The morning was crisp, the air clean and sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. In the training yard, the world was reduced to the simple, brutal logic of flesh and thread.
Under Lin Wei's watchful eye, Young Kuo's needle pierced the pigskin, pulling the suture through with a precision that had become second nature. Beside him, the hulking Big Niu, his leg propped on a stool, offered gruff, unsolicited advice.
"Tighter, boy! You're sewing a wound, not a silk scarf. You want it to hold when he's running for his life."
"Maybe I should let you do it, then," Young Kuo shot back without looking up, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Since you're such an expert."
"Bah! I'm a patient. An artiste. I provide inspiration," Big Niu retorted, gesturing with a wineskin.
A ripple of laughter went through the group of trainee medics. Lao, the grizzled penal soldier, nodded in approval at Young Kuo's work, while Feng, the regular army volunteer, watched intently, his earlier arrogance replaced by a hungry need to learn. Lin Wei observed the scene, a fragile sense of accomplishment settling in his chest. This was a unit. It was raw and unrefined, but it functioned.
The system's interface was calm, displaying nothing more critical than
"[Training Exercise: Suturing Proficiency - 87% Adequacy]". The peace was a tangible thing, built suture by suture.
It was shattered by the drumming of hooves.
A single scout, his horse lathered and heaving, tore through the camp, not slowing for the training yard, heading straight for Commander Xin's headquarters. The laughter died.
Veterans in the yard stopped sharpening blades, their hands stilling. A minute later, another rider followed, his face a mask of dust and urgency.
Then a third.
The air grew thick. The easy camaraderie vanished, replaced by a silent, waiting tension. Lin Wei didn't need the system to analyze the pattern. This was not a patrol report. This was a cascade of bad news.
A young messenger, breathless, skidded to a halt before Lin Wei. "Physician Lin! The Commander. Now."
The command tent hummed with a suppressed energy. Commander Xin stood over a large map scraped onto a stretched leather hide. Captain Guo was there, along with the other battalion commanders, their faces grim. The air smelled of sweat and anxiety.
"They're not probing," Xin said, his voice flat, cutting off any greeting. He stabbed a finger at a point on the map. "Xiangyang." The name hung in the air, heavy with significance. The fortress city was a linchpin of the southern defense. "Three columns. A full offensive."
He traced the lines of advance. "The main force moves to besiege the city. But here," his finger slid to a ridge of high ground overlooking the approach to Xiangyang, "the Qiling Heights. A faster column swings wide to take them. If they secure this ridge, their artillery will make it impossible to relieve the siege. Xiangyang falls. The front line collapses."
The strategic horror was immediately clear to every man in the tent. This wasn't a battle; it was a campaign to break the Southern Song's spine.
"The garrison on the Heights is pitifully small," Xin continued, his gaze sweeping the room. "They will be overrun in hours. I am reinforcing them with the Fifth and the Seventh Battalions."
A cold silence greeted the order. It was a death sentence. The two battalions were to be the anvil upon which the Jin hammer would fall. Their mission was not to win, but to bleed, to delay, to die slowly enough for the main army to mobilize.
Xin's eyes found Lin Wei's. "Your medics are no longer a medical detail. They are a tactical asset. Your ability to keep men in the fight is the only variable that might change the equation of that defense. The Fifth and the Seventh will hold the Heights. You will ensure they can hold for as long as humanly possible."
The weight of the order was physical. They were being sent to a meat grinder, and Lin Wei was being asked to manage the grinder's output.
As they filed out of the tent, Captain Guo fell into step beside Lin Wei. The captain's face was pale, but set. "He's right, you know," Guo said, his voice low. "Hope is a luxury on that ridge. But efficiency… efficiency might buy us an extra day. My men will fight harder if they know a wound isn't a death sentence. Your corps is our only advantage."
The camp was a whirlwind of controlled panic. Ox Li's voice boomed across the penal battalion's sector, marshaling men into ranks with a terrifying efficiency. Sly Liu and his scavengers were already stripping the medical tents of every last bandage, pot, and vial. The mood was not heroic; it was grimly functional.
Lin Wei assembled his medics. They stood before him, the easy confidence of the morning gone, replaced by the wide-eyed stillness of men facing the abyss.
"The training is over," Lin Wei said, his voice carrying without needing to shout. "What you see in the next days will test you. Remember your drills. Your duty is not to the empire, or to a general. Your duty is to the man beside you. See to it that as many of us come down from that ridge as possible."
There were no cheers. Only a series of grim nods. Young Kuo checked the contents of his kit with trembling hands. Lao tested the edge of his skinning knife. Big Niu struggled to his feet, leaning on a crutch, his face a thundercloud of frustration at being left behind.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fire and blood, the combined force of the Fifth and Seventh Battalions moved out.
They marched not to glory, but to a geographic appointment with slaughter. Lin Wei walked among them, no longer just a healer, but the commander of a desperate, brutal bunch of people trying to save the most from the cold claws of death . The hammer is falling, so they were forced to be the anvil.