Although during the reign of King Zhaoxiang of Qin, the state of Qin waged multiple wars against the Three Jins, making it appear to be their mortal enemy, in truth, ever since the partition of Jin among the three houses, their greatest enemies had always been each other.

Wei, Han, and Zhao each sought to inherit the entirety of Jin’s “legacy,” and ever since declaring independence, they had been locked in ceaseless warfare. Yet, all three originated from the same noble lineage and had intermarried across many generations. So, even while fighting each other, they often held back—battles that could have ended in conquest would, for various reasons, result in retreats.

This push and pull led many scholars to believe the monarchs of the Three Jins showed noble restraint toward one another. But for the people living in the border regions where these three states intersected, it was nothing short of unending disaster and suffering—like flesh being sawed back and forth by a never-stopping blade.

Changping was located where several rivers converged, forming expansive alluvial plains between the mountains. As is widely known, such plains typically support thriving economies. In later times, this area would become a crucial grain-producing region. But due to years of warfare, it had become a virtual wasteland.

After the Battle of Changping, Qin unexpectedly spared tens of thousands of Zhao soldiers, leading Wei and Han to believe Qin was still in full control and unchallenged, making them wary of provoking it. As a result, they tacitly accepted Qin’s control over the strategic highlands of Shangdang.

In actual history, Bai Qi’s execution of prisoners not only incited, for the first time, a deep hatred among the battle-numbed people of Zhao toward a specific enemy, but also revealed to other nations that the Qin army was nearing its limits.

Everyone knew that while the Qin army had a reputation for slaughtering captives, to go so far as to deceive and then kill surrendered soldiers could only mean one thing: Qin lacked the resources and manpower to either feed or control so many able-bodied men.

The wars of the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods had dragged on for centuries, drastically reducing the population across the land. Every state faced a labor shortage. Qin, more shameless than most, often resorted to “stealing people” from the Three Jins.

How many prisoners Qin could convert into its own labor force was a direct measure of its national strength.

That’s why, after executing the prisoners, Bai Qi had immediately requested a campaign against Handan. He knew it was impossible to wipe out Zhao completely, but if he could capture its capital, Qin could force a treaty, further weaken Zhao, and bolster its own strength. This would also mislead other states into overestimating Qin’s power, making them reluctant to act rashly.

In reality, the Battle of Changping was a near-mutual devastation for both Qin and Zhao. Bai Qi could not afford to let other nations take advantage of the weakened Qin.

Although Bai Qi failed to persuade the King of Qin to attack Handan, fortunately the rulers of the other states were not as shrewd as he feared. None dared to strike, and Bai Qi could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

If Qin took time to recover and focused on developing the Shangdang highlands, it could fully assimilate the territory, and Bai Qi’s fears would never come true.

But then, in a baffling move, the King of Qin suddenly lost his senses and, on a whim, launched another attack on Zhao—this time clinging to a battle he was certain to lose. No matter how foolish the other rulers were, they couldn’t pass up such an opportunity.

After the Battle of Handan, Qin lost all the territories in the Three Jins it had held for years and was even pushed back to Hangu Pass. King Zhaoxiang of Qin went from being a powerful sovereign to the laughingstock of the realm.

Now, Qin was openly releasing Zhao’s captured soldiers—not even keeping them as slaves to till the land. This uncharacteristically lenient behavior left both Wei and Han terrified and sleepless. Even the truly wise ministers within those countries urged their monarchs to pull back and consolidate their defenses.

In this campaign, Qin had made no strategic or policy errors and managed to preserve its aura of invincibility. With neither Wei nor Zhao daring to make a move on Shangdang, the region enjoyed a rare period of peace and stable development.

With such a secure environment—and thanks to Zhu Xiang’s “generosity”—just one season of bumper harvest was enough for Changping to spring to life, showing signs of flourishing as if it were on the path to becoming a great city.

Bo Fu introduced Changping with a look of immense pride, clearly having come to regard it as his second hometown.

