The air in Commander Xin's tent was still and heavy, thick with the smell of ink, cold tea, and the sharp scent of men under a strain that had nothing to do with physical labor.
The roar of the battle at Qiling Ridge was a distant, muted thunder, a constant reminder of the chaos that was, for the moment, someone else's problem. Here, the war was fought on the paper.
Xin stood over the large campaign table, its surface a chaotic landscape of scrolled maps, wooden unit blocks, and hastily scribbled dispatches.
His face was a mask of granite, but the weariness was in the slight droop of his shoulders, the way his fingertips, stained with ink, rested on the edge of the table as if for support. Aides moved around him with hushed urgency, their footsteps soft on the rugs, their voices low.
They were the blood vessels of this army, and he was its heart, pumping orders and processing a constant flow of bad news.
A young messenger, his face pale, entered and bowed, holding out a folded slip of paper. "The first casualty report from the Ridge, Commander."
Xin took it without a word. His eyes scanned the figures, not flinching at the numbers—187 casualties, 23 fatalities—but lingering on the final line: 93 returned to duty.
He looked up, his gaze sharp. "Confirm this," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Ninety-three men. Wounded, evacuated, and returned to the line. In one day."
The aide nodded. "Verified, sir. The medics… the convict's corps… they are… efficient."
Xin placed the report on the table, his hand covering the numbers for a moment. He picked up a small, smooth river stone he kept on the table, its surface worn to a dull sheen. He rotated it slowly in his palm, the motion a silent tell of the calculations grinding in his mind.
Twenty-three families would receive a death notice. But ninety-three soldiers were still holding a spear because of the work in that bloody gully.
It was a brutal equation, and he was forced to be its accountant. The convict wasn't just saving lives; he was preserving fighting strength. He was a strategic asset, the thin, crimson thread holding his entire plan together.
Another messenger arrived, this one from the main camp near Xiangyang. The news was worse.
The Jin siege lines were solidifying. Their engineers were building new trebuchet platforms. The city, the message stated with chilling clarity, had perhaps a week of food left.
Xin dismissed the messenger and turned back to the map. The strategic nightmare was laid out before him. Xiangyang was a trapped beast. The Jin force on Qiling Ridge was a knife at his own throat, preventing him from helping. He was caught in a pincer movement of geography and time.
To save the city, he had to break the siege. To break the siege, he had to dislodge the enemy from the ridge. A direct assault on the fortified ridge would be a slaughter that would leave him with no army to save anyone.
He walked to the tent flap and looked out, towards the distant smudge of smoke that was Qiling Ridge. The river stone was a hard, cool weight in his hand.
He thought of Captain Guo, stubborn and reliable, holding the line. He thought of the convict doctor, his hands stained with the blood of Xin's own soldiers, fighting a different kind of war with bandages and bone-saws.
He allowed himself a single, slow breath, a moment of profound isolation. The weight of their lives, of the entire frontier, was a physical pressure on his chest.
Turning back to the table, the moment of vulnerability was gone, replaced by the stern resolve of command. The gamble was set. He summoned his chief scribe.
"Message to the garrison commander at Xiangyang," he dictated, his voice flat and final. "Hold. Reinforcements are coming. Prepare for a full sortie in five days. I will create the diversion. Be ready."
He paused, the order hanging in the quiet tent. Then came the harder one.
"Second message. To Captain Guo and the Supervisor of the Field Medicine on Qiling Ridge."
He met the scribe's eyes. "The Ridge is the key. You have held for one day. You must hold for four more. Make the enemy bleed for every inch. Force them to commit their reserves. You are the anvil. The survival of Xiangyang depends on your resilience. Every hour you hold is a victory."
As the scribe finished and the messengers galloped away into the twilight, Xin stood alone by the map. He looked at the block representing the two battered battalions on the ridge. He had just ordered them to endure a week of hell. He had consigned more men to the convict's bloody triage, and to the grave.
The battle on the ridge was a test of flesh and courage. Here, in the quiet tent, the battle was a test of a man's soul. Commander Xin sighed, feeling the weight of it, heavy as a tombstone.