Dawn at Three Rivers Gate was a silent, taunting promise. The land here was a vast, gentle bowl where three shallow, braided streams converiated, their banks trampled to mud by tens of thousands of Jin hooves.
On the northern rise, the Jin army was a dark stain spreading across the earth, a bristling forest of lances and the dull, cold glint of scale armor. Their banners, emblazoned with the coiling golden dragon, hung limp in the still, damp air. They had chosen the ground: open, perfect for the thunderous charge of their heavy cavalry, the hammer that had shattered a hundred Song armies. The air smelled of wet grass, horse dung, and the sharp, oily scent of metal.
From the southern tree line, the Song emerged. They did not come as a tide, but as a measured, geometric square formation.
Regiments of infantry formed vast, hollow squares, their shields locked, their long spears pointing skyward. Between the squares, like rocks in a stream, stood compact blocks of Yue Fei's elite troops.
They carried no long spears, but heavy, double-handed axes and thick-bladed swords. They stood with a different stillness, not the tense anticipation of the line infantry, but the patient, rooted solidity of men who were themselves a fortification.
High on a wooded knoll to the west, the command group watched. Yue Fei sat astride his horse, a statue of grey iron and worn leather. Beside him, the mountain that was Niu Gao shifted, the rings of his armor grinding. "They are forming for the charge. They will hit the center square. The fools are taking the bait."
Yue Fei did not answer. His eyes, the color of a winter night, tracked the minute adjustments of the Jin formations a mile distant.
Lin Wei, standing slightly apart with Commander Xin, felt the scale of the moment press down on him. This was not the desperate, close-quarter terror of Qiling Ridge. This was a vast, slow-moving machine of destiny, and he was a tiny, vital cog within it. The system in his mind was quiet, conserving its energy, but a single, stark line of text was superimposed over the Jin host:
"[Projected Casualty Influx upon Cavalry Impact: 300-500. Primary Trauma: Crush/Penetrating.]" The numbers were cold, but the reality they represented was a wave of screaming men and shattered bone about to break upon the silent Song lines.
The world shrank to the thunder in the earth.
A deep, rolling drumbeat answered by a thousand more echoed from the Jin lines. Then, the sound that stole courage: the unified, earth-shaking exhalation of tens of thousands warhorses spurred to a gallop.
The dark stain on the northern ridge liquefied, pouring down the slope like molten lead. The Jin cavalry charge was a natural disaster given form—a rolling wall of dust, gleaming metal, and raw, terrifying momentum. The air itself began to vibrate.
Lin Wei saw the cavalry avalanche hit the forward Song square. There was no dramatic crash, but a horrifying, shuddering impact as the front rank of horses slammed into a wall of shields and spears. The sound was a wet, splintering roar. But the square, trained to the point of instinct, did not break. It bent, groaned, and held. Horses screamed, impaling themselves on the long spears. Riders were pitched forward into the bristling thicket of steel. But the momentum was terrible. The square began to deform, buckling inward.
On his awareness, the tactical landscape around his person, snapped into focus. Messenger riders galloped past their knoll, faces grim. A signal officer nearby chanted flag patterns, his voice steady. "Center square holding… bearing pressure west flank… elite troops in square four, standing ready…"
He could feel grip of his hands on the reins, the dry taste of dust in his mouth, the rapid, calculated rhythm of his own breath. He was not a fighter. He was a node in a network of survival, and the first pulses of pain were about to travel down its lines.
As the Jin cavalry, frustrated by the stubborn square, swirled around it looking for a weak point, Yue Fei gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
From hidden trenches ahead of the Song lines, men rose. They were not soldiers, but engineers. They flung earthenware pots into the churned ground before the milling cavalry. The pots shattered, releasing not fire, but thousands of four-pointed iron stars—caltrops.
A new sound rose over the din: the agonized shrieks of horses as they trod on the hidden spikes, stumbling, throwing riders. The charge's cohesion dissolved into chaos.
"Now," Yue Fei said, the word a soft exhalation.
A red banner on the knoll dipped twice.
From the eastern tree line, where Niu Gao's cavalry had been waiting with the restrained fury of a leashed storm, the blew. It was not a charge; it was a controlled eruption.
Song heavy cavalry, interspersed with swift, mounted archers, hit the confused, stumbling Jin horsemen in the flank. The sound changed from a roar to a metallic shriek—the scream of steel on steel, the cries of men, the death-knells of horses.
The triage began.
Lin Wei was moving before the order came. He rode with his personal escort down the back slope of the knoll to where the Mobile Field Hospital had been established in a sheltered meadow, a half-mile behind the fighting. The air here was still clean, smelling of crushed mint and damp earth, but the first sounds of the butcher's bill were already arriving: the distant, rhythmic groan of ox-carts, and the first, sharp cries of pain.
The hospital was a scene of ordered frenzy. Large tents, their sides rolled up, formed an open-sided pavilion. Teams of medics, identified by simple green sashes, stood at ready stations: the cleansing troughs with running water boiled in large kettles, the surgery tables with their leather straps, the rows of clean straw pallets. Scholar Zhang moved between the stations, directing the flow. Ox Li stood at the perimeter, his arms crossed, his presence a dam against any panic.
The first carts arrived. The theoretical numbers in Lin Wei's mind became real. A young spearman, his face grey, clutched a stomach wound, his fingers slick with blood that was too dark. "Immediate!" a triage medic shouted, tagging the man's tunic with a red cord.
He was carried to a surgery table. Another, an archer with a shattered forearm, bone gleaming white in the meat, was tagged yellow. "Delayed! Cleansing station!"