When Lian Po strolled through Changping, quite a few officers saluted him.

Lian Po didn’t recognize a single one of them—he wouldn’t remember nameless foot soldiers. But from their mannerisms and accents, he could tell that many of them were once Zhao soldiers stationed at Changping.

A number of Zhao prisoners of war had stayed behind in Changping. Under Bai Qi’s personal guarantee, the King of Qin placed his trust in them, allowing them to become part of Changping’s garrison and remain there to continue farming.

Seeing a few Qin soldiers on break, arms slung around each other in camaraderie, Lian Po gave them a strange look and said, “Among those men, there are both Zhao and Qin soldiers, aren’t there?”

Though Lou Huan responded in a perfectly neutral tone, Lian Po still felt he was being deliberately snide: “No, they’re all Qin soldiers now.”

Lian Po shot Lou Huan a glare. “Even if they’ve become Qin soldiers, don’t you think they adapted a little too quickly?”

He, too, had once taken prisoners and tried to turn them into his own soldiers. He knew all too well how difficult it was to make former enemies coexist peacefully.

The Battle of Changping had been horrifically brutal—Qin and Zhao forces bore deep-seated blood feuds. Even though soldiers were merely tools obeying orders, and the hatred between them wasn’t as personal as between true enemies, the psychological divide was still real. How could such a barrier dissolve so quickly?

For Qin and Zhao soldiers to at least behave like strangers toward each other in such a short time—that was already an impressive level of restraint.

Lou Huan replied, “That, I wouldn’t know.”

Lian Po, exasperated, said, “What do you Qin officials know anyway?”

Lou Huan replied leisurely, “I told you—I know Zhao.”

Damn it! Lian Po rolled up his sleeves again, once more feeling the urge to beat this old bastard to death.

Bo Fu, quick-witted and emotionally perceptive, immediately stepped in to defuse the situation and offered an explanation: “Maybe it’s because we all once farmed under Lord Zhu Xiang’s leadership, and celebrated the harvest festivals together?”

He brought up the harvest festival. For both the Qin and Zhao soldiers, it was their first time holding a celebration purely for their own amusement. Even Lord Zhu Xiang and the Qin generals had gone on stage themselves to perform for the troops—just thinking back on it now still made them feel excited.

Bo Fu rubbed his nose and chuckled sheepishly. “It’s a bit embarrassing to say… but it was the first time we actually felt like we were people. Maybe it’s because we had that shared experience that we got familiar with each other so quickly.”

Not only did Lian Po look completely bewildered—even Li Mu, who was typically close to the common soldiers, seemed at a loss.

Lou Huan scratched his head hard, almost messing up his hair bun.

You people just fought a brutal, life-or-death battle where so many died on both sides. And now that deep-seated hatred—you’re telling me it disappeared just because you threw a party together? Is something wrong with you, or are my ears the problem?

Lou Huan racked his brains, but he still couldn’t make sense of it.

Lian Po was better than Lou Huan—if he couldn’t figure something out, he simply stopped thinking about it and moved on to questions he could understand. For example, the training methods of the Qin army.

Now that Lian Po was a general under Qin, Bo Fu didn’t hide anything about how the Qin army trained.

The Qin military already had a fairly systematic and disciplined training regimen: forming ranks, physical conditioning, marching drills, responding to commands, etc. Every day, they began with running drills, then practiced formations, followed by command drills, and only afterward did they move on to combat training.

Lian Po nodded repeatedly. “Not bad,” he said.

His expression was calm and indifferent, but inside, he felt all kinds of complicated emotions.

It wasn’t that the Qin’s training methods were particularly ingenious—his own weren’t much different.

But military training methods were typically a general’s secret. Many commanders would rather share their battle strategies and tactics than reveal how they trained their troops.

Why were some families known for producing generations of generals? It wasn’t because they passed down rare military treatises, but because they passed down their methods of training soldiers.

