one would understand if he said it.

On the other side, Zhang Tiezhu rolled over and muttered, "What's the use of being afraid? My father always said, what's meant to be will be. Even if you lose your head, it's just a small scar."

Wang Laowu's leisurely voice came from a little distance: "Tiezhu's words are rough but reasonable. When it comes to that point, fear won't help. Remember the instructor's words, stick close to your men, don't get separated, and don't do anything reckless."

Zhou Heng repeated Wang Laowu's words in his mind several times: Stick close to someone, don't get separated from others, and don't act recklessly. It sounds simple, but in the chaos of the battlefield, it's probably very difficult to do.

He recalled some random documentaries he had watched before, which mentioned battlefield survival rules: keep a low profile, use cover, and stay in contact with your comrades... Unfortunately, the documentaries didn't teach how to stab someone with a spear, nor how to "stay in contact" in melee combat with cold weapons.

The three days passed by in agony.

On the day of departure, I was woken up before dawn. There was no drumbeat, only low commands.

Everyone silently stood up and inspected their weapons—Zhou Heng was assigned a spear with some rust on the tip and dried bloodstains on the wooden shaft, the source of which was unknown. He tried to wipe them off, but couldn't.

Each person was given two very hard flatbreads and a small bag of water, which served as their provisions for the journey. Zhou Heng also carefully hung up his own bag of boiled water that he had saved up.

Before dawn, the troops assembled outside the camp gate. A dark mass of men, the only sounds being the occasional clash of weapons and suppressed coughs.

Captain Sun, a middle-aged man with a stern face, rode on his horse. He didn't say anything unnecessary, but simply waved his hand.

"Set off."

The procession, like a silent giant python, slithered into the still-lingering darkness.

Zhou Heng walked in the middle of the group, his steps uneven. The road became increasingly difficult, and they left the official road, entering a mountain path.

A thick fog hung in the air, and the damp, cold air seeped into your clothes, making you shiver. The surroundings were eerily quiet, save for the sounds of footsteps, panting, and the occasional calls of unknown birds from the forest.

No one spoke. Fear, like the mist in the forest, silently enveloped everyone.

Zhou Heng gripped the spear tightly, the cold, rough texture of the wooden shaft sending shivers down his spine. For the first time, he felt with such clarity that he was heading towards a battlefield from which there was no turning back.

The strip of cloth in his arms was pressed against his chest, as was the piece of mutton-fat jade.