The late-autumn wind carried the chill of the north, scraping across people's faces like knives.
More than a dozen military trucks stretched out in a long line, churning up clouds of yellow dust along the bumpy dirt road as they headed deep into Jilin Province.
Inside the truck beds, a group of young soldiers dressed in brand-new Feng Army uniforms sat ramrod straight, clutching new rifles that had never seen battle.
This was the newly formed Independent Battalion under the Guard Brigade. It was overstrength and superbly equipped—the foundation Zhang Yuting had deliberately built up for Zhang Xueming.
"Second Young Master, look at this weather. I reckon it's about to snow."
A square-faced officer leaned over and handed Zhang Xueming a canteen.
His name was Chu Shixin. He had formerly been a veteran company commander in the Feng Army and had fought in quite a few battles. Now he had been transferred under Zhang Xueming's command.
Zhang Xueming did not take the canteen. He lifted the curtain and glanced at the gloomy sky, then turned back and cast him a lazy look.
"Chu Shixin."
"Here!" Chu Shixin instinctively straightened his back.
"How many times have I told you?" Zhang Xueming's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable force. "In the army, don't call me Second Young Master."
"Call me Battalion Commander."
Chu Shixin froze for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "Yes! Battalion Commander!"
He felt somewhat puzzled.
The Second Young Master had once been notorious throughout Fengtian City as a devil-may-care wastrel. How had he become a completely different person the moment he came out to lead troops?
Zhang Xueming ignored him and lowered his head to wipe the new rifle in his hands.
The rifle was jet-black from stock to barrel, with smooth lines. It was completely different from the standard weapons he had bought from Japan.
Chu Shixin stared at the rifle, his eyes filled with envy. "Battalion Commander, that rifle of yours... it's really beautiful. You haven't given it a name yet, have you?"
Zhang Xueming pulled back the bolt. The crisp click of the mechanism sounded especially pleasant inside the truck bed.
A wicked smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Isn't the Japanese Army's Type 38 Arisaka Rifle famous?"
"Then we'll call ours the Type 38 Rifle."
"I want to see whether their 'Type 38' is easier to use, or ours is more formidable."
Chu Shixin listened in utter bewilderment, thinking, This lord really is... unconventional.
Naming his prized creation after his enemy's rifle was a naked provocation.
At dusk, the convoy entered a small town near Hunchun.
The moment they entered the town, a heavy stench of charred wood and blood surged toward them.
On both sides of the street stood houses burned down to nothing but blackened frames. Clotted black blood and scattered debris lay everywhere.
Several civilians in tattered clothes were mechanically rummaging through the ruins for something.
The entire town was terrifyingly silent.
Zhang Xueming jumped down from the truck, his leather boots crunching over ground covered in ashes.
His brows knitted tightly, and his expression was so grim it seemed water might drip from it.
"Dai Xiansheng!"
"Here!" Adjutant Dai Xiansheng hurried over to him.
"Take out the spare food and medicine from the trucks and distribute them among the townspeople."
"Yes!"
Dai Xiansheng immediately went to make the arrangements.
Following behind Zhang Xueming, Chu Shixin looked at the devastation before him and could not help cursing. "Damn it, these bandits are animals! They didn't even spare the common people!"
Zhang Xueming said nothing. He simply walked slowly through the town.
He saw a white-haired old woman holding a charred corpse in her arms, silently shedding tears.
He also saw a seven- or eight-year-old child sitting blankly atop a pile of rubble, clutching half a piece of unfinished hardtack tightly to his chest.
This scene struck him far harder than watching his father point at a map and command armies from afar.
Just then, a man in a suit and round spectacles was raising a camera and snapping photographs of the ruins.
In this deathly silent town, the man looked completely out of place.
Zhang Xueming walked over.
"What are you?"
The man jumped in fright. He turned around, saw Zhang Xueming and the soldiers behind him, and quickly bowed. In heavily accented Chinese, he said, "Hello, I'm a reporter for the Kyoto Asahi Shimbun. My name is Watanabe."
A reporter from Japan?
Zhang Xueming narrowed his eyes.
"Your newspaper gets news quickly enough. Where are our Fengtian reporters?"
Watanabe pushed up his spectacles and answered awkwardly, "I heard... heard that they... they were afraid of the bandits and didn't dare come."
"Heh." Zhang Xueming gave a cold, contemptuous laugh. "A bunch of good-for-nothings."
He swept a glance over Watanabe, then asked, "Are there Japanese Army troops nearby as well?"
Watanabe's expression shifted slightly, but he still nodded. "Yes. They... they said they were conducting drills nearby to protect the safety of the South Manchuria Railway."
Drills?
Zhang Xueming saw through it as clearly as a mirror.
His father had been right. Those Japanese devils really were foxes coming to pay their respects to the hens—up to no good.
Just then, a woman's scream and a man's furious roar rang out from the street corner.
"Let go of my daughter! You beasts!"
Zhang Xueming's expression changed, and he immediately led his men charging over.
At the street corner, two Japanese Army soldiers were pinning a white-haired old man to the ground. Another soldier was gripping a teenage girl's arm and dragging her toward an alley.
The girl's clothes had already been torn apart. She struggled and cried out with all her might.
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