As long as a general knew how to train his troops, he could avoid a disastrous loss in a battle between evenly matched forces. To command massive military campaigns, of course, required even more talent. But how many such commanders did a country really need? Knowing how to train troops was already enough to make a living as a general.

Lian Po had his own unique training methods too.

While some aspects could be observed just by watching, the specifics involved far deeper expertise. Lian Po could proudly say: without several years of hands-on instruction from him personally, no one could ever learn his methods.

Watching the Qin army’s training methods now, even though he hadn’t yet seen the full picture, Lian Po could already sense that the Qin military had taken a system of troop training—a system refined enough to be passed down through generations—and turned it into a national standard. It was implemented across the entire army and even codified into law.

With this, perhaps Qin’s forces would still win some and lose some when faced with truly formidable generals from other states. But how many such elite commanders did any one country have? In battles between average generals, the Qin army would almost certainly prevail.

Lian Po tugged at his beard a few times.

He finally understood what Zhu Xiang meant when he’d said that once Lian Po arrived in Qin, he wouldn’t need to fight anymore, and could instead quietly teach at the Xianyang Academy.

That brat—did he really intend for Lian Po to help Qin train its next generation of generals?

Did Zhu Xiang not know that military men, unlike scholars of other schools, never shared their family’s secret arts?

Fine—Zhu Xiang was just a commoner; perhaps he really didn’t know.

Lian Po gave his beard another few tugs and nearly ripped out a couple of strands.

Now that even he had realized Zhu Xiang was inviting him to teach military strategy at the Xianyang Academy, surely others in Xianyang already knew as well. What Zhu Xiang was doing was striking at the very foundation of the noble military clans. Didn’t he understand how dangerous that was? Even if he didn’t, did no one else?

Especially the King of Qin—could he not see it?

Lian Po immediately became sharply aware that Zhu Xiang might not be as safe in Qin as he had assumed. According to Cai Ze, Zheng’er was deeply favored by the King of Qin, who often visited Zhu Xiang’s home, treating him like a beloved younger relative.

But if that were truly the case, then even when the King of Qin adopted Zhu Xiang’s ideas, he could have concealed Zhu Xiang’s involvement and claimed the ideas as his own. Instead, the king had openly credited Zhu Xiang by name, placing him directly in opposition to the entire military aristocracy.

Lian Po could see the reasoning behind this move.

Zhu Xiang’s influence among the common people was far too great—so great that even Zhao soldiers had mutinied for his sake.

Qin’s army was also composed of commoners. Even if the King of Qin knew Zhu Xiang harbored no ambitions, he would still feel the need to keep an eye on him. By pitting Zhu Xiang against the military nobility, he effectively kept him in check.

Zhu Xiang was kind and easygoing. According to Cai Ze, ever since arriving in Xianyang, Zhu Xiang hadn’t taken on any official position. Besides farming and raising Zheng’er, he did nothing else. With such a content and ambitionless nature, he could’ve easily avoided making enemies in Qin.

Even raising Zheng’er and getting involved in the power struggle over the throne wouldn’t have mattered. With a king as dominant and unyielding as this one, there was never going to be a real power struggle. Zhu Xiang could have been one of the few people in Qin’s court to remain completely outside of its political vortex.

“Lord Lian, your face doesn’t look too good,” Li Mu said with concern. “Would you like to rest for a bit?”

Lian Po, face dark, responded, “Mm.”

He had originally thought that his visit to the Xianyang Academy would be about teaching military theory. But just from observing the Qin army’s training methods, he’d already guessed the king’s true intention.

After all, he was a two-dynasty veteran of Zhao—this level of insight he still possessed.

So, would he go along with the King of Qin’s will and teach troop-training methods at the Xianyang Academy?

Refusing would be pointless. The entire Qin court likely already knew about Zhu Xiang’s proposal. Soon, military clans across the whole world would know too.

Lian Po stared into the darkness all night long—unable to sleep a wink.