Meanwhile, at the Xuan-Da Command, the air itself seemed soaked in grease and ambition.
Wang Pu, Regional Commander of Datong, was hosting yet another grand banquet, and by this point even the cooks were beginning to suspect that if the Qing army ever decided to invade during dinner hours, they would first have to wade through three layers of braised pork and two rivers of wine before reaching any actual soldiers.
Ever since returning from the capital, Wang Pu had become a man of rising momentum, the sort of official whose footsteps suddenly sounded heavier not because of iron boots but because of expectation, as everyone across Xuan-Da knew that he had been personally summoned by the Emperor, praised with warm imperial words, and informally promised promotion and ennoblement once the Ministry of War untangled its own bureaucratic paralysis.
In late Ming officialdom, that kind of promise was better than silver and almost as intoxicating as real power.
Naturally, people rushed to curry favor.
Officials of every rank arrived bearing smiles that were slightly too wide and compliments that were slightly too rehearsed, and for days on end the feasting did not stop, because today a brigade general would host, tomorrow a regional commander, the day after that someone else eager to attach their name to a future marquis would open their treasury.
Wang Pu had eaten so much rich food that even his reflection in polished bronze seemed to glisten.
Yet for all the wine and flattery, Wang Pu was not a man entirely hollow inside, because he had not forgotten who had truly carried the battles on their backs while he stood in the correct place at the correct time.
He knew perfectly well that the victories near the capital had not been spun from his own genius, but rather forged by Wang Xiaohua, the Pingyang garrison commander whose flintlock riflemen had spoken louder than any memorial, and by the lesser known General Ma Shouying, whose cavalry charges had turned chaos into slaughter.
So he prepared two lavish gifts and sent them to Pingyang Prefecture without hesitation, because in this era gratitude was rarer than gold and therefore worth spending.
In short, the music played, the sleeves danced, and the wine flowed like policy promises.
Then the door burst open.
A soldier staggered in, breath ragged, eyes wide.
"Generals! Stop eating! To your camps! The new Supreme Commander of Xuan-Da has arrived!"
The effect was immediate and almost miraculous, as several men sobered on the spot with the terrifying clarity that only career anxiety can produce, their drunken haze evaporating faster than spilled liquor on a summer courtyard.
Armor clattered.
Boots thudded.
Within moments, officers who had been debating the merits of different sauces were sprinting back toward their camps, strapping on armor with hands that still smelled of wine, lining up at the gates in what they hoped looked like disciplined anticipation rather than panicked improvisation.
Soon, from the distant road, a formation appeared.
Orderly.
Silent.
Steady.
Lu Xiangheng had arrived, leading his Tianxiong Army.
Earlier he had been summoned to the capital by imperial decree, forced to abandon the rebels he had nearly encircled in the Dabie Mountains, only to discover upon arrival that Ajige's forces had already withdrawn, leaving him with nothing to fight and no enemy to display before the throne.
He had answered the summons for nothing.
Yet in the eyes of the Chongzhen Emperor, that "nothing" did not erase years of real victories, because Lu Xiangheng was known as a man who actually won battles instead of merely describing them well, a commander who had pushed bandits to the brink and almost sealed their fate entirely.
After careful thought, the Emperor had decided such a man should remain closer to the capital, positioned where he could both defend and be watched, and so Lu Xiangheng was appointed the new Supreme Commander of Xuan-Da.
As for Yang Sichang, the former commander, filial mourning was a respectable curtain behind which many inconvenient figures could remain undisturbed.
Thus Lu Xiangheng arrived at a frontier that smelled faintly of wine.
When he reached the camp gate and saw flushed faces, half concealed hiccups, and the unmistakable scent of collective indulgence, his expression hardened.
"No drinking in the army. Do you not understand this basic rule?"
"There was no battle."
"We were not on campaign."
Their answers were careful.
Short.
Almost pleading.
Lu Xiangheng felt irritation rise, yet he restrained it, because he knew they had recently answered the imperial summons and that a celebratory meal was not in itself a crime, especially in a world where tomorrow was uncertain and pay was perpetually delayed.
