The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

As dawn broke, the battlefield of Black Wind Stronghold gradually fell silent.

Sunlight pierced through the leaden-gray clouds and shone on the ruins of Black Wind Village.

Wang Zhonghua stood leaning on his sword, his feet on a pool of half-congealed blood, crimson and snow-white mingled together, crunching underfoot. Soldiers were clearing the battlefield—dragging the bodies of Zoroastrians to the edge of the pit, lifting wounded comrades onto stretchers, and collecting scattered armor. Some cursed under their breath, some wept silently, and some squatted motionless beside their fallen comrades.

But he couldn't hear anything.

His mind was still caught up in the bloody storm of the previous night.

The image of the right flank army changing formation played repeatedly in my mind—not fast-forwarded, but slow-motioned, cut frame by frame.

The instant the drumbeats changed, the front-line swordsmen and shield bearers simultaneously halted their shields, the tenons at the edges fitting together perfectly. In less than three breaths, an iron wall rose from the ground. Immediately afterward, the rear-line spearmen emerged from the gaps in their shields, their twelve-foot shafts standing like a forest, their cold tips trembling slightly in the firelight, like giant beasts baring their fangs. Further back, the archers and crossbowmen fired in volleys, the arrows not flying haphazardly, but with precisely calculated deadly arcs, wave after wave covering the stockade wall. Finally, the ballistae—those things roared, even the ground beneath their feet trembled—the massive crossbows, as thick as a child's arm, slammed into the stockade gate, splintering wood and scattering iron fragments, blasting a large hole through the gate as if it were made of paper.

He had seen battle.

That night in Hulu Bay, he led his fellow villagers in resisting Qiu Laohu's bandits, fighting until they were covered in blood. It was a chaotic, instinctive, life-for-life battle; those who survived relied on luck, ruthlessness, and that indomitable will to "not want to die."

He had also witnessed battles.

In the battle at Hulu Bay against Mad Tiger Hu Dongkui, Qin Tiehua almost died at Hu Dongkui's hands. The blade flashed like snow, and the silver needles rained down. It was a duel between top martial arts masters. Every move was calculated to the extreme, and every move concealed killing intent.

But last night was different.

Last night's battle was completely different from the previous two, even though the opponent was still a "bandit".

That's not chaos, that's order.

That's not instinct, it's will.

It wasn't just the accumulation of individual bravery; it was the terrifying art of forging hundreds or thousands of people into a war machine.

The impenetrable shield wall, the chilling hail of spears, the precise arrow rain, the ferocious crossbow fire—every aspect told him: this was not an expanded version of a江湖 (jianghu) brawl, this was war, real war.

He suddenly remembered a novel he had written before he transmigrated.

It was an alternate history story where the protagonist, possessing modern knowledge, traveled back to ancient times, invented gunpowder, refined steel, trained a new army, and swept across the world. To make it realistic, he consulted many sources—Qi Jiguang's *Jixiao Xinshu*, Clausewitz's *On War*, and even read several memoirs of special forces. He thought he knew it all.

But when that war machine roared and started running before his eyes, he realized that he knew nothing.

The phrase "formations are like water, without constant form but with constant momentum" from the book now has a footnote written in blood.

The phrase "orders are obeyed without question, as easily as an arm or finger" from the document has now been transformed into a concrete image.

He recalled a video he had seen online in his past life—an interview with a veteran, asking him if he was afraid on the battlefield. The veteran said: "Yes, but your brothers around you are all charging forward, so you follow them. It's not that you're not afraid of death, it's that spirit that pushes you forward."

At the time, he only felt that the words were simple and down-to-earth.

Now he understands.

That energy is the soul.

Thousands of people are forged into a machine, not by beatings with military batons, nor by any means necessary. It is through trust, tacit understanding, and repeated acts of sharing life and death, through the trust of "I entrust my back to you, and you entrust your life to me."

That right-wing army unit from last night was trained in this way.

Zhang Biao's rough and rugged face flashed through his mind—that guy looked like a brute, but his soldiers had executed such excellent teamwork. That guy was usually all smiles and laughter, but not a single one of his soldiers retreated on the battlefield.

"I, Old Zhang, know what's important!"

He recalled Zhang Biao's words as he patted his chest in the wind and snow.

Yes, he knows.

He not only knew that "feints must be realistic," but he also knew how to prevent his soldiers from collapsing during feints, how to make those bastards hear the drumbeats even in the rain of arrows, and how to prevent the machine from falling apart while it was running.

This is what a general should be.

Wang Zhonghua, to this day, is merely a "leader" who leads dozens of people in fighting and killing.

This realization was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

He gripped the knife handle tightly, his knuckles turning white.

