Song Dynasty: Yuan Dynasty, you didn't expect this, did you? I'm still alive.

The surrender of the Fujian Regional Military Commission of the Ming Dynasty happened even faster than the opening of the gates of Quanzhou.

Before the Song army even arrived, the commander-in-chief had already written the letter of surrender.

The wording was extremely sincere, and the attitude was extremely upright. The general meaning was: The royal army has come from afar with great difficulty. I have been thinking about you day and night, and I have finally been looking forward to your arrival.

The fifteen garrisons and one hundred and twenty-three thousand-household garrisons within Fujian were all to await reorganization on the spot, with no intention of resisting.

When Zhao Qian received the letter of surrender, he looked at it over and over again, and said to the clerk beside him, "The handwriting is quite good."

Then he handed the letter of surrender to Cui Du, the Minister of War.

Cui Du took it, but before reading the words, he looked at the signature—Commander of Fujian Province of the Great Ming Dynasty.

He then flipped through the attachments, which contained neatly arranged and categorized maps, troop registers, and land reclamation registers for all the garrisons and outposts within Fujian Province, bound into volumes.

Cui Du closed the booklet and remained silent for a moment.

"This man is a waste of his talent in the Ming Dynasty."

The garrison troops in Fujian did not resist.

The Ming Dynasty's garrison system consisted of three parts defending the city and seven parts farming and settlement.

The translation is: These people are essentially farmers in military uniforms.

When the Song army attacked, the soldiers in the Fujian garrison were busy with the autumn harvest.

The rice paddies were a golden expanse, and the sickles were swung faster than broadswords.

Several households tried to gather their troops, but after shouting for a long time, they couldn't gather as many people as those in the fields.

A soldier squatted on the edge of the field, clutching a handful of rice stalks, and said to the flag officer who came to deliver the order, "Sir, look at this rice. If we wait two more days, the grains will fall off. Can we wait until the harvest is finished before threshing it?"

The flag officer remained silent for a long time before saying, "The Song army will not wait."

The soldier remained silent for a long time before saying, "Then I can't wait any longer."

He tucked the rice stalks into his waistband and went back to the field to continue harvesting rice.

This military household later became a typical case when Cui Du reorganized the garrison.

In his memorial to Zhao Xi, Cui Du made a special mention of this, writing: "When I arrived in Fujian, I saw that the soldiers of the garrison had sickles sharpened to a gleaming shine than waist knives, and wielded carrying poles with more skill than spears. When asked why they did not follow their superiors to fight, they replied: 'The rice is ripe.' I believe this is not the fault of the soldiers, but rather a fault of the system."

The memorial was handed over, and Zhao Xi wrote four words in his reply: "Understood. Continue."

In reality, such memorials are completely meaningless.

The Song Dynasty did not have a garrison system, so what was the use of submitting a memorial?

But this is only the first level; Cui Du is on the second level.

He was merely stating that although he commanded 500,000 Song troops, he still reported every detail, demonstrating his submissive nature.

Reclaiming lost territory is meant to accumulate merit and become prime minister, but if it leaves a reputation for rebellion and arrogance in the court and among the people, then it would be a loss.

Of course, if this kind of behavior were done a hundred years ago, it would have resulted in a loss ninety-nine times out of a hundred wars.

Unfortunately, the Song Dynasty already had telegraphs and steam engines.

Once the memorials were sent to Luzon by steamship, the telegrams could transmit the information directly back to Xinxiang.

Cui Du was checking the land reclamation register in the Song army camp outside Quanzhou City. He would turn a page, glance at the audience below, and then turn another page.

The Ming Dynasty has a large number of garrison soldiers, and now they need to be dealt with. Cui Du's proposed solution is very simple.

Thirty percent of the soldiers from all the garrison troops in Fujian were selected to serve as auxiliary soldiers, responsible for transportation, road repair, and guarding warehouses, without having to go to the front lines to fight.

The remaining 70% will continue to be used for farming.

But there's one condition—the land you cultivate belongs to you.

When the news was relayed from the Song army to the garrison soldiers, the entire camp erupted in chaos.

It wasn't a real explosion; it was just that everyone started talking, creating a buzzing atmosphere, like a hornet's nest had been stirred up.

A soldier mustered his courage and raised his hand: "Sir, what do you mean by 'belonging to oneself'?"

The Song army messenger glanced at him.

