Chapter Fourteen: Gathering Strength, New Training

"Young master, do you truly understand the mysteries of yin and yang?"

Li Bo was genuinely taken aback by Chu Feng’s display.

Chu Feng rolled his eyes, exasperated, as if to say, “Just now you were waving a live turtle around and I didn’t even call you out—lucky my fundamentals are solid.”

"Oh, right. Has my father visited recently?" Chu Feng pondered how best to accumulate strength. In troubled times, hiding away was the most foolish strategy—just look at Liu Biao or Liu Zhang.

Fists make the law!

"He came by, but when he saw you weren't here, he left."

"I still don’t know how to contact my father. Here, go tell him this: the times are unstable, two hundred men can hardly guarantee safety. Ask him to find more people for me."

Chu Feng stroked his chin as he spoke. Using special operations troops for sieging cities was too extravagant—he planned to expand their number to three hundred, with fifty more in reserve.

In addition, he needed to train a regular force. This would be the foundation for his household and future conquests, including the campaign against Yuzhang.

"I’ll send someone to relay your message immediately, young master."

"Good. Also, tell him to amass more grain and weapons. Sell all our assets if need be, and convert everything into food to weather the coming famine in Jianghuai."

Chu Feng’s eyes were shrewd. He knew a drought was coming this year. With Yuan Shu’s misrule, the people of Jianghuai would soon be reduced to cannibalism. He needed to hoard as much grain as possible—even considering how to obtain it by less honest means.

The greatest stores of grain would surely be in Jingzhou.

Li Bo was left speechless.

Young master, you’re having one of your episodes again!

...

Inside the palace,

When Yuan Shu heard the news, he was utterly unconcerned. "Gather another five hundred men for him, and send two thousand bushels of grain as well. If that’s not enough, let him ask for more."

Yet these words did not escape the notice of Yuan Yao’s spies.

...

In the rear courtyard of the Yuan estate,

After the young eunuch finished his report, a cold glint flashed in Yuan Yao’s eyes. His father was becoming more and more partial—giving that bastard son whatever he wanted, men or grain.

Did he truly intend to make him the crown prince?

He waved the eunuch away and slammed his hand on the table, seething. "Hmph! Am I, Yuan Yao, nothing more than a decoration? That illegitimate whelp dares to raise troops and plot rebellion beneath my very nose?"

"Young master, you must not act rashly!"

Yang Hong quickly stepped forward, fists clenched in respect.

"Hmph! He flaunts his power atop my very head. If I continue to ignore this, what will the world think of me?" Fury burned in Yuan Yao’s chest. This brother of his was as good as dead.

Wouldn’t it have been better to be content as a second son, living in comfort? Instead, he had to show off, recruiting soldiers and making a name for himself. If I don’t kill him, who will? He has only himself to blame!

"Calm yourself, young master. Lord Yuan has just suffered a defeat and is still angry. If you act now, his wrath may turn against you."

"Moreover, should the target escape, your position as rightful heir would be at risk!" Yang Hong advised, fists still raised.

Yuan Yao frowned, but did not reply. Yang Hong’s words held some truth—his father’s anger had yet to fade. To provoke him now would be unwise. Besides, crushing that illegitimate son would be effortless. With the men he commands, a few loyal deathsworn would be more than enough to slaughter the lot. There was no need to rush.

"When do you think is the right time to strike?"

"Young master, I have learned that Lord Yuan is preparing troops and provisions, likely for another campaign against Lü Bu. Better to wait until the army moves—then, in the chaos, eliminate him in one swift stroke!"

As Yang Hong spoke, he drew his hand across his throat.

Hmph, Chu Feng, this is what you get for crossing me. If I move, it will be with thunderous force. Enjoy your final days.

"So be it." Yuan Yao nodded, a cold smile curling at his lips. Don’t blame me for what’s to come.

...

The second year of Jian’an.

Summer, mid-April.

