A divine healer, a general, a young marquis! Who can rival them!

Those soldiers suffering from frostbite, those hands and feet that almost couldn't be saved, were like cold thorns piercing Yang Hu's heart.

He could cure the frostbite on his feet, but he couldn't cure the cotton-padded coats that were supposed to keep the soldiers warm but hadn't been issued yet.

"According to the regulations of the Dacheng Army," Yang Hu recounted to Qin Ying, who was disguised as a medicine boy, as night fell, "the soldiers guarding the border should be issued full amounts of cotton-padded clothes and charcoal for warmth in winter. This is an ironclad rule."

The cold, clear eyes on Qin Ying's disguised face as a medicine boy suddenly darkened.

Born into a military family, she grew up in the army and knew the rules and regulations better than anyone else.

The soldiers guarding the border, in this bitterly cold land, risk their lives to protect the imperial court. A proper cotton-padded coat and a warm brazier are the bare minimum of consideration they deserve. To deduct even these small things is tantamount to trampling on the lives of these border guards.

"But the soldiers in this battalion," Yang Hu's voice turned cold, "are wearing thin, tattered uniforms, and the camp is burning only a pitifully small amount of charcoal. They are suffering from frostbite in batches, not because of the cold weather, but because they don't have enough warm clothing."

"Military supplies." Qin Ying said, gritting her teeth as she squeezed out the two words, "Military supplies again."

These two words seemed to pierce the deepest wound in her heart. Back then, the entire Lu family was executed because someone tampered with their military supplies and reports, first withholding their grain and weapons, then fabricating charges of treason, and finally leading to their extermination. Now, the same hand is at the border, using the same methods to erode the backbone of Da Cheng.

Military rations and weapons have been leaked, and now even cotton-padded clothes and charcoal for keeping warm have been withheld.

"Not bad." Yang Hu nodded slowly, his eyes as cold as the cold night in this border region. "The cotton clothes and charcoal allocated were not enough. It's recorded in the accounts, but the warehouse is empty. The portion that was withheld was either sold for silver, or there was no intention to let these soldiers guarding the city live a warm and comfortable life."

With a number of defenders freezing to death or suffering frostbite, the defenses on the city walls become somewhat weaker. With one less person able to climb the walls and wield a sword, it becomes easier for the barbarians to breach the pass.

This is the same method, the same hand, and the same vicious scheme as poisoning weapons to kill the defending troops.

However, this time the blade is the biting cold, the harsh border region where clothes and charcoal are scarce. It kills without drawing blood, yet it is more ruthless than swords and arrows.

The light from the oil lamp flickered on his young face.

He laid the paper filled with names and details under the lamp again, pushing the layers deeper.

From the inferior weapons that claimed lives on the city walls, to the poisoned arrows, and then to the meager cotton-padded clothes and burning charcoal, each clue, seemingly scattered, points to the same source. The hand hidden deep within the central army is using every available method—inferior weapons, poisoned arrows, and bitter cold—to slowly hollow out the defenses of this border fortress.

"It can be found." Yang Hu's fingertip touched the blank fog, and he said, word by word, "The allocation of cotton-padded clothes and charcoal is regulated and quota-based. How much should be issued, how much was actually received, and how much is stored in the warehouse are all recorded in the ledgers."

He paused for a moment: "The portion that is withheld always has to be handled by someone, have someone sign it, and have someone close the account. If you trace it along this line, you'll find another thread that you can hold in your hand. Every time it reaches out, it exposes another clue."

He had gradually mastered this skill of auditing accounts while using his position as a medical officer to inventory the entire camp's supplies. Now, it was proving useful once again.

Qin Ying looked at him quietly.

This young man in his early twenties, relying on his medical skills, entered this camp solely to investigate traitors and rescue the border. But now, every illness he treats—whether it's wind poison, arrow poison, or frostbite—unfolds a crime committed by a hidden hand. A doctor's eyes are meant for observation, listening, questioning, and palpation, to examine the body's ailments. But in Yang Hu's hands, these eyes have become lamps illuminating the darkness within the camp, revealing the mastermind behind it all.

He treated the soldiers' illnesses, but what he saw was the rotten roots of this border post that had been hollowed out.

"You're not just healing people," she suddenly said softly, a rare warmth flickering in her usually cold eyes, "you're also healing this barrier."

Yang Hu paused for a moment, but did not deny it.

He was originally just a traveling doctor, but by chance, he protected Qin Ying and plunged headlong into the murky waters of investigating traitors and saving the border. But the deeper he went, the clearer he saw that the rot in this border was not just a few sores, but a decay that had been eaten away from the very core by a single hand.

"A doctor's heart is like a parent's." He looked out the window at the heavily lit central command tent, his voice softening. "Treating a soldier with frostbite is saving a life. But the root cause of the frostbite and bleeding suffered by all the soldiers in this camp lies in that hand. Without removing that hand, no matter how much treatment is given, it's only treating the symptoms, not the root cause."

He turned his head and looked at the woman beside him, who was covered in ash but had an extraordinary air about her.

"Are you cold?" he suddenly asked.

Qin Ying was taken aback.

The night at the border was bitterly cold. She disguised herself as a medicine boy, wearing only thin, coarse cloth clothes.

"It's...it's alright." She turned her face away somewhat awkwardly.

Yang Hu didn't say anything more, but silently took off his worn cotton robe and gently draped it over her shoulders without saying a word.

He himself was left with only a single layer of clothing, standing in the biting cold night. But he seemed oblivious, lowering his head again to stare at the paper covered with names, continuing his deductions.

That warm cotton robe wrapped around her thin body and shielded her from the biting cold wind of the border region.

This young man, who is always quiet but more thoughtful than anyone else, always does things that warm people's hearts without them even realizing it.

Qin Ying's heart warmed for no apparent reason.

His scent still lingered on the cotton robe.

She held the hem of the cotton robe, gazing at the young man under the lamplight, meticulously tracing the supply chain of the military. Her heart, which had been hanging in suspense for over a year and was almost frozen, softened inexplicably.

No matter how cold the world is, or how dark people's hearts are, as long as there is someone by your side who is willing to drape their cotton robe over your shoulders and accompany you through the deepest and coldest muddy waters, then you feel that no matter how difficult the journey is, it doesn't seem so difficult after all.

Outside the window, the north wind howled and snow fell heavily.

Inside the barracks, many soldiers, lacking both clothing and charcoal, huddled together, enduring the long night in the bitter cold.

The lights in the central command tent shone brightly and were unusually warm amidst the wind and snow. The hand hidden deep within was still using this bitter cold to erode the flesh and blood and lives of the border soldiers, completely unaware that every piece of cotton clothing and every piece of charcoal it withheld was being recorded by a pair of calm eyes, each item added to the bloody account that would eventually be repaid.

The longer this blood debt is remembered, the closer that hand will be to the day of reckoning.

The amount recorded in that cotton ledger was 40% less than the actual amount in the warehouse. That 40% difference, when distributed among the brothers, amounted to 40% of their labor. Yang Hu closed the ledger and tapped his knuckles twice on the cover.

A layer of dust covered the door hinges of the warehouse, but the wheel ruts on the ground were fresh. Yang Hu squatted down to examine the depth of the ruts, and when he stood up, his face was frighteningly grim.

On a snowy night, some people shivered from the cold, some were unusually warm, and some, in this biting cold night, quietly gripped the knife that would eventually cleave through the long night.