Chapter 48 - The Sinews of War
Wu Yu called out several times, his voice raspy and thin against the biting wind. He fumbled through the layers of his robes, his numb fingers searching for any scrap of sustenance, but he found nothing. Only then did the realization strike him—he had given his very last pouch of dried beef to that scrawny little brat in the ranks earlier. He let out a frustrated groan, rubbing his messy, wind-blown hair into an even greater state of disarray. It was a wretched state of affairs; misfortunes never came singly. Here they were, pinned down by the Great Yuan forces, and they were out of rations.
The city of Shangjin was not lacking in wealth. In fact, it was flush with silver and gold, the spoils of its status as a premier trading hub. But in this desperate hour, even if that silver were piled as high as the city walls, it would not be worth a single wagon of grain. By all logic, a place like Shangjin should never have suffered a shortage. It was the lifeblood of northern commerce, a place where goods flowed like water. Yet, because it was a transit point, it lacked its own dedicated granaries. It relied on the constant ebb and flow of trade to keep its bellies full. Arslan had struck with surgical precision, severing the supply lines and hitting them exactly where it hurt most.
Money. Silver and gold.
A sudden spark of inspiration flashed through Wu Yu’s mind. That was it—they had money! They were practically drowning in it. If they couldn't eat the silver, they could certainly spend it. They could take the vast stockpiles of leather and luxury goods currently languishing in Shangjin’s warehouses and flip them to the central regions. By selling to Qingping and the capital, they could exchange useless finery for life-sustaining grain.
Once the capital’s own reserves began to dwindle from these purchases, the imperial court would be forced to requisition supplies from the Great Lan’s central granaries. If a man as avaricious and self-serving as Yan Jueshu wanted to keep his head on his shoulders, he would have no choice but to ensure the capital remained fed. In the chaos of those logistical shifts, Beiyang could maneuver to intercept and amass enough military rations to sustain the campaign.
It was a gamble—a plan to snatch food right out from under Yan Jueshu’s nose. But who could possibly carry out such a delicate, dangerous task?
Wu Yu chewed his lip, mentally crossing off names. He certainly couldn't go; the situation in Shangjin was too precarious, and he needed to remain as the Prince’s voice and ears on the ground. Jibai Yue and Xu Hu were anchored to Rouhui, unable to shift even a half-step away from the front lines. Meng Chen was even less of an option. Setting aside the fact that he was occupied in Xianglan, keeping a wary eye on the rear to guard against any treachery from Prince Tang, the man was a disaster with finances. If Uncle Meng were sent to negotiate a trade, he’d likely return having lost not just the deal, but his very trousers. They would be fighting the war stark naked before Yan Jueshu even broke a sweat.
Wu Yu rubbed his hair again, his thoughts spinning in circles. He couldn't think of a single soul capable of threading that needle.
High above, the desolate winter wind scraped against the stone battlements, whistling through the tattered, faded banners that fluttered like broken wings. Xin Yi’s fingers were stiff with cold, the joints aching with a dull, persistent throb. He flexed them slowly, his hand instinctively drifting to the hilt of Tiandao at his waist. The cold touch of the weapon provided a strange sense of grounding, a tether to reality amidst the exhaustion.
Arslan’s assaults had been relentless, a crushing tide of steel and horseflesh that had only finally ebbed as the first grey light of dawn touched the horizon. Xin Yi felt a splitting headache blooming behind his eyes. He raised a hand to brush the sweat-matted hair from his forehead, his skin feeling alarmingly hot to the touch. The air was a nauseating cocktail of smells—the metallic tang of blood, the acrid stench of smoke, and the sour odor of unwashed bodies. It clawed at his throat, making every breath a chore.
This was the essence of a "wheel war"—a strategy of attrition designed to grind the spirit into dust. It was meant to induce a state of numb lethality where the mind grew sluggish and mistakes became inevitable. Xin Yi refused to falter. He stood in the path of the wind, eyes closed, letting the freezing air bite into his skin to sharpen his drifting focus.
It had been three days since his last successful sortie. In that time, he had launched constant, harrowing raids against the Great Yuan lines. His greatest victory had been the incineration of their reserve siege engines, but even that offered little more than a temporary reprieve. Arslan had the depth of the steppes behind him; more machines could always be brought forward.
Xin Yi’s hands were a map of scars and fresh cuts, but the biting cold had long since robbed them of sensation. He preferred it that way. He reached down, scooping up a handful of snow and rubbing it against his face to shock his system. Below, the low, mournful blare of a horn echoed through the valley.
They were coming again.
Xin Yi turned and descended from the wall. As he reached the base, he moved to sit, his weight leaning against the cold stone. The movement startled Wu Yu, who had been dozing fitfully nearby. The official jerked awake with a sharp gasp, his eyes snapping open. The two men exchanged a silent, weary look before striking their palms together—a grim, unspoken pact of shared burden.
As Xin Yi moved past him to prepare for the next wave, Wu Yu scrambled to his feet. He slapped his own cheeks, trying to force life back into his tired limbs. His voice, now a ruined, gravelly rasp, tore through the air.
"Change the guard! Those who were on the wall last night, get down! Let the ones who slept come up! Get the beams ready—crush the bastards as they climb!"
Nearby, Xin Yi had already vaulted onto his horse. He adjusted the specialized vambraces on his left arm, rubbing away a layer of frost to reveal the jagged, lethal spikes hidden beneath the iron plating. The Beiyang soldiers mounting up behind him felt a collective shiver run down their spines. They looked at the silent, stony profile of their Prince, remembering exactly how he intended to use those steel thorns, and their hearts hammered against their ribs in a mixture of awe and terror.
