Chapter 12: The Price of Loyalty
Inside the tent, the air was cold enough to frost breath. Commander Sang sat as still as a stone statue, his eyes fixed on the Go board.
"I don't care for gold, merchant," Sang said, his voice like grinding gravel. "I care for the men who bled for a Crown that forgot them. I want glory. I want to see these veterans recognized as the lions they are, led by a great general—not a ghost in the mountains."
Wei'an was about to counter with a point about "Economic Sustainability," when the tent flap was shredded by a crossbow bolt.
"Commander! The Count's messengers are here!" a voice screamed.
But it wasn't a message. It was a coup.
Sang's most trusted lieutenant, a man named Feng, stepped into the torchlight outside. He wasn't alone. Behind him stood eighty of Sang's veterans, their blades drawn and eyes gleaming with the hollow light of greed. The Count, frustrated by his failed assassins, had simply bought the man closest to the prize.
"Sorry, Commander," Feng spat. "The Count offered us a full pardon and three lifetimes of silver. Glory doesn't fill a stomach. Your time is over."
A volley of arrows hissed through the tent.
"Move!" Wei'an yelled. He didn't wait for the old man to process the betrayal. He lunged across the Go board—scattering the stones everywhere—and tackled Commander Sang to the dirt just as a bolt thudded into the chair where the general's head had been a second ago.
"My stones!" Sang roared, even as they rolled through the mud.
"Forget the stones, you old fossil! If we stay here, we're just inventory!" Wei'an grabbed Sang by the collar and dragged him toward the back of the tent. With a small knife, Wei'an sliced through the rear canvas.
They tumbled out into the chaos. Arrows whistled past them, one clipping Wei'an's sleeve.
"My back! My noble, merchant back!" Wei'an wheezed, scrambling behind a heavy supply wagon. "Commander, if we survive this, you're giving me a 50% discount on protection fees!"
"Shut up and run, boy!" Sang barked, grabbing a discarded spear.
They sprinted toward the perimeter where the Iron Vanguard and the Shen guards were already forming a defensive circle. The 25 "buff" mercenaries were using their modern stamina training to hold the line, doing rhythmic shield-shoves that looked like an aggressive dance routine.
"Commander! Over here!" the remaining 70 loyalist veterans cried out, rallying to their leader.
Wei'an stood behind his mercenaries, panting. He looked at the 80 traitors and the Count's shadowy reinforcements closing in.
"Steward Qiu! Mercenaries!" Wei'an shouted, pointing at the defectors. "They're trying to ruin our profit margins! Smash them!"
POV: The Shen Estate
Back at the mansion, the air was thick with a different kind of tension. The Count's representative, a high-ranking scholar with a beard long enough to be a safety hazard, had arrived to begin the Test of Scholar-Wit.
Shen Mu, the cousin, stood at the front of the hall. He looked every bit the "All-Knowing Scholar." He held a folding fan and wore a look of supreme boredom that suggested he had read every book ever written and found them all lacking.
"The historical precedent for the Azure Creek Mine is clear," the Count's scholar droned. "In the year of the Red Dragon—"
"Incorrect," Shen Mu interrupted, flicking his fan open with a sharp clack. "You're citing the southern agrarian census. The mine was registered under the Northern Mineral Decree. If you're going to lie to me, at least be literate."
The Count's scholar sputtered. Shen Yao watched from the side, impressed despite herself. Maybe we don't need the merchant for the intellectual battles, she thought.
But as the debate raged, her mind kept drifting. She looked at the empty seat where Wei'an should have been.
He's probably in a village tavern right now, flirting with some farm girl while I'm here defending our lifeblood, she thought, her face flushing with a mix of irritation and a lingering memory of his touch. He's a scoundrel. A beautiful, annoying scoundrel.
The Household Moves
In the inner courtyard, the Matriarch was surprisingly busy. She wasn't weeping. She was burning the sandalwood balm Wei'an had given her, her eyes sharper than they had been in years. She was quietly organizing the household servants, checking the pantry stocks, and preparing for a siege.
"The boy said to prepare," she whispered. "And the boy hasn't been wrong yet."
The Patriarch, meanwhile, was in the armory. He was polishing his old war-sword, his face grim. He knew the Count wouldn't stop at a debate.
"If my son-in-law brings me an army," Lord Shen growled, "I'll make sure they have a war worth fighting."
Back at the Mountain Pass
Wei'an peeked over a crate as the two forces clashed.
"Commander Sang!" Wei'an yelled over the din of swords. "If we win this, I'm putting you on the payroll! You get three meals a day, a dental plan, and you never have to play Go with a traitor again!"
Sang lunged forward, skewering a defector. "What in the hell is a 'dental plan'?"
"I'll explain later! Just don't let Feng stab me! I have a wedding night to actually finish!"
Next Chapter Hook:
The battle for the camp reaches its peak as Wei'an uses a "Merchant's Trap" (fire and supply wagons) to break the traitors. Meanwhile, back at the Estate, the Count's representative loses the debate and reveals a hidden "Assassination Clause" in the challenge.