The dawn mist felt like a damp rag against the skin as the Seventh Penal Battalion shuffled into a rough formation. The air was thick with a new kind of tension—not the numb dread of a death sentence, but the jittery anxiety of a performance review. They were being measured, and failure no longer just meant death; it meant a return to being utterly worthless.
Captain Guo arrived without fanfare. He was young for his rank, his face prematurely hardened by wind and war. His armor was functional and worn, his eyes scanning the penal troops with the flat, assessing look of a man inspecting faulty equipment. A squad of a dozen regulars from the Fifth Battalion flanked him, their postures radiating contempt.
"You," Guo's voice cut through the quiet, landing not on Lin Wei, but on the group as a whole. "Seventh Battalion. You're our scouts today. We're patrolling the northern ridge. Your job is to walk ahead, find the Jin, and report back. You will not engage. Your only value to this mission is your eyes. If you start a fight, I'll leave you to die in it. Understood?"
The message was clear: they were disposable sensors, not soldiers. A few of the men flinched, the fragile hope of the last few days cracking under the weight of his disdain.
Lin Wei simply nodded. The system's analysis was brief:
"[Subject: Captain Guo. Stress markers elevated. Assesses this assignment as high-risk, low-reward. Primary motivation: Minimize liability.]"
The march was a study in contrast. The Fifth moved in a tight, noisy column, their discipline audible in the synchronized crunch of their boots. The Seventh slunk forward in a dispersed, ragged skirmish line, their progress marked by silence and a constant, nervous scanning of the terrain. It wasn't grace; it was the hyper-vigilance of prey animals.
The first sign of the enemy came from Sly Liu, who melted back from the front, pointing at the ground. "Five riders. Jin scouts. Hoofprints are fresh. Headed that way." He gestured towards a wooded slope.
Captain Guo examined the tracks, his brow furrowed. "They're using the woods for cover. Standard tactic."
Lin Wei studied the path ahead, which narrowed into a rocky defile. "That pass up ahead. It's a perfect spot for an ambush. Even five men could pin us down from the high ground."
Guo shot him a look of pure irritation. Being schooled in basic tactics by a convict was a galling experience. "We're not paid to avoid shadows, convict. We're paid to find the enemy." He dismissed the concern, ordering the column forward on the direct route.
The decision cost them. As they entered the mouth of the defile, a whistle cut the air. Two arrows thudded into the ground near the lead elements of the Fifth Battalion, who immediately crouched behind their shields. From the rocks above, five Jin cavalrymen appeared, already nocking another shot.
"Shield wall!" Guo barked. His men formed up with practiced efficiency, but they were stationary, a packed target.
The Seventh didn't wait for orders. They broke. It wasn't a tactical maneuver; it was a panicked, instinctual scramble for cover behind boulders and in shallow depressions. There was no coordination, only a desperate survival instinct that looked nothing like military drill. A few of their archers, remembering Lin Wei's constant drills, loosed a few wild, unaimed shots upwards, more to distract than to hit.
The Jin, seeing their ambush spoiled and facing a shielded formation, didn't press the attack. They fired one more volley that rattled harmlessly off the Fifth's shields, then melted back into the rocks, their mocking laughter echoing in the canyon.
The encounter was over in minutes. No one was seriously hurt, but the Fifth Battalion was left feeling foolish and exposed. The Seventh was shaken, clumping back together with ragged breaths.
Captain Guo's face was a thundercloud. He strode over to where Lin Wei was checking on a man with a shallow graze on his arm. "Your men broke formation," he accused, his voice low and dangerous.
"They found cover, Captain," Lin Wei replied, his tone flat. "Your formation became a target. We're not trained soldiers. We're survivors. We did what we know."
Guo stared at him, the truth of the statement undeniable. The convicts' chaotic, undisciplined reaction had, in its own messy way, been more effective than his own by-the-book response. There was no admiration in his eyes, only a simmering frustration and a dawning, grudging acknowledgment of a harsh reality.
"Just keep your rats pointed in the right direction," he finally grunted, turning away. "We're heading back."
The return march was silent, the air thick with unresolved tension. The penal troops had neither covered themselves in glory nor disgraced themselves completely. They had simply survived, again, in their own ugly way. But in the economy of this frontier, survival itself was a form of currency. Captain Guo hadn't found a unit he could respect, but he had found one that might, against all odds, be useful. It was a start, carved not from glory, but from the grim, unyielding dirt of experience.