The morning after the Oak Road victory dawned clear and cold, a brittle, beautiful lie. In the medical compound, life had a fragile rhythm.
The worst of the ford's wounded were stabilized. The smell of boiling herbs and fresh bread from the field kitchens almost covered the lingering scent of blood and despair. Lin Wei stood in the central surgical tent, now serving a dual purpose.
On one table, clean instruments lay ready. On the campaign table, his map of the treason network was spread, a grotesque anatomy chart of the army's own sickness. He and Scholar Zhang were tracing a line of corruption from a quartermaster named Heng to a Jin intelligence outpost, their fingers stained with ink, not blood.
"If we can isolate Heng's communications," Lin Wei murmured, "we could feed him a false report on the siege train's route. Potentially draw out more Jin force —"
The rhythm of the morning shattered.
It was not the chaotic tramp of running men, but the precise, synchronized, ominous cadence of disciplined boots on hard earth. Twelve pairs of boots. They came to a halt just outside the tent, a single, flat stamp that silenced the birds.
Ox Li, who had been sharpening a tent-peg axe into a crude but lethal weapon, was on his feet and at the tent flap before Lin Wei could speak. The big man did not draw the axe. He simply filled the entrance, a mountain of scarred muscle and silent threat.
Beyond him, lined up in the compound's clearing, stood the Commission Security Detachment. They were not front-line soldiers. Their lamellar armor was black-lacquered and unscuffed, their helmets polished to a dull gleam.
They wore the deep blue tunics of the Capital Guard, and their faces were set in expressions of professional disdain. At their head stood Captain Li, Vice-Minister Wang's bodyguard and also his right hand—a man with the lean, hungry look of a bureaucrat who had traded his brush for a sword and found he preferred the latter. In his hands, he held not a weapon, but a scroll of fine paper, sealed with a daub of vivid vermillion wax.
"Surgeon-General Lin Wei," Captain Li's voice cut through the frozen silence of the compound. It was not loud, but it carried the weight of unimpeachable authority.
"By the mandate of the Logistical Oversight Commission and under the authority vested by the Ministry of War, you are summoned for immediate consultation and questioning regarding operational irregularities and breaches of military protocol. You will come with us. Now."
Every medic, every orderly, every wounded man who could lift his head, stared. The air grew thick and cold.
Lin Wei placed a hand on Ox Li's rock-like arm, feeling the tension coiled within. He stepped around him, into the open. He did not look at the guards. He looked at Captain Li, meeting the man's flat, pitiless gaze.
"Questioning regarding what irregularities, specifically?" Lin Wei asked, his own voice calm, the voice he used to explain a procedure to a frightened patient.
Captain Li allowed himself a thin, bloodless smile. "The Commission seeks clarity. The source of tactical intelligence preceding the recent Oak Road engagement, for one. The disposition and procurement of medical supplies not fully accounted for in the official quartermaster ledgers, for another. Matters of procedure. You can provide your explanations voluntarily."
He let the pause hang, his eyes flicking to Ox Li, to the terrified faces of the medics. "Or we can provide an escort. The choice merely reflects on your willingness to cooperate with imperial oversight."
The threat was velvet-wrapped iron. Come quietly, or we drag you, and everyone who tries to stop us becomes an accomplice.
Lin Wei gave a single, curt nod. "I will come. Scholar Zhang, you have command of the corps. Ox, you will remain here." His eyes held Ox Li's for a fraction of a second, imparting a silent, desperate order: Protect the ledgers. Protect the map.
He walked forward, alone, towards the line of blue tunics. Two guards fell in on either side of him, not touching him, but close enough that their presence was a cage. The detachment turned as one and marched him out of the compound, leaving behind a wake of stunned silence and building fury.
They did not take him to a stockade, or a dungeon. They took him to a clean, spare, and profoundly intimidating tent within the high-walled compound of the Logistical Oversight Commission.
It smelled of sandalwood and ink. A single, elegant desk. Two hard-backed chairs. A brazier glowed with expensive charcoal, its heat doing nothing to dispel the chill. Vice-Minister Wang sat behind the desk. A junior scribe knelt on a mat in the corner, brush poised over a fresh scroll. Captain Li took up a position by the sealed tent flap, a sentinel to the outside world.
"Surgeon-General. Please, sit." Wang gestured to the empty chair. His tone was that of a host welcoming a slightly dull guest. "Tea?"
"No, thank you," Lin Wei said, sitting. He kept his back straight, his hands resting on his knees. The system in his mind, which had been analyzing supply routes, was now running a different protocol:
"[SITUATION: CUSTODIAL INTERROGATION. MODE: DEFENSIVE/EVASIVE. PRIMARY THREAT: VERBAL TRAP, BUREAUCRATIC ENTRAPMENT.]"
"A tidy piece of work on the Oak Road," Wang began, lacing his fingers together. "A company of Jin horse eliminated, no Song losses. Quite the coup. My own scouts, however, reported no unusual enemy movement in that sector. Your intelligence was… remarkably prescient. Its source?"
