As Kong Xuan watched Xuanyuan take up his sword again, a little more approval entered his eyes. He finally understood why Xuan Heng had said there was nothing wrong with Xuanyuan himself.
"Good. Again."
The wooden swords in their hands clashed once more.
This time, Xuanyuan was still driven back three steps, but the sword no longer flew from his hand.
The scabbard in Kong Xuan's hand paused slightly.
Xuanyuan glanced down at his numb palm and slowly exhaled.
From that day onward, Xuanyuan drilled the troops every morning, handled the tribes' affairs in the afternoon, and practiced swordsmanship with Kong Xuan at dusk.
At night, he still had to review the records of provisions, weapons, and animal hides sent in by the tribes.
At first, all these responsibilities weighed on him, and the pressure suddenly became immense. He often suffered splitting headaches.
The reports from the tribes were a tangled mess. Some tribes deliberately underreported their grain, some counted damaged weapons among their supplies, and the young men sent by others were clearly less robust than those from the other tribes.
In the past, Xuanyuan would certainly have let things slide wherever possible rather than making things too difficult for them. But now the Battle of Zhuolu was drawing ever closer. If he continued indulging them, they would inevitably take a mile when given an inch.
Thus, the following day, Xuanyuan summoned the tribal chiefs again.
Once everyone had arrived, he unrolled several cowhide scrolls before him. These contained the reports the tribes had submitted over the past few days.
"The White Water Tribe reported three thousand sacks of grain, but only delivered two thousand one hundred. Where did the remaining nine hundred go?"
The White Water Tribe's chief's expression changed slightly.
"High Chieftain, our harvest was poor this