Deep in the Wushan Mountains, temporary encampments clung densely to the steep cliffs and broad valleys like grayish-brown moss.
Five years had passed.
Qing Chen stood alone on a jutting Eagle's Beak Rock, looking down at the valley below.
The mountain wind howled past, lifting the hem of his Gentleman of the Palace robes with a faint rustling.
For five whole years, he had remained nailed to this barren land shrouded in layer upon layer of mighty formations, as though he had taken root.
This godforsaken place where even birds wouldn't shit.
Never mind Gouyu Prefecture City-he had not caught so much as another glimpse of an ordinary village or settlement outside.
"Dog shit! Worms! Soft-bellied cowards! Useless trash!"
Wei Ting's bone-chilling voice seemed to still explode beside his ears. "Unless I forge you sacks of dog shit into iron, you'll all turn to ashes on the Southern Borderlands battlefield!"
The words were crude, but the reasoning was not. It was solid truth.
For five years, Qing Chen and his officers and soldiers had drilled day and night, not daring to slacken for a moment.
Those Rogue Cultivators, Sect disciples, and Demon Brats from the Gouwu Sea, long accustomed to working alone and even fond of stabbing others in the back;
Under Wei Ting's grinding, they had gradually acquired something of a soldier's bearing.
Though they were still a hundred and eight thousand miles from the iron army Wei Ting demanded, at least they now obeyed commands without hesitation and moved with proper discipline during military formation drills and charging exercises, no longer dragging their feet through mud and water.
Qing Chen's efforts over these five years had not gone entirely unrewarded, either. He had even received praise from the Central Army once or twice.
Gentleman of the Palace Dharma