The weeks after the Battle of the Serpent's Tail settled into a fragile, unfamiliar rhythm.
The frantic energy of combat had bled away, replaced by the deliberate, grinding work of recovery. For Lin Wei and his Medical Corps, this was the unglamorous proof of their success.
The work was no longer about battlefield triage, but about the long, slow fight against infection, the meticulous changing of dressings, and the careful monitoring of fevers. The rows of wounded in the convalescent tents were a silent testament to their victory, but also to its cost.
A tense anticipation hung over the camp, thick as the humidity before a storm. The memory of Commissioner Meng's departure, of the report destined for the Generalissimo's headquarters, was a ghost haunting every interaction. Lin Wei felt it most acutely.
The immediate, physical threats of battle had been replaced by a nebulous, gnawing anxiety. He was waiting for a judgment from a power so distant and immense it felt like waiting for a verdict from heaven itself.
The judgment arrived not with a whisper, but with the thunder of hooves.
It was a contingent of two dozen cavalry, but they were like no soldiers Lin Wei had ever seen.
These were not the hardened, dust-stained frontier troops of Commander Xin's army. Their lacquer armor was a uniform, deep vermilion, unmarred by scratch or dent, gleaming coldly in the sun. Their mounts were massive northern breeds, their tack pristine. They moved with a chilling, synchronized precision, their faces impassive masks beneath their helmet plumes. They were not merely soldiers; they were instruments of a will absolute and unforgiving. Their very presence silenced the camp, freezing men in place mid-action.
Their leader, a commander whose insignia marked him as a direct officer of the Generalissimo's staff, rode straight to Xin's command tent without slowing, his escort fanning out to form a perimeter of silent, intimidating authority.
He dismounted, his movements economical and devoid of wasted motion, and presented a scroll sealed with a lump of dark beeswax impressed with the character for "Yue." The air grew cold.
Inside the tent, the officer's voice was flat, devoid of courtesy or hostility. It was the voice of pure indifference. "By the order of the Generalissimo, Yue Fei, the individual known as Lin Wei, Surgeon-General of the Northern Frontier Army, is summoned to the Supreme Command Headquarters. He is to present himself and a full demonstration of his medical protocols without delay. He will depart with this escort immediately."
The words were not an invitation; they were a gravitational pull, an unarguable command that bent the very space in the tent.
Commander Xin accepted the scroll, his face granite. He dismissed the officer and turned to Lin Wei.
"This is it," Xin said, his voice low and grave.
"This is the moment we carved from blood and bone. But understand, Lin Wei. You are not going to receive a reward. You are walking into an examination hall where the examiners are generals and court officials, and failure is not a mark on a paper. It is a death sentence—for you, and for everything we have built. Your methods challenge empires of tradition. You will have powerful enemies in that room. They will be waiting for you to stumble."
The weight of the summons settled on Lin Wei's shoulders, heavier than any set of chains he had ever worn.
The journey north was a passage into another world. The familiar, rough-hewn landscape of the frontier gradually gave way to a scene of staggering military grandeur.
They passed through a series of fortified gates, each one manned by soldiers whose discipline was so absolute it felt alien. Then, they crested a hill, and the vista that opened before them stole the breath from Lin Wei's lungs.
It was not a camp. It was a city of war, sprawling across the valley floor and climbing the hillsides. Thousands of tents, laid out in geometrically perfect grids, housed an army larger than Lin Wei could have conceived.
The air vibrated with a low, constant hum—the sound of tens of thousands of men drilling, the clang of armories, the distant trumpet calls echoing from quadrant to quadrant.
Vast training fields, each the size of Xin's entire camp, swarmed with units moving in flawless unison. Siege engines, like slumbering dragons, were arrayed in parks. This was not just an army; it was the clenched fist of the Southern Song itself. The scale was suffocating, awe-inspiring, and utterly terrifying. Lin Wei's successes on the frontier felt suddenly, insignificantly small.
They were processed with cold, impersonal efficiency at the headquarters' perimeter.
Their weapons were taken, their identities scrutinized by clerks who looked at them as if they were specimens. They were assigned to a small, stark tent and told to wait. The anticipation was a physical pressure, a knot tightening in Lin Wei's gut with each passing hour.
The summons came at dawn the next day. They were led not to a command tent, but to the edge of the vast central parade ground. The sight that greeted them was meticulously staged for maximum psychological impact.
The field was empty, a vast expanse of packed earth. But on the far side, a raised dais had been erected, shaded by silk canopies. Upon it sat a row of senior officers, their armor and robes marking them as men of immense rank and influence. Their faces were carved from stone, their eyes, even from a distance, holding a cold, analytical scrutiny that promised no mercy. They were the jury.
In the center of the field, a series of stations had been set up: trestle tables bearing medical supplies, buckets of water, and even a few nervous-looking goats tethered nearby, likely to be used for simulated wounds. This was to be his demonstration ground. His proving ground, before the most critical audience imaginable.
Lin Wei, with Ox Li, Sly Liu, and Scholar Zhang flanking him, walked into the center of that immense, silent space. The silence was profound, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the distant, muffled sounds of the colossal camp. Every step echoed with a terrifying finality. He felt exposed, a single, fragile figure on a stage designed by gods of war.
He stopped, his small team forming a tight knot around him. He looked across the field at the impassive faces on the dais.
It was no longer about battlefields or plagues. It was about navigating a web of power where a single misstep meant oblivion.
He took a deep, steadying breath, the air tasting of dust and immense, impending judgment. He was no longer on the frontier. He was in the dragon's den.
And then, a ripple of movement on the dais. A figure, taller than the others, emerged from the shadows of the canopy and took the central seat. He had not been there a moment before. He did not need to be announced. His presence, even at a distance, was a physical force—a stillness that commanded the very air. His face was severe, etched with the weight of command and an unwavering resolve.
The Generalissimo, Yue Fei, had arrived. The examination was about to begin.