The victory against the plague felt less like a triumph and more like a wound. Three days after leaving the barracks of the Third Battalion, Lin Wei moved through the camp in a haze of exhaustion. His muscles ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue that sleep couldn't touch.
Thep phantom stench of death and disinfectant seemed lodged in his sinuses. Sly Liu limped more pronouncedly, his usual sly energy replaced by a dull-eyed stare. Even Ox Li, the unshakeable pillar, moved with a slight stoop, as if the weight of the lives they'd carried had physically pressed down on his massive shoulders.
Commander Xin's "reward" arrived not with ceremony, but as a terse, written order delivered by a stone-faced aide. Lin Wei was to "oversee the implementation of approved sanitation protocols camp-wide." He was given no additional men, no official title, and no real authority beyond the words of the order. He was a convict being told to reform the habits of an entire army.
The reality of the task was immediately, crushingly apparent. The next morning, Lin Wei and Ox Li approached a unit of regular soldiers tasked with digging new latrines. The men leaned on their shovels, their sergeant smirking.
"The convict doctor, is it?" the sergeant said, not bothering to hide his contempt. "We've dug our latrines the same way for years. We're not taking orders from a penal battalion butcher."
Ox Li took a step forward, his silence more threatening than any shout. The sergeant's smirk faded, but his eyes remained defiant. It was a scene repeated across the camp. Orders were "misunderstood." Boiling water was deemed a "waste of fuel." Clerk Zhao, their corrupt ally, could only help so much; his influence didn't extend to forcing proud, regular army units to obey a convict.
Lin Wei adapted. He retreated to the Seventh's sector and gathered his core team.
"Ox Li, your job is to make sure our own men comply, and... encourage the regulars when they're near our area."
"Sly Liu, your eyes and ears are our supply line. I need to know if someone is sabotaging the lime deliveries or hoarding the soap."
"Scholar Zhang, I need clear, simple instructions. Draw diagrams. How to dig a latrine. How to build a covered fire for boiling water. Make it so a child could understand."
The Seventh Battalion transformed into a strange, multi-headed beast: part medical corps, part construction crew, part secret police. They were no longer just soldiers; they were the enforcers of a new, cleaner reality.
Slowly, grudgingly, a shift occurred. A soldier from the Fifth Battalion, whose fever broke after his unit finally started boiling water, nodded to Lin Wei as he passed. A cook, whose kitchen had remained free of sickness, saved a slightly less rancid portion of gruel for the "Doc's men." It wasn't admiration, but a pragmatic, unspoken acknowledgment. The Seventh's morale, fueled by this faint respect and their own visible success, solidified into a hard, confident core.
Commander Xin observed this from a distance. He saw the falling sickness rates in his daily reports. He saw the Seventh Battalion, once a ragged mob, now moving with a purpose that set them apart. He didn't see men; he saw assets. A unit that could survive a plague and maintain discipline was a unit that could survive a battle and hold a line. Their value had been recalibrated in his mind. They were no longer disposable. They were durable.
A week after the plague barracks, the summons came. Lin Wei stood before Commander Xin, who was studying a map.
"The Jin are testing our northern patrol routes," Xin said without preamble. "The Fifth Battalion is running a reconnaissance-in-force along the Red River valley. The Seventh will be attached to them."
Lin Wei braced for the familiar order: You will be the vanguard. You will absorb the first charge.
Xin looked up, his gaze analytical. "Your unit has shown... resilience. You will operate as the primary scout element for the Fifth. Move ahead of their main body. Identify enemy positions and strength. Report back. Your orders are to gather intelligence. Avoid engagement if possible. The Fifth will be your support."
The words hung in the air. Avoid engagement. It was a mission based on trust, not expendability. It was a mission that expected them to return.
As Lin Wei walked back to the Seventh's camp to relay the orders, the weight felt different. It wasn't the crushing burden of a death sentence. It was the taut, precarious pressure of expectation. They had survived the plague. Now, they had to prove their survival wasn't a fluke. The goal was no longer just to live through the day. It was to succeed.
The men of the Seventh listened to the orders in silence. Then, a new look entered their eyes—not the desperate fear of convicts, but the sharp, focused glint of soldiers with a mission. They had been given a thread of hope, and they would cling to it with the grim tenacity of men who had nothing else to lose.