Extreme Frontier Army: Starting from the bottom ranks, conquering the chaotic world

That night, the campfire of the Eighth Battalion burned late into the night.

Five hundred catties of finely roasted wheat were put into the pot, and the aroma of the thin porridge wafted far and wide in the wind and snow. Even the archers outside the camp walls secretly turned around to take a few glances.

Lu Jing sat at the entrance of the tent, turning the object he had brought out from the special supply warehouse over and over in his hand.

Shen Qingqiu walked over with a half-bowl of porridge and squatted down next to him.

"You didn't eat." She glanced at the piece of food wrapped in tattered cloth in Lu Jing's hand.

"I'm not hungry." Lu Jing lifted the tattered cloth, revealing a piece of grayish-white flesh with the character "prisoner" tattooed on it. "This thing is useless just because the two of us see it."

Shen Qingqiu hesitated for a moment: "You...you still want to show it to others?"

"We need to let everyone see this." Lu Jing looked up. "Gu Changfeng has cornered us here. There are three thousand archers outside and thousands of starving ghosts inside. How many days can we last with just five hundred catties of refined wheat? And what will happen after that?"

Before Shen Qingqiu could answer, he continued, "We need to get these people fired up by the food. Eating them full is only the first step. Once they understand what they're eating, we can direct their anger where it should go."

Shen Qingqiu remained silent for a long time.

She stared at the object and said softly, "If you cook that pot of meat... won't they tear you apart first when they find out the truth?"

"Yes." Lu Jing grinned. "So before I lift the lid, I need to set up Zhao He as the target."

He wrapped the tattered cloth again and stuffed it into his clothes: "Just remember one thing, when the pot of meat is served tomorrow, don't stop me. And don't give it away on your face."

Shen Qingqiu looked down at the thin porridge in the bowl.

She remained silent for a long time before finally nodding slightly.

Lu Jing stood up: "The meat in the pot was killed by Gu Changfeng and marinated by Zhao He. We just lifted the lid."

Shen Qingqiu finished the porridge in the bowl in one gulp, then stood up.

Lu Jing heard a soft sigh behind him.

Day four, noon.

Looking down at the nearly cracked sole of his boot, Lu Jing cursed inwardly.

In this place, let alone time travelers, even dogs would have to write their wills first.

In front of him, three large iron pots, dug out of the kitchen ruins, were lined up in a row.

There was a stack of dry firewood chopped from a discarded horse under the pot.

The flames licked the bottom of the pot, turning the black iron blue.

Skinny Monkey and two other recruits were squatting on the ground, stuffing firewood into the stove.

"Sergeant, the water's boiling."

Skinny Monkey wiped the black ash off his face, drooling, and almost choked on it.

The 500 jin of roasted wheat that we managed to salvage last night was already being distributed by pot before dawn.

That amount of grain wasn't a lot, but it wasn't a little either.

If it were really spread across the thousands of mouths in the Eighth Battalion, each person would only get a few mouthfuls of gruel.

At best, it can only pull people back from the brink of starvation.

If we want these hungry ghosts to still be able to wield their knives today, we'll need to add some more substantial food.

It's hard enough to give that old bastard Gu Changfeng nightmares.

Lu Jing carried a shovel and walked to several large wooden barrels nearby.

These wooden barrels were dragged back from the backyard of the quartermaster department by him and Shen Qingqiu last night, taking advantage of the wind and snow.

The wooden barrel was covered with a thick black cloth.

Lu Jing ripped off the black cloth covering the first bucket.

It had a mixture of coarse salt, spices, and a certain nauseatingly sweet and rotten smell.

This tastes really weird.

A normal person would vomit up all their bile on the spot after just one whiff.

Lu Jing was so irritated that he couldn't even open his eyes.

That bastard Gu Changfeng is so greedy for money, even the King of Hell would have to give him an "Outstanding Employee of the Year" award.

To the death row inmates of the Eighth Battalion, who had been without food for three days and had even started gnawing on tree bark and scraping the bottom of pots, this smell was more deadly than the elixir of immortality from the Jade Pool.

Lu Jing raised the shovel expressionlessly and plunged it directly into the wooden bucket.

Gu Changfeng wanted to starve the Eighth Battalion into a pack of mad dogs, then release them to be targets for the crossbowmen.

Lu Jing refused to let him have his way.

Mad dogs are fine, but the leash must be in my hand.

With a forceful scoop, he scooped up a large lump of white, greasy stuff, soup and all.

The chunk of meat, whose origin was indistinguishable, was smashed into the boiling water, splashing up large sprays of scalding water.

A thick layer of grease floated on the surface of the water.

Lu Jing shoveled the three large iron pots until they were completely full.

He then grabbed a handful of black spices he had found on the dead from a tattered cloth bag next to him, threw them all into the pot, and stirred them with a long-handled iron spoon.

The spiciness of the spices overpowers most of the cloying, rotten smell, transforming it into a rich, meaty aroma.

