Bai Zhi's Strong Support, The Plan Begins to Take Shape

The water on the sand table was still creeping forward, flooding a short stretch of the simulated mountain road. No one spoke inside the tent; only the lamp wick occasionally popped with a faint crack. Chen Wuya's hand still pressed on the position of the Northern Ridge mine tunnel, his knuckles slightly whitened from standing so long. The residual warmth of the iron piece beneath his lapel had yet to fade, like a coal buried in ash.

He gave no further orders, nor did he press anyone for an answer. He knew that his earlier declaration—"The operation has already begun"—had crossed the boundary of what an ordinary commander could demand. Those people could remain silent, could wait and see, but as long as he stood in this position, someone had to step forward and break this sheet of ice.

Bai Zhi moved.

She slowly stepped forward from the side of the tent. Her footsteps were light, yet they caused several lowered pairs of eyes to lift. She stopped half a step beside Chen Wuya, drew out a silk dispatch, and unfurled it. The paper gave a faint crackle along its folds.

"Do you all know that the new king of the foreign tribes has been on the throne for only seven days?" Her voice was not loud, but it was as clear as stones tumbling through a mountain stream. "The chiefs of the three tribes are not blood relatives, and each commands his own private troops. Wind Chime Slope was burned last night not to raise reinforcements or requisition grain, but because the western camp seized the eastern camp's stores—they are not reorganizing. They are tearing each other apart."

She pinned one corner of the silk dispatch to the edge of the sand table, directly opposite the valley west of