Chapter Thirty-Two: Foes Turned Friends

In the logistics camp, Yang Lian stood with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying his surroundings. In modern terms, this would be the logistics unit—responsible for meals, lodging, and medical care. Several army doctors were busy treating Chen Tie’s injuries. Yang Lian and Lin Renzhao stood nearby, conversing in hushed tones.

Yang Lian was not anxious. Although he had given Chen Tie a beating, he had been careful not to go too far. Despite the bruises and blood on Chen Tie’s face, there was no serious harm; with just a few days’ rest, he would recover. Chen Tie gritted his teeth, unwilling to lose face before Yang Lian. Yet flesh is flesh, and as the doctors tended his wounds, pain coursed through him, making his eyes well with tears. Still, he uttered not a sound.

“A real man,” Yang Lian said, giving him a thumbs-up.

Chen Tie grimaced, wanting to reply, but the doctor barked, “Don’t move!” Chen Tie rolled his eyes in resignation.

Lin Renzhao advised from the side, “Stay still, or you’ll ruin your looks.”

“A man of true grit doesn’t care about looks—only achievement matters,” Chen Tie managed to say.

“Look at your so-called achievement: beaten like this, and you still talk big?” sneered the doctor, his laughter cold.

Chen Tie fell silent; after all, being beaten so badly was unlucky. He’d drunk a bit, thinking it wouldn’t matter, only for Yang Lian to catch him off guard. As soon as his wounds were wrapped, Yao Feng entered, relieved to see the two men hadn’t started fighting again.

“As the saying goes, no friendship without a fight. Now that you’re comrades, you can turn hostility into harmony,” Yao Feng said with a smile.

“Hmph, who wants harmony with him?” Chen Tie retorted, shooting Yao Feng a glance, then hurried out.

Lin Renzhao smiled, cupped his hands, and excused himself.

Yang Lian nodded and followed. The training ground had quieted. Li Ping and Lu Mengjun were drilling their men, while Yang Lian watched from the sidelines. He had never served in the army and didn’t know much about their training.

After observing for over an hour, Yang Lian gained some understanding. Perhaps due to the lax discipline of the Southern Tang, the soldiers simply drilled endlessly. Each squad leader led his men, first with spears, then with swords and shields, finally practicing archery. The training was not rigorous. Yang Lian noticed some men fired ten arrows without hitting the target once—a woeful display of marksmanship. Of course, Yang Lian himself was no archer and had no room to mock others.

Suddenly, Yang Lian thought of Mi Shiwei, whose father, Mi Zhicheng, had been the finest archer of Yang Wu. Later, implicated in the rebellion of Zhu Jin, Xu Wen, following Yan Keqiu’s advice, falsely reported a great victory in Yuanzhou and ambushed Mi Zhicheng and his son. Mi Shiwei, however, had escaped for reasons unknown—a small favor from fate.

A pity that Mi Zhicheng was gone; otherwise, Yang Lian would have learned much from him. Yet he knew archery was not mastered overnight, so there was no rush. The day passed quickly, and soon it was noon. Most of the Shenwu Army’s officers hailed from Jinling and returned home for their meal; only a few dined in the barracks.

Yang Lian, seeing everyone leave, grew curious and asked Lin Renzhao, who merely smiled and said nothing.

It wasn’t until the food arrived that Yang Lian understood. The Shenwu Army, elite among the imperial guards, received generous pay, so their meals should have been decent. Yet Yang Lian sifted through his plate with his chopsticks, finding only two tiny pieces of lean meat—the rest was wilted vegetables.

He tasted a bite and nearly spat it out. Swallowing with difficulty, he asked Lin Renzhao, “Is this what you eat every day?”

Lin Renzhao, long accustomed, didn’t care. “You get used to it.”

Yang Lian took a few more bites and found it tasteless compared to Huang Qi’s cooking. He immediately rose, declaring, “Stop eating—I’ll treat everyone.”

Lin Renzhao glanced at him. “There’s more drill in the afternoon.”

Yang Lian rolled his eyes. The Laifu Inn was far away; time was tight. He had no choice but to force the food down and finish quickly. Lin Renzhao and Chen Tie finished eating and found places to rest, and Yang Lian followed suit. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder: How bold were Gao Shensi and Zhou Hongzuo to dare skimp on the imperial guards’ rations, right under the emperor’s nose? Were they not afraid of being reported?

After a nap, Yang Lian felt refreshed, though the afternoon passed much the same. He’d gained a good grasp of the guards’ training, so he summoned Chen Tie and Long Yun, the two stewards. Chen Tie was much better, though his face was wrapped in bandages, with only his eyes visible—a comical sight.

Long Yun, wary of Yang Lian’s ruthlessness and having been introduced by Commander Gao, treated Yang Lian with great respect, bowing his head as Yang Lian spoke.

Yang Lian’s instructions were simple: He wanted them to make three sandbags—one large, two small. The large one should weigh twenty pounds, the small ones five pounds each. He only mentioned that they’d be needed tomorrow, then waved them away.