Hefted the iron ladle in his hand, calculating the limits of these hungry ghosts' patience.

This meal should be paid for by Gu Changfeng.

He killed the people, he cured the meat, and he cut off the supply lines.

If the thousands of men in the Eighth Battalion don't eat this, they'll really only be eating dirt tonight, and tomorrow morning they'll be riddled with holes by those crossbowmen outside.

Is it better to be disgusting to live or to die cleanly?

This wretched world never gives people a third way out.

Gu Changfeng surrounded the Eighth Battalion and cut off all supply lines, intending to turn this place into a trap.

Once these death row inmates are driven mad by hunger and break through the camp gates to steal food, the archers outside will have a legitimate reason to shoot them all into pincushions.

Unfortunately, that old guy overlooked one crucial detail.

The very thing he used to line his own pockets and traffic in people—this batch of specially supplied meat preserved from corpses—has now all ended up in Laozi's pot.

The aroma of meat wafted on the wind, filling every corner of the Eighth Battalion.

The soldiers who had been slumped like corpses against the leeward wall began to twitch.

A pair of bloodshot eyes opened, and a terrifying green light shone from their depths.

"Meat......"

It is unclear who uttered the first indistinct mutter.

Immediately afterwards, the entire camp stirred as if a graveyard had been awakened.

The tattered tent flap was lifted, revealing withered, bony fingers gripping the doorframe.

Hundreds, even thousands of people, dragging their weak legs, converged on the center of the training ground from all directions like zombies drawn by the smell of blood.

More and more people.

The strong smell of excrement and urine in the air was driven away by the scalding aroma of meat.

Skinny Monkey looked at the dense crowd surging forward around him, and his legs started to cramp.

Holding a wooden shield, he and two other recruits stood back to back, barely managing to create a crescent-shaped defensive line in front of the three large cauldrons.

"Don't...don't push!"

The skinny monkey's voice trembled uncontrollably, and the shield in his hand creaked as it was bumped against the person in front of him.

"Brother Lu said the meat isn't cooked yet, so get in line... get in line!"

Nobody listens to him.

Hunger had completely destroyed the rationality of this group of people.

The people in the front row stared at the bubbling broth, their saliva mixed with frozen snot dripping uncontrollably into the muddy water.

The people behind were pushing and shoving forward, stepping on the heels of the people in front and craning their necks.

Just then.

Suddenly, a violent shoving sound came from the crowd.

"Get out of my way! All of you, get out of my way!"

A burly man, nearly eight feet tall with a face full of scars, wielded a long knife with a dull blade and forcefully pushed his way through the crowd.

This man, nicknamed Black Bear, was a notorious old scoundrel in the Eighth Battalion.

Taking advantage of his strength and seniority, he often stole rations from new recruits.

A few days ago, a boy hid half a pancake. The police broke two of his fingers in public and then stuffed the pancake, blood and all, into his mouth.

The skinny monkey was robbed three times by him. The last time, he was so hungry that he lay in the snow in the middle of the night eating grass roots.

So when the black bear appeared, even though the people in front were starving, they still instinctively backed away to the sides.

The black bear's eyes were bloodshot as it walked a few steps to the skinny monkey's shield.

He slammed the long sword in his hand hard against the wooden shield with the flat of the blade.

"Bang!"

Wood chips flew everywhere.

The immense force caused the skinny monkey's tiger's mouth to split open, and he fell hard onto his buttocks into the muddy water.

The defense line was breached instantly.

The black bear stepped over the skinny monkey, its greedy eyes fixed on the pieces of meat floating in the pot.

"Lu Jing, right?"

Black Bear pointed the tip of his knife at Lu Jing, who was stirring the soup, his voice hoarse.

You led a group to loot grain last night, and I didn't go; I misjudged you. Today, I'm going to eat the first bowl of this pot of meat. Give me the biggest piece, and stop talking nonsense.

He spoke as he took a step forward.

Several troublemakers who usually hung out with him squeezed up behind him, each carrying a weapon and eyeing the pot menacingly.

Thousands of eyes were fixed on Lu Jing.

The rules in the lower-level barracks have always been simple: whoever has the biggest fist gets to eat first.

If Lu Jing backs down today, all three pots of pork will be snatched up.

Those who couldn't get their hands on the food rioted on the spot, overturning pots and pans and killing people in the process. The number of people trampled to death far exceeded the number who starved to death.

Lu Jing scraped the bottom of the pot with a long-handled iron ladle.

He glanced at the black bear's weak legs.

This shape would be considered bulky in a gym, an obvious target on the battlefield, but in the current situation where we've been starving for three days, it's at best a breathing meat shield.

"Do you want to eat the first bowl?"

Lu Jing placed the iron ladle on the edge of the pot and slowly wiped his hands on his tattered cotton-padded jacket.

"With that piece of junk you're holding, so dull it's not even good for chopping wood?"