Lin Wei washed his hands in a basin of strong liquor, the burn a familiar anchor. He moved to the first surgery table. The spearman stared at the canvas roof, his eyes wide with shock. Lin Wei's world narrowed further: the pulse under his fingers (thready, rapid), the nature of the wound (a deep, narrow puncture, likely a lance tip, bowel perforation likely), the system's cool assessment scrolling beside his vision:
"[Penetrating Abdominal Trauma. Risk of Sepsis: 85%. Immediate Laparotomy Required.]"
There was no fear, no horror. There was only the problem. His hands, guided by a lifetime of knowledge and the system's precise overlays, went to work. The world became the cut of the scalpel, the clamp on a bleeder, the careful exploration of torn viscera. The metallic smell of blood, the coppery scent of open body cavity, the bitter tang of antiseptic—these were the only truths.
For hours, the machine consumed pain and spilled blood, and turned it into a chance at life. Lin Wei lost track of the individual faces. He repaired a lacerated liver, amputated a foot crushed beyond recognition, trepanned a skull to relieve pressure from a fracture. Around him, his medics sutured, bandaged, and comforted. The efficiency was staggering. A man would arrive screaming, be treated, and be resting on a pallet with a cup of broth, all in the time it might take a traditional physician to finish his diagnosis.
The roar of battle outside faded, replaced by the groan of the wounded and the quiet, professional chatter of the corps. The sun climbed to its zenith.
A rider, caked in dust and exultation, galloped into the clearing. "Victory! The Jin are routed! They're fleeing north!"
A ragged, exhausted cheer went up from the medics. Lin Wei, sealing the last stitch on a shoulder wound, looked up. The directive in his mind updated:
"[Battle of Three Rivers Gate: Casualties Treated: 2417. Fatalities: 728. Return-to-Duty Estimate: 74%. Victory Confirmed.]"
The numbers were good. Better than good. They were revolutionary.
But the triumph was cut with a strange, new thread. As the afternoon wore on and the last of the wounded were settled, a different sort of procession arrived at the camp. Not soldiers, but a small train of lacquered palanquins and well-groomed horses.
The men who dismounted wore the dark, elegant robes of court officials, not the practical garb of the army. At their head was a man with a face like a smoothed river stone, ageless and cold. His eyes, the color of stale tea, swept over the field hospital, missing nothing.
Commander Xin appeared at Lin Wei's side, his voice low. "Censor Zhao. From the Ministry of War. The Emperor's own eyes. He is here to 'observe.'"
Censor Zhao moved through the recovery tents with a predatory grace. He paused by a young soldier whose leg Lin Wei had saved, who was thanking a medic with tears in his eyes. The Censor's lips thinned in something that was not a smile. He noted the clean bandages, the order, the clear reverence the patients had for the green-sashed medics.
He found Lin Wei at the central supply station, reviewing inventory with Scholar Zhang. "Surgeon-General Lin," Zhao said, his voice a soft, dry rustle, like pages turning in a forbidden book. "A most impressive operation. The efficiency is… remarkable. One almost forgets this is an army, and not a imperial hospice." He picked up a roll of linen, examining its quality. "The loyalty of your men is palpable. They look to you as they might to a founding ancestor. Such personal devotion within the machinery of the state is… noteworthy."
The words were perfectly calibrated. They carried no accusation, only a chilling observation. Lin Wei felt the implied threat as clearly as a knife at his throat. His success, the very loyalty and efficiency that made his corps work, was being framed as a potential threat to the far away emperial court.
That night, in the command pavilion, the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and subdued triumph. Yue Fei acknowledged the reports, his face giving nothing away. Niu Gao boomed about the broken Jin charge. Yang Zaixing spoke of consolidating the position.
Censor Zhao sat in a place of honor, sipping tea. When Niu Gao praised the men's ferocious spirit, their cheers for the Generalissimo, Zhao set his cup down with a soft click.
"The men's spirit is indeed formidable," Zhao murmured, his voice slicing through the bonfire warmth. "Their acclamations for the Generalissimo were most… fervent. One might almost think their allegiance burns for the commander in the field, and not the distant Son of Heaven whose mandate he carries." He paused, letting the silence curdle. "And this Medical Corps. A state within a state. Its own rules, its own hierarchy, inspiring a devotion that bypasses the traditional chains of command. Most innovative. And in an empire that values unity above all… most interesting to observe."
The celebration died. Yue Fei's face remained impassive, but a new tension, colder than any battlefield fear, entered the room. The victory had been perfect. And in its perfection, it had birthed a new, more insidious enemy.
Later, under a blanket of stars, Lin Wei walked the quiet lanes of the recovery area. The groans had softened to snores. A medic nodded to him, eyes full of tired pride. He had saved hundreds of lives today. The system had worked.
In a silk tent at the edge of the command compound, Censor Zhao dictated to his scribe by the light of a single, expensive lantern. The scribe's brush whispered against the paper.
"…the military victory is undeniable, a testament to General Yue's singular focus. However, this focus has bred a concerning insularity. The army's spirit orbits the Generalissimo alone. More troubling is the 'Medical Corps,' a personal fiefdom of the convict Lin Wei. It operates on principles outside imperial doctrine, commands a loyalty that supersedes regiment and rank, and serves to magnify the personal influence of General Yue by preserving his most loyal troops. It represents a parallel structure of power, one that is charismatic, efficient, and potentially seditious. To allow such a potent, unorthodox instrument to grow in the hand of a single general is to invite a shadow that may one day eclipse the throne itself…"
Outside, Lin Wei looked up at the cold, clear stars, feeling the sweet, bone-deep fatigue of a day spent defying death. He breathed in the night air, free of the day's stench of blood and bowels. He had never felt more certain of his purpose, or more essential to the great, righteous machine grinding north.
He did not hear the soft scratch of the scribe's brush, inking the first, elegant characters of his doom.