"Literally. The land you cultivate is yours from today onwards. The government will issue a land deed, stamped with the official seal of the Ministry of Revenue of the Song Dynasty. After paying taxes, the rest of the grain you grow is yours. You can sell it if you want, and eat it if you want."

The soldier's hand was still raised; he had forgotten to lower it.

His mouth was agape, his face displaying an expression between ecstasy and disbelief, like someone walking down the street who had suddenly been hit on the head by a mountain of gold, not even having had time to feel the pain.

His eyes reddened.

This is simply a royal army!

Your Majesty the Emperor of the Ming Dynasty, I'm sorry, I'll be loyal to you again in the next life.

The military settlements and agricultural colonies during the Yongle era are often depicted as an ideal model of "supporting a million soldiers without costing the people a single grain of rice." However, the actual grain production at that time was not a simple figure, but a complex and controversial issue.

According to the regulations established during the Hongwu era, each garrison soldier who cultivated "one fen" of standard land (approximately 50 mu) was required to keep 12 shi of grain as "regular grain" for his own use, and then hand over another 12 shi as "surplus grain" tax.

The situation at that time was such that one person's harvest was insufficient to feed himself for half a year.

Then Cui Du had someone bring up samples of the military rations from the garrison.

A bag of rice, blackish-yellow in color. Grab a handful and spread it on the table. Inside, there are husks, barnyard grass, sand, and a few black grains whose original shape is indistinguishable.

Cui Du flicked it with his finger.

"What is this?" The clerk in charge of military rations whispered, "Sir, it's... it's rat droppings."

Cui Du picked up the rat dropping, looked at it against the light, and then put it back.

"If I were to feed this stuff to the Song army," Cui Du said incredulously, "the next day, someone in the court would impeach me. The third day, it would be in the newspapers. The fourth day, I'd have to go to America."

The military clerks of the Ming Dynasty were puzzled, as this was what they had always eaten.

Before we had garrisons, we didn't even have this to eat.

Therefore, Cui Du raised the treatment of the garrison soldiers to the standard of those who served in the army.

The standards for Song Dynasty servants joining the army, if applied to the Ming Dynasty, would be roughly equivalent to—well, I won't use that analogy; it would be too humiliating.

Just one example: the soldiers' rations included meat.

This isn't the kind of "minced meat" you only get during holidays; it's proper cured meat. It's not just a piece given out as a formality; it's a fixed daily ration for each person.

When the soldiers of the Fujian garrison received their first meal of Song army rations, their reactions were remarkably unanimous.

At first, I didn't believe it.

Then I carefully tasted it.

Then she cried.

Not only was there meat, but the meat was also packed with salt, a treat usually reserved for soldiers of the Ming Dynasty who were sent on their last meal before death.

A bearded veteran who had served in the Fujian garrison for twenty-five years, had fought in battles, suppressed bandits, been whipped, and been imprisoned; he had seen it all.

He picked up a piece of cured meat, put it in his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, and then tears started streaming down his face.

The new recruit next to him was startled: "Old Li, what's wrong?"

Old Li didn't say anything.

He swallowed the piece of cured meat, then picked up another piece and put it in his mouth to chew slowly.

He chewed for a long time before finally speaking: "My son is twelve years old this year. He has never eaten meat before."

The recruits fell silent.

Old Li carefully wrapped up the cured meat and tucked it into his pocket. "Take this back to him. I won't eat it."

That evening, half of the soldiers in the fifteen garrisons of Fujian spontaneously wrote letters of request to join the battle.

It wasn't requested by my superior; I wrote it myself.

Those who couldn't write would find someone to write for them, and those without paper and pen would bite their fingers and write on strips of cloth.

The content is largely the same, basically saying: "This humble subject is willing to serve the Celestial Empire to the death, and begs Your Excellency to give me a chance to go to the front line."

Cui Du collected the letters of request to join the battle, bundled them together, and placed them on his desk.

He did not approve it.

What can these soldiers do on the front lines?

To be cannon fodder?

Even if we gave them the Xuanji Needle Gun, they probably wouldn't know how to use it; it would be better to use a fire poker.

It would be a relief if we didn't cause him any trouble.

Cui Du pushed the bundle of letters requesting battle to the corner of the desk, spread out the memorials, and began writing his second report for Zhao Xi that day.

A war may be avoided, but a diary must be kept.

He wrote two lines, then stopped writing and glanced at the bundle of letters requesting to join the fight.

These details were included in the battle report.

He used his exceptional writing skills, worthy of a top scholar, to turn the battle report into a novel with a thrilling and suspenseful plot.