The central command tent was already crowded when Li Běichén arrived.
The air inside was thick with ink, oil, and restrained anger. A circular table dominated the space, its surface layered with maps and dispatches weighed down by bronze seals. No one sat. Generals and ministers stood shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped behind their backs or braced against the table's edge, as if sitting would imply comfort none of them felt.
Zhou Yueliang stood at the head, expression unreadable. His gaze moved once around the circle, slow and deliberate, before settling forward again. Ashen Vale lay open on the map before him, its borders marked too neatly for a land soaked in blood. It had been one of Bing Ya's supports.
A veteran general broke the silence first. His hair was more white than dark now, his armor bearing marks that had never been polished away.
"A 'commemoration'? It is a branding! To force a soldier of Ashen Vale to press a bloody thumb to his census is not an act of mercy; it is the Crown Prince carving his name into our very souls."
Murmurs rippled through the tent, low and bitter.
The Minister of War followed, his voice clipped and precise, as if delivering a report rather than an accusation.
"They call it 'War Merit Gold,' but it is the price of a soul. He is not honoring the fallen; he is cataloging his property. If our Commander signs that paper, he is no longer a prisoner of war but a slave by his own hand."
A petty official shifted forward, unable to keep himself from speaking. His robe sleeves trembled faintly with agitation.
"How many scrolls does he intend to fill? It is an administrative nightmare disguised as a grand gesture. He's making a ledger of the dead to justify the taxes of the living. A disgrace not only to Ashen Vale but the Soldiers of Bing Ya who fought along side."
The words had barely settled before Tang Yaojun stepped into the opening they left. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His tone carried easily, polished by years of court debate.
"You call it an insult to Bing Ya, yet you forget that Bing Ya left its sons to rot in the mud of Ashen Vale. The Crown Prince offers them a name and a future in the Central Kingdom. Why cling to a kingdom that only values you when you are holding a sword, but discards you the moment you are captured?"
The reaction was immediate.
Minister Yan stepped forward, finger lifting in a sharp, accusatory line that cut through the space between them.
"A dog that bites its first master will eventually sink its teeth into the second. Why should this court listen to a man who trades his heritage for a seat at a foreign table? You speak of 'futures,' Tang Yaojun, but your words are written in the same treachery that flooded the Vale with our brothers' blood."
Tang's expression tightened, but before he could respond, Zhou Yueliang raised a hand. The motion was small. It stilled the room.
"Let the prince have his blood and his fingerprints. A man's soul is not contained in a drop of red ink on a scroll. Bing Ya dictates that we listen to all advisors, even those whose loyalty is... flexible. Tang Yaojun provides a service, much like a sharp knife. One does not need to love the knife to appreciate the way it cuts."
The tension shifted. Not eased. Redirected.
Tang turned his head slightly, eyes finding Li Běichén where he stood apart from the others, silent until now.
"Commander Li, you are unusually quiet. Does the census frighten you, or are you simply calculating how much your own blood is worth?"
Li did not move at first. A thin smile appeared on his face. When he spoke, his voice was even. "Neither, Minister Tang. I was simply wondering: when the Prince finishes his census of the living, will he ask you to sign a ledger for the dead? After all, you knew their names best before they fell."
The room fell silent.
Tang's jaw clenched. The faintest flash of anger crossed his eyes before it vanished behind control. A few of the generals shifted, not quite hiding their satisfaction.
Zhou exhaled slowly.
"Let us not dwell on the dead. The 'Great Commemoration' is for the living. If the 'War Merit Gold' keeps our men alive, then the Prince is merely paying us to wait for the wind to change. I will speak to the Emperor."
No one argued after that. The words did not settle the matter, but they ended the meeting.
Outside, the sounds of camp life pressed back in as the tent flaps lifted. Orders were called. Steel rang against steel. Somewhere beyond the walls, the wind carried dust across the plain, indifferent to politics and blood alike.
Li Běichén stepped away from the tent, his thoughts already elsewhere.
Behind him, Ashen Vale remained open on the map, its fate still undecided, its dead counted by men who argued over what a soul was worth.