Chen Tie lingered after the others had left.

“Chen Tie, why are you still here? Do you want another fight?” Yang Lian asked mildly.

Chen Tie shook his head. “No, I’d like to ask for leave tomorrow.”

“Off to drink again?” Yang Lian squinted, puzzled by the man. He could drink, but never to excess—there had to be limits.

Chen Tie shook his head. “It’s Zeng Yiling’s debut at the Xiaoxiang Court tomorrow—I want to see her.”

Yang Lian’s eyes lit up. This Zeng Yiling again—what magic did she possess to captivate Chen Tie so utterly? Seeing Yang Lian hesitate, Chen Tie hurried to explain, “Commander Yang, Zeng Yiling excels in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, and her beauty is unmatched. But she’s proud; at the Xiaoxiang Court, not everyone gets to see her.”

“You don’t know how many come just to catch a glimpse, but none have won her favor,” Chen Tie said, looking lovestruck, leaving Yang Lian speechless.

Yet Yang Lian was intrigued. He’d heard Zeng Yiling’s name before—from the bandit’s third brother, and from Chen Tie himself when drunk. Now, Chen Tie was even taking leave for her—he was truly besotted, and Zeng Yiling clearly had her ways.

Yang Lian asked, “When is her debut?”

“It’s late, at the hour of the dog. But with my face like this, it’s not suitable to go out—I need to tidy up during the day,” Chen Tie answered with a bitter face. If Zeng Yiling saw him like this, would she even meet him?

Yang Lian waved him off. “Fine, I’ll say you’re injured and need two days’ rest. But this is the last time. You’re a soldier—you must focus. Serving the nation is the true path.”

Chen Tie muttered, “Min has fallen—what home is left?”

Yang Lian didn’t catch it. “What did you say?”

Chen Tie forced a smile, wincing from pain, and said quietly, “It’s nothing. Thank you, Commander Yang!” He pronounced the last words very clearly, then darted off.

Yang Lian watched him go, shaking his head. This Chen Tie—what a character. According to Lin Renzhao, they were both renowned in Min, but while many remembered Lin Renzhao, few knew of Chen Tie. He had faded into obscurity.

The afternoon slipped by. At dusk, Yang Lian left the Shenwu Army, strolling along the Qinhuai River. The river wound through the city, and in the height of summer, willows swayed by its banks. Boats lined the water, music playing, creating a festive atmosphere.

Suddenly, Yang Lian recalled that famous verse: “Beyond the hills, more hills; beyond the towers, more towers. When will the songs and dances of West Lake end? The warm breeze intoxicates the wanderers, making Hangzhou seem like Bianzhou.” Though it was a Southern Song poem, it fit this moment perfectly. The Li family of Southern Tang claimed descent from the great Tang, but in Jinling, life was decadent and aimless—a kingdom doomed to fall.

Just two years ago, Li Jing, despite an empty treasury, insisted on building a hundred-foot tower and the Qixia Pavilion within the palace, inviting officials to admire them. All praised their beauty. Evidently, Li Jing was a man of extravagance—such people never thrive in troubled times.

Yang Lian shook his head. Was he actually sympathizing with Li Jing? That made no sense—his own ambition was to seize Southern Tang, so the weaker it became, the easier his task. Yet, he also realized that, with the north soon to become Later Zhou under Guo Wei, if Southern Tang was feeble, it would never withstand an invasion. So his feelings were conflicted.

He shook his head again, banishing these thoughts. Now was not the time to ponder so deeply—he had a long road ahead. If he were to deal with Later Zhou’s Chai Rong or Zhao, it would be a matter for the future.

Suddenly, his eyes widened. A woman ahead, her silhouette so familiar—he had once thought her dead.

“Zhang Qili?” Yang Lian couldn’t help but call out. He was certain Zhang Qili had come to Jinling, but where was she?

Yang Lian hurried forward, but the area was full of winding alleys. The woman, unaware she was being followed, slipped through the lanes, quickly leaving Yang Lian behind. He scratched his head in frustration and retraced his steps, only then realizing how maze-like these alleys were. After wandering for ages, he still hadn’t found his way out.

At last, he asked an old man for directions and, with his help, made his way out. By the time Yang Lian returned to the Laifu Inn, it was already nightfall. The place was chaotic. Xiao Erhei had hired several carpenters to renovate the inn according to Yang Lian’s design.

Laifu Inn had been connected to the tavern next door, creating a five-pace-wide passage with handrails installed on both sides. The red paint was still wet, its scent pungent. Yang Lian inspected the work and was satisfied—Xiao Erhei seemed reliable and trustworthy.

After a long day, and a bout with Chen Tie, Yang Lian was exhausted. Though the fight had been brief, he had given it his all, sweating profusely. Now, his sweat had dried, leaving him uncomfortable. He instructed Wang Hu to prepare hot water, took a bath, ate, rested a bit, and soon fell into a deep sleep. Tomorrow, he would rise early and lead his men in training.