Since his transmigration, he had enjoyed smooth sailing for far too long. His spicy soup became an instant hit, his Drunken Eight Immortals became famous throughout Chenzhou, he repeatedly won his battles against underhanded tactics, and even the emperor himself condescended to summon him from Lao Men Tan. He thought he was very strong, and that his methods were enough to make him invincible in this era.

But last night's battle shattered his pride.

Individual bravery can be a sharp blade. But to shake the overall trend, one must master the righteous power of the king.

He recalled Di Qing's tired yet determined eyes.

The man with the words tattooed on his face rose from a common soldier to a high-ranking military commissioner, having fought more battles than he had eaten salt. Yet Di Qing was never arrogant, never considered himself "strong." He was always patient, always waiting, always accumulating strength.

Because he knew what a real battlefield was like.

Now Wang Zhonghua also knows.

The wind picked up, whipping up the remaining snow and lashing it against his face.

He suddenly laughed.

It wasn't a bitter smile, but the kind of smile that comes from being awakened by a sudden shower and finally seeing the road ahead clearly.

"If you don't understand, you can learn," he murmured, his voice so low that only he could hear it. "If you don't know something, you can practice it. What Zhang Biao knows, I can also know. What Di Qing knows, I can also learn."

At that moment, he suddenly thought of Yue Fei, of Yue Fei's army's great victory over the Guai Zi Ma, and of Gao Chong's invincible might but his death at the hands of the Jin army's iron carts.

He also thought of "Water Margin" and Huyan Zhuo's linked cavalry...

He looked down at the Snow Chant Blade in his hand—the blade was still stained with last night's blood, which had congealed into dark red spots.

"Individual bravery is the tip of the blade." He slowly sheathed his sword. "But what I need to learn is how to forge that sword—the sword called 'Military Formation'."

From afar, Du Ziteng's voice rang out: "Young Master Wang! We've found a few survivors!"

Wang Zhonghua took a deep breath, the cold air and the stench of blood filling his lungs. He glanced one last time at the blood-soaked snow, then turned and strode away.

"General Wang." Di Qing arrived through the snow, his battle robe stained with blood, but his gaze remained as sharp as ever. "Your left-wing surprise attack was of great merit in this battle. However..." He looked towards the water fortress, his words carrying a deeper meaning, "The fish that escaped the net may cause future trouble."

Wang Zhonghua nodded silently. He picked up half a piece of charred parchment from the scorched earth, its twisted flame patterns shocking to behold: "General Di, the Zoroastrian sect's ambitions are likely not limited to just one village or region. With the cult's foundations intact and Lu Laojiu having fled, the capital region is far from peaceful, and the imperial court cannot rest easy."

"I have already sent an urgent report to the court," Di Qing sneered. "Let's see just how muddy the waters of Chenzhou and Caizhou can get!"

Di Qing frowned, watching the boat disappear on the lake. His voice was heavy and cold: "General Wang, although we won this battle, we did not achieve complete success. That cunning Lu Laojiu is as treacherous as a fox. Now that he has escaped, he will surely seek refuge in Junzhou! Junzhou is one of the three major branches of the Zoroastrianism, and it has been established for a long time and is deeply rooted. Once the bandit leaders gather, the banditry will be revived, and it will be difficult to wipe them out again!"

He paused, his tone growing increasingly grave: "What's even more worrying is that our army's movements have been revealed. The Zoroastrian headquarters in Junzhou, and its various branch strongholds in Ruzhou's Lushan and Qianzhou's Tianfangzhai, will be alerted upon learning of the fall of Black Wind Stronghold. They will either retreat and hold their ground or rush to Junzhou's aid. At that time, the bandits will band together, and we will face an impenetrable Junzhou. Attacking and capturing the stronghold will inevitably result in heavy casualties. This is not driving away wolves, but rather raising tigers!"

The atmosphere in the tent froze for a moment, and all the generals wore worried expressions. Although the battle at Black Wind Stronghold had been impressive, it had also alerted the enemy, and the subsequent battles seemed to have suddenly become more difficult.

However, Wang Zhonghua exchanged a glance with Ouyang Xiu, who had been sitting quietly observing, and suddenly clapped his hands and burst into laughter.

"Hahaha! General Di, gentlemen, why worry?" Wang Zhonghua's clear laughter dispelled some of the gloom in the tent. "In my opinion, this is not raising a tiger, but rather driving a wolf into its den, a golden opportunity to finish the job in one battle!"

He walked to the wooden plate he had made, his eyes burning with determination: "The Zoroastrian bandits are scattered everywhere. If we divide our forces to suppress them, it will be like punching a flea with a fist—time-consuming and laborious. If we are not careful, they will escape to other places and rise again. Now, they have gathered in Junzhou, whether voluntarily or forced. Isn't this exactly what we want?"

"What do you mean by what Commander Wang said?" a lieutenant couldn't help but ask.