By the time Shao Xun returned to the Biyong military camp, it was already afternoon.
Covered in dust from the journey, his first concern wasn’t for himself but for the children’s studies.
Jin San, Mao Er, and Wang Que’er had taken on something of a “class monitor” role, with Wang Que’er standing out the most.
Having been on the battlefield, his demeanor was noticeably different.
At the moment, he was leading a group of students in archery practice.
When he saw Mi Huang and Shao Xun return, he bowed respectfully before resuming the training.
This was how an army should be.
Shao Xun observed quietly for a while, offering a few pointers here and there to correct their form.
Mi Huang watched with interest.
Though he had long since given up martial arts, seeing the children and teenagers diligently honing their skills brought him a sense of satisfaction.
He was beginning to understand why Shao Xun was so invested in these kids.
It had been a year and a half since Shao Xun started training them.
From crying, clueless children, they had grown into disciplined young soldiers.
With a few more years of proper training, they would become competent junior officers.
Mi Huang suddenly felt the urge to take this group back to his own stronghold.
He hadn’t considered it before, but after experiencing the horrors of war, many of his views had changed.
At the very least, he no longer looked down on skilled warriors—they could save lives.
Some things, you had to experience firsthand to truly understand.
“Soldier’s brats,” Mi Huang muttered to himself with a chuckle.
In the Great Jin Dynasty, that term wasn’t exactly a compliment—it was often used as an insult.
But let those people sleep.
He had no interest in waking them.
Right now, he valued these “soldier’s brats” more than anything.
Shao Xun also noticed Yu Liang.
After the Battle of Jianchun Gate, the intensity of the fighting had significantly decreased.
However, the people staying at Biyong hadn’t left, as no one could guarantee that hostilities wouldn’t flare up again.
Shao Xun, the Yu family, and the Xu family were all in the same boat.
In life-and-death situations, things like social status and family background no longer mattered.
Their relationships had grown quite close.
Among the younger generation of these families, Yu Liang was the one Shao Xun interacted with the most.
He found the man intriguing.
The Yu family had always been known for their Confucian scholarship, and this generation was no exception.
However, with the current intellectual trend leaning toward Taoist metaphysics, Yu Liang had also delved into that field, attending gatherings and engaging in philosophical debates with scholars.
This created an interesting dynamic: Yu Liang had gained quite a reputation in metaphysical circles, but Shao Xun noticed that his true beliefs and values were still rooted in Confucianism.
This was evident in many of his words and actions.
From this, one could perhaps glimpse Yu Liang’s character—he wasn’t inflexible, but was he perhaps a bit hypocritical?
At the moment, Yu Liang was teaching a group of children, including Mao Er’s team, how to read.
He was serious about it, often quoting classical texts and teaching Confucian principles.
His true colors were showing—a fake Taoist enthusiast, but a genuine Confucian scholar.
Mi Huang stood outside the makeshift schoolhouse for a while before leaving.
If nothing unexpected happened, he was probably off to chat with Yu Chen and others.
Recently, his relationships with members of the Xu family from Donghai, the Yu family from Yingchuan, and the Zhou family from Runan had grown rapidly.
They needed him, and he didn’t put on airs, so their conversations were always pleasant.
Mi Huang, a seasoned player in the political arena, never engaged in meaningless social interactions.
Everything he did had a purpose—he was building connections that might prove useful someday.
Shao Xun didn’t disturb them.
Instead, he went to another open area where Jin San was sitting on the ground with fifty others, learning how to repair equipment from craftsmen.
Whether in war or training, equipment was always a consumable.
Bowstrings would go slack, blades would dull, spearheads would lose their edge, and armor would get damaged.
Throughout history, armies always had support personnel or laborers who handled tasks like setting up camp, fetching water, gathering firewood, cooking, feeding horses, mending clothes, and repairing equipment.
These tasks were essential to keep the soldiers in fighting shape.
Strictly speaking, Shao Xun’s unit wasn’t capable of going on campaigns because they lacked their own support personnel.
Right now, the craftsmen and civilians taking refuge at Biyong were serving as their de facto logistics team.
But what if they had to go on an expedition? Would they have to rely on others?
Building an army was a complex, multifaceted task.
The three groups of children and teenagers took turns studying, training, and working, ensuring they gained exposure to a wide range of skills and knowledge.
These were his future officers—his cadre.
His requirements for them weren’t particularly high:
- Basic literacy, enough to read and write simple documents.
- Familiarity with the various components of the military.
They didn’t need to be experts, but they had to have a broad understanding to avoid being easily fooled.
They could then specialize in areas they were good at.
- Proficiency in a few weapons.
Their martial skills just needed to be passable, though those with talent could train harder and aim to become elite warriors.
- Lastly, loyalty—absolute, unwavering loyalty.
