Three thousand are missing or dead.
South of Yangzhou, inside Zhang Shicheng's command tent, the air was damp and heavy.
The defeated soldiers returned carrying dust and the stench of blood on their bodies.
Dried blood clung to their armor.
The horses foamed at the mouth.
Groans and curses mingled throughout the camp.
Inside Zhang Shicheng's tent, the heat was worse.
The generals sat in a circle around a map, their voices rising.
"Who would have thought their formation would be that solid?"
"The vanguard cavalry should have broken through."
"Three hundred elite troops struck our flank—out of nowhere."
"We thought the main force had arrived and scattered. Was that our mistake?"
"We only meant to teach their advance unit a lesson, and instead we were crushed."
No one finished a sentence.
Voices tangled together.
The map on the table was crumpled.
The air swelled with heat.
Zhang Shicheng said nothing.
He stood and walked to the entrance of the tent.
Outside, a broken banner pole swayed in the wind.
Only then did he ask,
"How many cavalry returned?"
"Just over a hundred."
"And the infantry?"
"Three thousand are missing or dead."
Zhang Shicheng's hand trembled faintly.
He stood there for a long time without speaking.
Overwhelming combat power.
Their numbers could not have been that great.
Then, low but unmistakably, he spoke.
"I sent our strongest troops.
And they were shattered."
His voice pressed down on the tent.
"They are not strong.
We are weak.
Against any army, we would lose.
Is there no path left but to curl up inside our walls like a turtle and endure?"
Several officers stiffened.
"Then we must send more."
"Reorganize the troops and strike again—"
"This is not the time to fight," another general shouted.
"They are prepared. We are scattered. If we fight now, we lose more."
"Then what do you propose? Withdraw like this?"
"We must attempt negotiation."
"Negotiation? Who would extend a hand first?"
The voices grew sharper.
Hands cut through the air.
Eyes hardened.
No one held the answer.
Zhang Shicheng listened quietly to their raised voices.
His face showed no emotion.
He looked down at the map and slowly rubbed the red mark near Yangzhou with his fingertip.
The ink smeared.
"We tried to break their momentum with force.
But their momentum did not break."
He lifted his head.
"From now on, it is a transaction.
We bind their feet with profit.
When value outweighs the blade, war stops."
The tent fell silent.
The generals exchanged uneasy looks.
Some held anger.
Others wore the eyes of men who knew they could not win.
The fact lingered heavily:
they had sent elite troops to strike first,
and been defeated by what seemed a small vanguard force.
Zhang Shicheng walked slowly as he spoke.
"Tomorrow, we begin negotiations.
If force fails, we negotiate.
Is there truly a reason we must fight?
Prepare what we will give, and what we will take.
Form a negotiation party."
"Loyalty."
"Loyalty."
"Loyalty."
"Loyalty."
His back disappeared into the red light of dusk beyond the tent.
The wind pushed inside, shaking the candle on the map.
The flame flickered—
like the lingering heat of an unwon battle.
The bitter truth was this:
at the word negotiation, everyone felt relief.
Zhang Shicheng was a man who gathered many to himself.
He accepted rival leaders.
He took in scholars who had retreated from public life.
He sheltered exiled merchants.
He even embraced officials cast out from the Yuan court.
But not all of that became strength.
To be inclusive was to blur boundaries.
The camp held many generals in name only—
men who could not truly command their own troops.
Some fought for mercantile profit.
Some wielded swords for honor.
Some found comfort simply standing beneath Zhang Shicheng's name.
The result was clear.
Many had gathered, but they were not bound as one.
The force was large, but the will was scattered.
Among the three heroes of Jiangnan, Zhang Shicheng was the wealthiest.
Resources overflowed.
Silver filled the warehouses.
Ships crowded the harbors.
And for that reason, he was cautious in battle.
He trusted trade more than combat.
Contracts more than gunpowder.
Profit more than blood.
Yet he was no fool.
Through repeated battles, Zhang Shicheng knew what kind of army he commanded.
He knew where its strength ended, and where its limits began.
"This army cannot fight for long.
It is an alliance bound by belts.
When profit dries up, it will scatter."
Wealth gathers people.
Loyalty cannot be bought with money.
He knew this well.
Though called a hero of Jiangnan,
his power stood not on iron, but on silver.
When Dalsikchepmok'i descended south as Grand Councilor of the Jiangzhe Branch Secretariat, his gaze was already fixed on Zhang Shicheng.
He pressed him with Yang Wanja at the front.
Zhang Shicheng endured, together with Fang Guozhen.
Then he judged:
"We cannot endure like this."
As Yuan forces prepared to land from across the sea, he made his decision.
He sent an envoy to Dalsikchepmok'i and sought surrender.
Soon, he received the seal of Grand Commandant.
People called him a turncoat.
Zhang Shicheng did not laugh.
He calculated.
He waited.
The following spring, he allied with Dalsikchepmok'i and raised troops again.
This time, not with the hand of peace, but with the sword.
Yang Wanja could not withstand the siege and took his own life.
That night, gazing at a single remaining lamp, Zhang Shicheng thought:
"The world opens by profit.
The world closes by betrayal.
Profit must always come before betrayal.
Otherwise, no one remains."
A silver coin lay at his fingertips.
He placed it on the table and whispered,
"This is the blood of my army.
This is my country."
His attempt to negotiate with the Goryeo army was not an accident—
it was the inevitable result.