A group of military generals stood quietly, sizing one another up.
They were not close. In fact, if fate hadn't shoved them into the same hall, several of them would never have spoken in their lives.
Some had followed the Lord for over a decade.
Some had joined only this year.
Some had clawed their way up from the mud.
Some had surrendered from enemy banners.
And one—very conspicuously—had a father whose reputation made introductions unnecessary.
Guan Ping felt the glances land on him like pebbles bouncing off armor. He did not react. He had long since grown used to this particular kind of attention.
"Everyone here?" Zhao Yun asked.
He appeared at the doorway holding thick stacks of documents in one hand and a bucket of tea in the other—looking less like a general and more like someone about to host a very unfriendly study session.
Without waiting for an answer, he opened the doors, stationed guards outside, and pushed open all four windows.
In the center of the hall sat a massive sand table.
Several generals felt their expressions stiffen.
Xiahou Lan, Gao Xiang, Chen Shi, and Fu Rong exchanged looks of silent despair. They remembered this thing. They remembered it very well. Last time, it had been the so-called "Battle of Xiangfan," a scenario that demanded winning with thirty thousand troops against seventy thousand, capturing thirty thousand prisoners, and apparently bending reality while at it.
Back then, Ma Su had been present.
Now he wasn't.
And Shi Ren was nowhere to be seen either.
Zhao Yun smiled pleasantly.
"By the Lord's command," he said, "you will complete five simulations here over the next two months."
He handed out the documents.
Fu Rong glanced down, read a few lines—and almost sighed out loud.
This one looked… human.
No impossible miracles. No divine interventions. No instructions that quietly implied you were supposed to be a reincarnated war god.
Zhao Yun picked up a long pole and pointed to the sand table.
"The Battle of Jing-Xiang. The defense of Hanzhong. Breaking Wu at the Xiang River. The siege of Hefei. And the standoff at Yiling."
A pause.
"For these exercises, you are colleagues. You may simulate freely according to the conditions given. If you believe you have passed, I will evaluate you."
His smile did not change.
But to the generals, it looked suspiciously like a trap.
"For example," Zhao Yun continued calmly, "in the Jing-Xiang battle, you will simulate once. Then switch sides and simulate again. Only by winning both ways will you be considered qualified."
No one spoke.
The newer generals waited to see how the veterans reacted.
The veterans waited because surviving this long had taught them never to rush first.
Zhao Yun was mildly disappointed.
Seeing no one take the bait, he sighed and said flatly:
"This hall is restricted. The law is strict. You will not discuss what happens here with outsiders. You will not draw the maps you see. You will not take the manuals out."
He looked around.
"If you ignore this, by the time you're dragged before the Lord in chains, regret will be… inefficient."
The generals straightened immediately.
"Understood!"
Satisfied, Zhao Yun left them alone and stepped outside.
Gong'an County was still small, but it no longer felt poor.
When Lei Xu had arrived with fifty thousand refugees, the city had nearly burst. But with Jiangling reclaimed, troops stationed in Linju, Dangyang, and Jingyang, and massive construction underway in Jiangling, many civilians and refugees flowed outward instead.
Those who remained in Gong'an were living a life almost unrecognizable compared to last year.
Upon arrival, the Lord had ordered soldiers to reclaim wasteland and distribute it to the people. Gratitude followed. After the revelations of the light-screen, the Military Advisor personally oversaw agriculture—teaching seed selection, breeding, planting methods, composting, and introducing curved plows.
The results were undeniable.
Grain output in Gong'an rose by thirty-five percent.
The four commanderies saw a slower rise—but still fifteen percent.
Grain was abundant. Taxes were lowered to forty percent.
Previously, taxes had hovered at sixty or seventy percent—and people still couldn't pay. Now, forty percent was collected with ease. The people were fed. The granaries were full.
Everyone was satisfied.
Liu Bei himself felt there was nothing remarkable about this. To him, it was simply how things should work.
Hydraulic workshops processed grain cheaply. Idle laborers found work in paper mills, ironworks, or construction projects. Even households with no land could earn coin.
Compared to last year's desolation, the main roads now boasted cloth shops, paper shops, iron shops, and even several butcheries. Malt candy—normally reserved for the New Year—was being sold casually on the street.
And then there were the Ink Cakes.
The peddler shouted enthusiastically that one catty cost less than half the price of charcoal and burned longer.
Zhao Yun knew exactly what it was. In fact, every new item in Gong'an was first tested by his two hundred personal guards—who already rode with stirrups and considered experimentation a duty.
Seeing commoners hesitate, Zhao Yun stepped forward, tossed down coin, and said calmly:
"Back street of the county office. House with a flag reading 'Zhao.' Thirty catties."
"General Zhao!"
"General Zilong!"
Recognition spread immediately.
Zhao Yun smiled and waved them off. The meaning was clear: if he was using it, it was safe.
When Zhao Yun returned to the hall, the generals were fully engaged.
Voices rose. Fingers stabbed at the sand table. No one held back ideas now.
An hour later, Zhao Yun calmly demonstrated how a remnant force could lure out Jiangling's defenders while cavalry and reinforcements severed their retreat.
The defenses collapsed instantly.
Zhao Yun stretched and said lightly, "You should find time to cross the river and observe the navy's training."
The generals whispered furiously.
Zhao Yun, however, gazed at the darkening sky.
He thought of the north.
Changshan. Zhending.
By now, they should be buried in snow.
He had never missed his hometown much before. But after seeing the shrines built for him by descendants on the light-screen—and seeing Gan Gui, who would rather die than abandon the thought of returning home—the feeling quietly took root.
When would he return?
Soon, perhaps.
Supplies were being stockpiled. Soldiers recruited and trained. The navy expanded daily.
The air carried a familiar scent.
This year's New Year's Day was far more comfortable than the last.
At the banquet, Liu Bei sat with Lady Sun and Lady Gan. Liu Feng greeted Lady Gan respectfully. Ah Dou lay quietly in Lady Sun's arms.
Civil and military harmony. Household peace. Order among descendants.
Liu Bei felt a rare sense of calm.
The new year's affairs, however, were relentless.
Kongming audited supplies while drafting agricultural plans. Pang Tong studied last year's harvests to design fair taxation. Ma Liang returned from Wuling near the end of January, coated in dust and exhaustion.
As the time promised by the light-screen approached, everyone finally caught their breath.
Liu Bei hesitated over a list of names.
Pang Tong, eyes bright with anticipation, murmured:
Kongming… let me see how you reshape the world.