"Field reports from forward sanitation scouts attached to the Medical Corps," Lin Wei recited, his voice even. "They assess water sources and latrine placement. In doing so, they observe terrain and enemy patrol patterns. The correlation of multiple reports suggested a likely ambush site. I judged the risk to the supply route—even a disused one—to be significant."
"You judged." Wang picked up a brush, tapping it lightly on a blank sheet of paper. "And based on this judgment, you initiated a military response, bypassing the designated intelligence officers, bypassing even General Yang Zaixing's operational command. You relayed this to… Commander Xin, I believe? A frontier officer, not in the intelligence chain. An interesting choice."
"Commander Xin's sector included the Oak Road. The information was time-sensitive. I relayed it to the officer responsible for the security of that ground. The military response was his to order." It was a tightrope walk of half-truths, and Wang was holding the rope.
"A commendable, if… flexible, interpretation of the chain of command," Wang murmured, making a note. The scribe's brush whispered. "Let us move to a more mundane, but equally vital, matter. Supply. Your medical corps consumes resources at a rate 40% above the Imperial Medical Bureau's standard field allotment. Our audit finds your stores, however, are not 40% depleted. In fact, you have reserves of linen, sulphur, and strong spirits that do not appear on any official requisition form I have signed. Where do these reserves come from?"
The trap sprung. Clean and quiet.
"Salvage," Lin Wei said, the pre-rehearsed lie smooth on his tongue. "From captured Jin depots. From battlefield salvage. My medics are trained to reclaim and sterilize usable materials. It is not misappropriation; it is efficiency. These materials are not 'imperial spoils' in the traditional sense; they are garbage the enemy left behind, repurposed to save Song lives."
Wang's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Garbage. I see. And this salvaged 'garbage'—you do not log it? You do not present it for assessment and redistribution, as per Army Regulation 14, Section 7, regarding the 'Collection and Disposition of Captured Materiel'? To fail to do so is, technically, misappropriation. A serious matter. It suggests a… private hoard. Or perhaps an undisclosed source of supply." He leaned forward slightly. "A source you would not wish to disclose. Perhaps because it involves dealings outside imperial channels? With, say, black marketeers? Or worse?"
The air in the tent grew thinner. The brazier's heat was oppressive. Wang was circling, not with accusations, but with regulations, each one a brick in a wall he was building around Lin Wei.
"My source is the battlefield," Lin Wei repeated, his jaw tight. "My purpose is to save lives. The regulations were written for gold and silk, not for bloody rags and broken arrows we clean and reuse."
"Intentions are not a defense against procedure, Surgeon-General," Wang said softly. "The law is the framework. We either operate within it, or we operate outside it. You seem to operate in a… liminal space. A space of your own making. That is a dangerous space to inhabit."
The questioning went on. For two hours, Wang led him in circles. He produced a form from a month prior—a request for lime for latrine pits—that Lin Wei had signed in the field with a charcoal stub, not the proper ink seal. A breach. He quoted a procurement statute from the Chenghua period, demanding to know why Lin Wei's alcohol was distilled to a higher proof than the regulation for "field antiseptic." A deviation. Each was a tiny cut, a paper-cut of bureaucracy, but together they were meant to bleed a man of his credibility, his authority, and finally, his freedom.
Lin Wei's mind, the system, was a storm of cross-references and legalistic parries. But he was tiring. Wang was a machine, fueled by scrolls and malice. The scribe's scroll was filling with damning, decontextualized quotes.
Just as Wang leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conversational, deadly purr—"This pattern of autonomous action, of unlogged supplies… it suggests not just indiscipline, but a concerning sense of entitlement. Almost as if you believe your 'medical mandate' supersedes imperial authority. Would you say that's a fair assessment, Surgeon-Gen—"
The tent flap was torn open.
Not pushed. Torn.
Commander Xin stood in the opening, backlit by the harsh daylight. He wore full armor, and his face was the colour of weathered iron. He did not look at Wang. He looked at Lin Wei.
"Surgeon-General. You are needed. Immediately. A medical emergency in the command staff. The Generalissimo requires your personal attention. It cannot wait."
The words hung in the stunned silence. They were a lifeline thrown with the force of a spear. They were also a breathtaking, audacious lie.
Vice-Minister Wang slowly turned his head. The polite mask shattered. For a single, unguarded moment, his face was a rigid of pure rage and disdain. The carefully constructed atmosphere of bureaucratic inevitability was blown apart by a raw military imperative. He could not refuse. To deny the Generalissimo medical aid on the basis of paperwork was a political suicide even he wouldn't attempt.
He mastered himself, the mask sliding back into place, but it was cracked, and the fury bled through the seams. "A medical emergency. Of course. The Surgeon-General's duties are… paramount." He stood, the movement stiff. "This conversation is merely adjourned, Surgeon-General. Not concluded. The discrepancies remain. We will continue. Soon." The last word was a promise, and a threat.
Lin Wei stood, gave a minimal nod that was not a bow, and walked to the entrance. Captain Li moved to block him, a fraction of a second too late. Commander Xin's hand shot out, not to draw his sword, but to grip Captain Li's vambrace, holding him with the unyielding strength of a vise. "The Generalissimo's order," Xin growled, the words barely audible. "Do you impede it?"
