MFMH C81

Chapter 81 — Imperial Commissioner

When Shen Yanbei woke the next day, daylight already flooded the window; it was well into midmorning.

On instinct he reached to the side of the bed — empty.

He covered his face with one hand and smiled helplessly.

At this hour his husband would already have mustered the troops and departed; he’d missed the chance to see him off.

He sighed in regret and brushed away the wisps of hair from his forehead.

Oh well. If his husband did not want him to see him off, he would not insist. He also disliked prolonged farewells.

He had originally planned a day of rest, and now that was wasted.

With his husband gone, Shen Yanbei lacked the mood to linger in bed, so he rose and dressed. The moment his feet touched the floor his expression changed.

His legs were heavy and sore, and his waist… achingly weak.

“For heaven’s sake…” Shen Yanbei covered his face. Last night had burned him out entirely, and yet his husband still seemed inexhaustible!

This would not do; he could not be embarrassed like this. Determined, he resolved to train harder from now on.

Zhou Yu had gone to the frontier with Gu Changfeng, and with no household help at home, Shen Yanbei ate breakfast, then went to supervise the finishing work at the tavern before heading to the outskirts.

He had no idea how long his husband’s military training would take; he would not be a statue waiting, staring at the road for his return. There was too much to do.

The villagers in Louxia greeted Shen Yanbei as he arrived and bowed. He flashed a faint smile and told them not to be formal, then, accompanied by the village head, walked out into the fields.

The chili seeds had germinated well; little green shoots peppered the earth. The large pile of farmyard compost had nearly finished fermenting—dark and rich, its stench enough to knock a person out.

Shen Yanbei picked up a hoe and demonstrated proper fertilization and deep tilling: “Lay the compost in rows no deeper than three cun, cover it with soil, sow the seed atop it about an inch from the surface. Keep five cun between plants…”

The villagers admired that he worked with his own hands rather than merely barking orders.

After a while Shen Yanbei felt unwell. He’d exerted himself last night, and his limbs lacked their former strength. Thankfully, the villagers, seeing the noonday sun, fetched water and urged him to sit and rest. He willingly handed the hoe to a helper.

About a hundred li down the official road, a dense column of soldiers ran in tight formation; hooves churned dust into the sky.

At the head of the forced march, a broad-shouldered man sat steady on a tall warhorse.

He wore a bright cuirass woven from small plates; his face was stern, his bearing kingly. As the horse reared and the rider cracked his whip, wind lifted the dark strands of hair at his brow, revealing the faint birthmark between his brows.

Their commander was, to everyone’s surprise, a shuang’er.

Before departure, word that a shuang’er would lead them had sown discontent among many soldiers; detainees muttered and a few regretted enlisting and thought to withdraw.

A delicate shuang’er should be enjoying tea and flowers in his boudoir, not presiding over men bound for war — they said it was a mockery of their lives.

Young martial officers of the column also resented being commanded by such a person. Many of them were scions of nobles or had earned their posts through military exams; by rank and competence they could not accept being led by someone they deemed unfit.

Confronted by doubts and murmurs in the ranks, the man said little. He simply grasped his spear and faced those who resented him, issuing two short words: “If you seek to fight, step forward.”

When pointed down the barrel of a spear, blood-hot young officers flushed crimson and drew steel at once.

Between flashing blades and shifting stances, the man remained expressionless, dodging assaults with calm precision. Every move he made in offense or defense stunned the observers.

One, two, three—

Save for a lone older general, the other captains found themselves flattened beneath his skill, unable to retain their footing.

The watching soldiers gaped. “Good heavens—was he born in the wrong body? Apart from that birthmark, what about him even seems like a shuang’er?”

Others chimed in: “Right—the looks, the build, the fighting skill—this is terrifying.”

“No wonder he’s joining the army; a shuang’er like this, who’d dare marry him?”

Hearing the soldiers’ whispers, the man’s face did not change. He re-sheathed his spear, glanced down at the prostrate young officer, and said gravely, “Form your squads at once. Assemble and depart on time. No mistakes.”

“…Yes!” the captains groaned as they picked themselves up and mustered their men. With such martial prowess displayed, and given an imperial command, they dared not object further.

After quick roll-call and lineup, at the appointed time the man’s order rang out and fifty thousand raw levies, stepping out beneath the first eastern light, set off for the frontier. These new troops had been mustered from nearby prefectures; others would follow by region. Because of the urgency, the emperor had commanded this man to march ahead while reinforcements were escorted forward by local generals.

