The cold current blowing from the distant North Sea stirred the heavens into bone-chilling cold. Even the last yellow leaf clinging to the branches was stripped away, drifting in the frigid wind.

Various training exercises in the military camp still hadn’t stopped. Cheng Chumo’s hands were wrapped in cloth strips as he pounded the wooden post punch after punch. The cloth strips were already stained with blood. His gaze was resolute as if he didn’t see it at all—his fists still struck the wooden post heavily.

Li Huairen and Zhangsun Chong stood beside him, also striking wooden posts, their hands equally dripping with blood.

No one cared. Not one of the over two hundred men cared whether their hands were bleeding. They only cared when they could break through the wooden posts. From their bare backs, sweat dripped and fell. Steam rose from their heads. Inhale and throw a punch, exhale and strike—like tireless iron men who knew no fatigue.

Li Chengqian and Yun Ye stood outside the field watching. Cheng Yaojin only permitted them to participate in morning exercises, which meant running twenty li daily while carrying weights.

At this moment, the two wore thick fur robes, hands tucked in their sleeves, laughing and joking. Ever since sending away the potatoes, Li Chengqian always sought out Yun Ye for conversation when he had nothing to do. Of course, all the fine wines he’d brought from the capital also went to Yun Ye.

Li Chengqian was a good child—Yun Ye thought so. At such a young age, already full of learning, extremely polite to others, never speaking without smiling, showing no signs whatsoever of being imperial nobility. Seeing soldiers suffering hardship, he would worry. Seeing common people around lacking food and clothing, he would become anxious. How would such a kind, intelligent youth become extraordinarily cruel several years later, psychologically abnormal, playing real human battle formations with Li Tai—that was truly fighting to the death, every blade drawing blood—and playing piggyback mountain with the handsome men Chengxin and Ruyi, even once wanting to kill his own father? What was the reason? Yun Ye was somewhat curious.

Li Chengqian, seeing Yun Ye looking at him, felt somewhat baffled because Yun Ye’s gaze was strange—somewhat pitying, but more so peculiar.

“Little Ye, why are you looking at me? Is something wrong?” He touched his own face. The traces from secretly eating braised meat earlier had already been wiped clean.

After many days together, Li Chengqian had long lost his sense of nobility in Yun Ye’s eyes. Ever since eating potato beef stew that day, he had no appetite whatsoever for food made by the imperial chefs. Learning that Yun Ye had his own small kitchen, he came every day to mooch food and drink.

Huang Zhi’en would run over from time to time to discuss mathematics with Yun Ye. Li Chengqian would listen on the side, occasionally interjecting a word or two. Though not particularly brilliant, he had his own insights, which amazed Huang Zhi’en, who flattered him as a genius, saying if he devoted himself to studying mathematics, he would surely become a great master someday.

Of course, since Tang Dynasty mathematics was generally at a low level, in Yun Ye’s eyes it was only first-year middle school difficulty. Most of the time, he was the one lecturing while Huang Zhi’en listened and Li Chengqian recorded. These past days, he’d already recorded quite a thick stack. It seemed whether he understood or not, he first recorded everything, to study slowly in the future.

This was the attitude for learning. Cheng Chumo would only sit to the side dozing off. After over ten days, he still hadn’t memorized all the Arabic numerals. When Yun Ye got angry, he actually argued confidently: “We’re brothers, right?”

Yun Ye nodded. “Then what’s the difference between your learning and my learning? Learning is for using. When the time comes to use it, won’t I just find you? Why should I desperately study it myself?”

Yun Ye completely lost interest in educating Cheng Chumo. Fortunately, there was Li Chengqian, this excellent student—quick to grasp things, learning everything thoroughly. This greatly comforted Yun Ye.

“You’re a member of the imperial family and the future master of our Great Tang. Right now, why can’t I detect even a bit of imperial aura about you?”

“What is imperial aura?” Still the bad habit of getting to the bottom of things.