Captain Li froze, looking to Wang. Wang gave a microscopic, seething shake of his head. Li stepped back.
Lin Wei walked out of the tent of ink and into the cold, free air, Commander Xin falling into step beside him, a wall of grim solidarity. They did not speak until they were a hundred paces from the Commission's compound.
"Thank you," Lin Wei said, his voice hoarse.
"Don't," Xin snapped, his eyes fixed ahead. "He wasn't asking questions. He was building a coffin. And you were handing him the nails. Where did you get the supplies, Lin?"
"I bought them. From people who sell to anyone. To keep your men from dying of filth fever."
Xin absorbed this, his jaw working. "Then the coffin has a bottom. He'll find out. And when he does…"
"I know."
They did not go to the command staff. They went into Yue Fei's personal quarters—a space so spare it felt monastic. A cot, a weapons rack, a map of the north on a hide stretcher. Yue Fei stood before the map, his hands clasped behind his back. Yang Zaixing stood to one side, a statue of grim patience. Niu Gao paced like a caged tiger, his fury a physical heat in the small space.
Yue Fei did not turn. "Close the door."
Commander Xin shut it, sealing them in.
"Wang has dispatched a courier to Lin'an," Yue Fei said, his voice the low rumble of distant avalanche. "The request is for formal arrest authority, citing obstruction, misappropriation, and conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline. He will receive it. He has constructed a net of paper. He will use it to dismantle your corps, to discredit your methods. And in discrediting you, he discredits the command that empowered you. It is a move against this army. Against this campaign."
Niu Gao whirled. "So we stop the courier! We drag that ink-spiller out of his tent and hang him from his own scroll-rack! He's a Jin-loving viper!"
"He wears the Emperor's seal on his head," Yang Zaixing said, his voice like stones grinding. "To touch him is to slap the Son of Heaven's face. It is not an arrest. It is rebellion. It is the excuse Lin'an is waiting for to declare us outlaws and send the Palace Armies north to crush us and make peace with the Jin. He is the bait in the trap. We cannot touch him."
The logic was inescapable, a prison of their own loyalty. Lin Wei looked at Yue Fei's rigid back. The general's unwavering fealty, the core of his being, was the weapon being used to kill them all.
Lin Wei took a breath. He could not show the ledgers. Not here, not yet. The evidence was too raw, the implication too monstrous. It would be the scalpel that severed Yue Fei's spinal cord. But he could plant the seed of the truth, the diagnosis.
"Minister Wang is not just an auditor," Lin Wei said, the words clear in the tense quiet. "He is hunting. He is not merely concerned about missing linen. He is terrified of the intelligence that led to Oak Road. Because it worked. And it worked because the enemy's eyes are inside our own tent. Our supply lines are rotten. Our movements are predicted. The disaster at the ford was not an accident. It was a transaction. Someone is feeding the Jin. Someone with access. Wang is either the broker for that trade, or he is the knife they sent to cut out the infection—the infection being anyone who discovers the rot."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the crackle of the small brazier. Yue Fei finally turned. His face was a landscape of tortured conviction. He searched Lin Wei's face, not for lies, but for the source of this certainty. He saw the exhaustion, the defiance, the cold clarity of a man who has seen the plague under the skin.
"You have proof of this?" Yue Fei asked, each word weighed.
"I have a map," Lin Wei said, which was the truth. "The pattern is clear. The coincidences are not coincidences. They are receipts. Wang's purpose here is not to optimize. It is to sanitize. My arrest is the next step in the ledger. He must silence the man who can read the numbers."
Yue Fei held his gaze for a long, agonizing moment. The directive of a lifetime—loyalty to the throne—warred with the evidence of his eyes: the piles of dead at the ford, the suspicious precision of every setback, the bureaucratic knife at the throat of his best healer. The conflict was a silent scream in the room.
He turned back to the map, to the painted rivers and mountains of the homeland he was sworn to reclaim. His shoulders, usually squared to bear any burden, seemed to bow under a new, invisible weight.
"You are dismissed, Surgeon-General," he said, his voice hollow. "Return to your corps. Do your duty. Do not… give Minister Wang a reason."
It was not protection. It was a condemned man's last meal. A stay of execution, measured in the time it would take a fast rider to reach Lin'an and return.
Lin Wei bowed, a shallow, formal dip of the head, and turned to leave. As his hand touched the door latch, Yue Fei spoke again, so softly it might have been the wind.
"A map is not a verdict. But it can show a path to a cliff. Or away from one."
Lin Wei did not look back. He stepped out into the twilight. The clock was ticking, louder now than the drums of any Jin army. Wang's formal authority would arrive. And when it did, Yue Fei's oath would compel him to surrender the surgeon to the political butchers. The only way out was to force the general's hand before that—to lay the rotting, stinking ledgers on his map and make him choose between a traitorous emperor and the army bleeding to death at his feet. The surgery could no longer be subtle. It was time to cut, and hope the patient's heart was strong enough to survive the truth.