Still, one name interested him more than the rest.
"Is Wang Pu here?"
"Your subordinate is here!"
Wang Pu stepped forward, slightly unsteady but still smiling, his face flushed with either wine or ambition.
Lu Xiangheng studied him briefly.
"I heard you won every battle near the capital."
"A trifle."
"You made the Manchus scream for their mothers."
"A small matter."
"You earned immense contributions."
"Effortlessly easy."
Wang Pu chuckled, the alcohol loosening his tongue.
Lu Xiangheng's eyes sharpened.
"Explain your strategies."
"Strategies?"
"Yes."
"What strategies?"
"The tactics."
"Oh that."
Wang Pu waved lazily.
"I stood back."
"You stood back?"
"Nonchalant."
"And then?"
"Wang Xiaohua charged."
"With?"
"Flintlocks."
"And?"
"Bang bang bang."
Lu Xiangheng stared.
"And Ma Shouying?"
"Charged."
"How?"
"Like hell."
With that final declaration of battlefield doctrine, Wang Pu collapsed to the ground and began snoring with the serene confidence of a man who had already secured his future.
For a long moment, Lu Xiangheng simply stood there, speechless, confronted with the strange reality that military glory sometimes emerged from the most inelegant descriptions.
Absurd though it sounded, a clue had surfaced.
Flintlock riflemen.
Pingyang garrison commander Wang Xiaohua.
A name worth remembering.
As the thought settled, another name flickered briefly in his mind, Luo Xi, Military Commander of Shangnan County, associated in whispers with unusual firearms and stranger tales, yet Lu Xiangheng dismissed the connection for now, unwilling to chase shadows before securing what lay directly before him.
He entered the Supreme Commander's yamen and took his seat.
His first decree came without hesitation.
"I will open a horse market at Humakou."
Silence.
"To connect with the northern Mongols."
Murmurs.
"The Tumed and the Khalkha."
Eyes widened.
"We will trade for horses to fight the Qing."
The local officials bowed deeply.
"An excellent idea."
"However?"
"Yes."
"The Mongols have been acting strangely."
"In what way?"
"E'zhe has issued a punitive edict."
"Using what authority?"
"The imperial seal passed down from Genghis Khan."
That changed the tone entirely, because on the grasslands, seals mattered as much as swords.
"All western tribes have united," the official continued. "They have marched east and attacked the Khorchin tribes aligned with the Manchus."
Lu Xiangheng leaned forward.
"The Manchus responded?"
"They sent troops."
"So the grasslands burn."
"Yes."
"And the Mongols need horses."
"Yes."
"So they will not sell."
"Likely not."
For a moment, Lu Xiangheng felt disoriented, caught between opportunity and frustration, because a divided enemy was always welcome, yet an unavailable supplier was less so.
"It is still good," he said at last. "If the Mongols entangle the Manchus, that benefits us. The horse market must open regardless. However many horses we can obtain, we will obtain. Trying is better than surrender."
"Understood."
"But?"
"Yes."
"What now?"
"We have no money."
There it was.
The eternal enemy.
Silver.
Or rather, the lack of it.
"Wang Pu and the others have not received pay for nine months," the official added quietly. "Without money or grain, how can we buy horses?"
Lu Xiangheng felt a familiar ache behind his temples, the same one that had accompanied him through Yunyang, through Huguan, through every posting where titles were impressive but treasuries were empty.
Why was it always like this?
When he governed Yunyang, there was no money.
When he governed Huguan, there was no money.
Now at Xuan-Da, still no money.
"It seems we must rely on agricultural garrisons," he said slowly. "With grain we can trade. But to establish agricultural garrisons requires clearing land, buying seeds, purchasing draft cattle, acquiring tools. Everything costs money."
The irony was almost poetic.
To make money required money.
Before anyone could sink deeper into that spiral, a soldier burst in, eyes shining with the reckless joy of someone carrying news that might postpone despair.
"Report! Imperial Merchant Tie Niaofei has arrived! He brings many supplies!"
For the first time that day, the room fell silent not from fear, not from embarrassment, but from something dangerously close to hope.