The more people Shao Xun killed, the less secure he felt.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was out to get him.
He knew this mindset wasn’t healthy, and he always presented himself as calm, wise, and brave.
But everyone had another side, and some thoughts couldn’t be shared with others.
He buried his negative emotions deep inside to avoid letting them affect his judgment and actions.
Still, the faint anxiety and tension were hard to completely dispel.
He knew this pressure came from a combination of factors—the current political climate, his background, and more.
Until the situation changed, he could only try to alleviate it, not eliminate it.
Watching the children study diligently helped ease some of that tension.
As he stood there quietly, a small smile crept onto his face.
This was genuine relaxation, something rare and precious.
“Master Shao,” Jin San approached and bowed respectfully.
“You’ll be thirteen after the New Year,” Shao Xun said with a smile, patting Jin San’s head. “Do you miss home?”
“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t,” Jin San replied cautiously, glancing at Shao Xun before adding, “Most of the time, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“At home, I was always hungry. Here, I get enough to eat, and sometimes I even get meat, broth, or fish soup.”
“You’ve really grown,” Shao Xun said, gesturing to show how much taller Jin San had become. “A year and a half ago, you were only this tall. Now look at you.”
“I eat a lot,” Jin San said with an embarrassed smile.
“That’s good. You’re at the age where you need to eat more to grow,” Shao Xun replied. “You once told me you wanted to focus all your energy on martial arts. I thought it was a shame, but now, looking at you—I’ll talk to Wu Qian and have him increase your food ration by half a portion. If that’s still not enough, let him know. We won’t let you go hungry.”
“That’s too kind…” Jin San swallowed hard.
“I tailor my teaching to each student’s strengths,” Shao Xun said. “You have a good build. It’d be a shame if you didn’t reach your full potential because you weren’t eating enough.”
Shao Xun knew that a person’s height was determined by three factors: genetics, nutrition, and exercise.
With proper nutrition and exercise, one’s actual height could come close to their genetic potential—but never fully reach it.
After the Industrial Revolution in Europe, the average height of the population increased by 20 centimeters over two centuries, simply because better nutrition allowed people to grow closer to their genetic potential.
During the Tang Dynasty, Arab records often described Tang soldiers as tall and strong.
This was because Tang soldiers had relatively good nutrition and rigorous training.
By the Ming and Qing Dynasties, as the population grew to hundreds of millions but arable land didn’t keep pace, per capita resources dwindled, and people even resorted to eating sweet potatoes to survive.
Naturally, average height declined.
Physical build was similar to height—genetics, nutrition, and exercise all played a role.
It wasn’t solely determined by genetics, nor was it entirely dependent on nutrition or exercise alone.
But nutrition was crucial.
Shao Xun did his best to provide the children with more food, meat, and fish.
This was one of the advantages of operating within the system—access to military supplies, food provisions, and even experienced soldiers who could share the training burden.
Human energy was limited, and responsibilities had to be delegated.
This was something a ragtag militia couldn’t match.
“Master Shao, I’ll remember your kindness for the rest of my life,” Jin San said solemnly.
“Remember it well,” Shao Xun nodded. “These are troubled times. Just surviving is hard enough. My greatest wish is to see you all grow up safely, and then we’ll work together to survive.”
Jin San pondered this silently.
The phrase “survive” weighed heavily on his chest.
He didn’t doubt Shao Xun’s words—he had seen too much death and slaughter in recent months.
Such a simple goal, yet so hard to achieve.
What kind of world was this?
“Master Shao, I’ll follow your lead,” Jin San said earnestly.
Yes, Master Shao was so brave and knowledgeable.
Only he could lead them to survival.
Even the noble-born youths admired him.
Even a fearsome enemy like Meng Chao had fallen to him.
What couldn’t he do?
“If someone wanted to kill me, what would you do?” Shao Xun asked.
“Cut them down!”
“What if it was a high-ranking official?”
“Cut them down!”
“What if the emperor ordered my death?”
Jin San hesitated for a moment.
“Haha!” Shao Xun laughed and patted Jin San’s shoulder. “That’s enough!”
With that, he turned and walked away, satisfied.
They had been training for a year and a half.
In a few more months, he might introduce some of the darker aspects of the Great Jin Dynasty to deepen the children’s understanding.
If peasant uprisings could attract so many followers, he doubted these impressionable children held much loyalty to the emperor.
He was genuinely pleased with the progress so far.
At the very least, the children were close to him, and he had successfully left a deep impression on their young minds.
The impressions formed in childhood often lingered into adulthood, like first love, filtered through the lens of memory.
This was his foundation—the reason he wouldn’t be easily killed by a single order or decree.
Now, it was time to fight for the survival of his fledgling group.
Back in his quarters, Shao Xun quietly polished his sword.
His heart was calm, and he was ready to kill.
(End of Chapter)