The recruits were untrained and uneven in quality; each signed up for their own reasons. None could be sure they would live to return. The commander’s personal martial strength quelled immediate panic; the rest would be forged on the road.

He had no battlefield command experience; to have fifty thousand men entrusted to him by the emperor presented a trial: he must deliver as many as possible to the frontier intact.

Getting them there was one thing — bringing them back was another. He tightened his grip on the silver spear, his gaze deep and determined.

The dust swirled as the sun climbed higher and the army receded from the capital.

Mounted on his horse, the man stifled the urge to look back; still, the longing in his heart accumulated with each passing hour.

Has the youth woken? He ran off secretly—will he be angry?

His brow smoothed into a faint smile.

Probably not; the youth was indulgent with him.

At that thought, his face flushed an unfamiliar red.

Last night’s abandon had stemmed from knowing he would be indulged; thus he had demanded and the youth had indulged. It had initially made him nervous and shy, but under the youth’s encouragement he’d grown to savor it.

He liked the intimacy of skin against skin—the seamless melding of bodies and breath.

“Your Highness?” someone called, snapping him back. He turned: General Li, the one senior officer who had not engaged him earlier.

“It’s midday. Can we rest?” new recruits needed gradual exertion, not nonstop marching.

“Hold position; rest here for half an hour and then depart,” the man ordered. The bugler sounded, relaying the halt.

The entire column relaxed and breathed; the raw troops visibly sagged with relief. They drank water and ate hardtack. The man, however, did not sit; he nudged his horse and rode to the rear with his junior guards to inspect.

“Report!” squad leaders snapped to attention. “One hundred gathered. No stragglers!”

He nodded, offering a few words of encouragement before moving on to the next squad. He checked each unit personally to ensure no deserters or missing men—only then did he allow himself a brief rest.

The young officers, ashamed and yet impressed by his thoroughness, reflected on the importance of curbing desertion. Desertion spread panic and undermined morale; in bad weather or during disease outbreaks, weak resolve would doom the expedition. His painstaking method prevented flight and reinforced esprit de corps.

“Master, drink,” one of the young guards offered a waterskin; he took a sip, told the boy to rest, then settled beneath a tree and dozed.

Although strong, after last night’s excess and long hours in the saddle he felt the strain.

He leaned against the trunk, the silver spear across his knees, large hand idly stroking the shaft.

It was a new spear, custom-made by an artisan Shen Yanbei had sought out while in the capital for the exams—exceptionally balanced in hand.

Soon that spear would be stained with the barbarians’ blood.

When the rest period ended, the recruits fell in and the man sprang to his feet, vaulting onto his horse. Leading fifty thousand men, he strode out toward the frontier in great, rumbling numbers.

The march to the border would take roughly half a month; being raw troops, it would take several days longer. During this stretch, city life in Yongjing continued as before—marriages, funerals, market days—but Shen Yanbei could feel the tense atmosphere in court.

News came from the frontier: Wuso had reached accord with Rongguetu; two of the steppe’s largest tribes would unite to field troops.

After the emperor convened ministers, the Ministry of War moved urgently while the Ministry of Revenue arranged supplies and logistics.

Last year’s agricultural drives in the southern provinces had increased yields; many regions saw improved per-acre production. The new season’s rice had been sown and, come July, harvests would replenish supplies. Food and materiel needs were not a worry.

Historically, the steppe raiders struck after autumn harvest; by then the new troops would be trained, personnel ready, and provisions prepared—Qi would be able to strike at a prepared enemy.

Just as the court readied for war, an unexpected disaster struck.

Liuyang Prefecture was hit by an earthquake with catastrophic devastation. Prince Jinyang petitioned with tears to describe the misery: collapsed houses, landslides, countless people buried beneath rubble; devastation everywhere, refugees starving and shivering. He implored the court for imperial aid.

The customary response to such calamity was relief funds.

After confirming reports via his secret guards, Zhao Yu approved a relief grant of one hundred thousand taels of silver to Liuyang. But who would deliver the funds so they reached suffering civilians rather than some corrupt netherwork tied to Prince Jinyang? Who could be trusted to ensure the money would be used for the public good and not pilfered?

For ambitious courtiers, it was a chance to shine—though the task was fraught, and accomplishing it might risk thankless backlash, especially in Prince Jinyang’s sphere of influence.

Ministers nominated candidates, and some volunteered. After careful consideration, Zhao Yu appointed an imperial commissioner.

There was no doubt in his mind: the most suitable choice was Shen Yanbei.