“It’s radiating strong personal charisma throughout your body, the momentum that makes all capable people under Heaven bow down in worship. Like your Father Emperor—gathering the talented of the world for his own use. Back then, advisors under his command were like rain, fierce generals like clouds. With a snap of the fingers, all heroes turned to dust and smoke. This is the concrete manifestation of imperial aura.”

“It’s imperial-hegemon aura, not ‘wangba’ aura. Good grief, you actually dare speak ill of my Father Emperor and make up stories about me. If you don’t shut my mouth with delicious food today, when I return to the capital, if I accidentally let it slip before Father Emperor, hmph!”

How unexpected—did the term ‘wangba’ already exist now? You must know that in the Tang Dynasty, turtles were auspicious beasts. Many people had ‘gui’ (turtle) in their names, like Li Guinian and others. This little brat was trying to trick him.

“What nonsense are you talking about? How did I speak ill of His Majesty? You tell me clearly. Young in age but full of schemes—in my eyes you’re still green.”

Li Chengqian hemmed and hawed, unable to speak.

“Stop hemming and hawing. Little Mo, Little Chong, the villain—they’re all dismissed. We two shouldn’t stand here frozen like turtles either.”

Still the old routine—whole bodies soaking in medicinal water, only without the ghostly wails and wolf howls. Each person closed their eyes and rested in their water barrels, completely relaxing their muscles, allowing their bodies maximum recuperation.

After half a shichen, the medicinal water began to cool. One by one, they climbed out of the wooden barrels and began receiving massages beside the huge bonfire.

Five months of grueling training had completely transformed each into muscle men. Cheng Chumo wore only short pants and actually didn’t feel cold in the frigid wind. His bronze-colored skin bulged with muscles, the muscles on his stomach forming two aesthetically pleasing character fields.

Daily training had now become child’s play for him. Striking wooden posts was purely new stimulation they found for themselves. Zhangsun Chong and Li Huairen weren’t much inferior to him. When the three stood forward, “tough guys” was their most fitting designation.

“Little Mo, Little Chong, Villain—I made hotpot today. Don’t know if you’ll eat it or not.” Yun Ye’s words had barely fallen when the three tough guys immediately transformed into three wretched men, bowing and hunching their backs, drooling, extremely sleazy. They quickly put on fur robes, chests exposed, grabbed Yun Ye, and rushed toward the tent.

Li Chengqian was placing an iron pot on the stove. This stove was specially made by Yun Ye. He’d found a section of large bamboo, cleared out the bamboo nodes, and installed it on the smoke vent as a chimney. It burned coal. At first, Old Cheng worried about carbon monoxide poisoning, but after installing the bamboo, there wasn’t the slightest carbon smell in the tent, and it was very warm. After having one made for himself as well, he paid it no more mind.

Five people sat around the stove. A flask of strong liquor was passed around—not much, about two liang per person, just to warm the body. Spicy and fragrant scents emerged from the pot. Yun Ye lifted the lid, and a large pot of dried vegetables stewed with beef appeared before everyone. The dried vegetables that had absorbed the beef fat opened the five people’s appetites. A slight spicy flavor masked the beef’s gamey taste. Without chili peppers, Yun Ye could only use cornel as a substitute. Though the spiciness wasn’t quite authentic, it was better than nothing.

Eating and chatting, they unconsciously spoke of the Turks. The humiliation from early in the year was etched in the bones of these young soldiers. Thinking of Wei Qing and Huo Qubing’s glorious achievements in offering sacrifices at Wolf Mountain, and Ban Chao’s brilliant exploits traversing the Western Regions, while they themselves were still lying on brushwood and tasting gall, silently awaiting the moment of revenge, their anger couldn’t help but rise.

Zhangsun Chong lifted his saber and struck the back of the blade with chopsticks: “Wind and snow darken the long clouds over snowy mountains, the general’s iron horse crosses cold rivers. A hundred deaths are merely ordinary matters—we won’t let the Xiongnu cross Helan.”