At the Chu family manor, spring planting had just ended. In the fields, the women weeded the crops. As the saying goes: plant in spring, tend in summer, harvest in autumn, store in winter. Only thus can the grains never fail.

As for the men, at Chu Feng’s insistence, they all carried spades and dug deep irrigation ditches across the fields. While five feet was considered deep enough, Chu Feng demanded eight, and that the trenches eventually connect to the Huai River.

Though the peasants grumbled, they remembered the landlord had lowered their rent, so they obeyed.

Meanwhile, the trained armored troops had grown from two hundred to three hundred, and the regular soldiers now numbered five hundred. Some had come from Yuan Shu’s reinforcements, others Chu Feng had recruited himself.

At this moment,

North of Shouchun, on the banks of the Huai River,

Chu Feng addressed the sun-darkened warriors before him, voice stern. "Your mission is to infiltrate and launch surprise attacks. You’ve trained in survival, close combat, and forced marches."

"Now, you must learn to swim rivers—fully armed."

With a wave, Chu Feng signaled. Two of his guards, ropes tied securely, leapt into the swift-flowing Huai. They fought the current with practiced ease, and after some time, anchored the ropes to trees on the far bank.

Turning to the assembled men, Chu Feng continued, "For the next half-month, you’ll train in river crossings—three hundred men, two small boats to carry your gear."

"The river is five hundred paces wide. In fifteen days, I want to see every one of you cross to the far bank, unaided by ropes, within half an hour. Can you do it?"

"We can!" the warriors roared.

"Those who cannot swim will learn. Those who can, strive to cross as fast as possible. Centurions, you are responsible for your men—any who drown, you are dismissed."

With that, Chu Feng departed.

River training was vital, but Chu Feng was strict in words yet soft at heart—he had already set up several safety lines downstream as a precaution.

Trailing behind him was a young man named Zhao Fan.

Originally, Zhao Fan had been an unremarkable subordinate. But in recent days, a sudden boldness had come over him.

Most crucially, his martial skill was formidable—so much so that even Chu Feng needed some effort to subdue him, though that owed partly to Chu Feng’s own weapon proficiency.

"Zhao Fan, come spar with me!"

Chu Feng seized the Dragon Halberd from his saddle, his voice hearty.

Zhao Fan could only shake his head. He considered himself a top-tier warrior—though he’d been wounded before, few ordinary generals could match him. Yet here, he was relegated to being a training partner.

Still, there was a benefit. Under Chu Feng’s tutelage, he had gained new insight into spear techniques. Though his body harbored old injuries, his skill with the weapon had only sharpened.

After fifty exchanges, Zhao Fan yielded and shook his head.

He could feel clearly how much more attuned Chu Feng was becoming with his halberd, his strength growing by the day. Lasting fifty rounds was only possible because Chu Feng was holding back.

Sheathing his spear, Zhao Fan watched Chu Feng’s departing figure, once more awash with admiration. He hadn’t revealed his skills at first, wanting to see what Chu Feng was capable of—and found himself completely won over.

"Zhao Fan, what do you think of the world as it stands?" Chu Feng loosened the wine pouch at his waist, took a hearty swig, and sighed.

"When the Qin lost their stag, all under heaven chased after it.

But the Qin and Han are not quite the same. The Qin dynasty was short-lived, plagued by remnants of the old order, heavy labor, and treacherous ministers—its downfall was swift."

"But the Han has endured four centuries. Though Emperor Ling is without virtue, a centipede dies but never falls, and with Yuan Shu usurping the throne, all others will rise against him."

"Of course, it’s the common folk who suffer most." Zhao Fan sighed.

"Yuan Shu? He’s a walking corpse—he won’t last long," Chu Feng said with a hearty laugh.

"How could a true man resign himself to obscurity? Though time is short, with you by my side, there will be a place for us in this world."

With that, Chu Feng passed the wine pouch to Zhao Fan.

Zhao Fan paused, moved by the unexpected trust—perhaps this, at last, was what he truly longed for.