Section Twelve

Both unexpected and yet somehow inevitable, war arrived on time. Upon receiving the urgent military dispatch from the General Staff Headquarters, Lin Feng immediately returned to the Han King’s residence in Zhongnanhai and sent messengers to summon the high-ranking officials in the capital for a meeting.

Due to the dismantling of the Forbidden City, the Han military’s small court had yet to possess a grand building suitable for large-scale assemblies. Originally, according to the Han Prime Minister Li Guangdi, the Han King’s residence was to undergo extensive expansion. In fact, following last summer’s harvest, the Han military government had already initiated a special project for this purpose and allocated a substantial sum of money. As soon as this plan leaked, several major financial conglomerates within Han territory scrambled to contribute funds, and numerous officials stirred up public opinion among the northern literati— a heavy and classic issue in ancient Chinese politics. Imperial palaces symbolized political power; their grandeur was said to “strengthen the nation,” and the court used such magnificence to inspire national pride and consolidate rule. However, in the end, His Highness the Han King rejected the plan, dealing a firm blow to many schemers hoping to curry favor and advance their careers.

Lin Feng was unwilling to waste scarce resources on such foolish expenditures. In fact, the Han King’s residence was not cramped. Since Lin Feng’s grand marriage, it had naturally become the political center of the Great Han Empire. For administrative efficiency and security, the government had long invested effort into the building complex. By now, the residence was fully equipped, including roads, gardens, greenery, and maintenance of the “pond” landscape. Around the mansion, four permanent military camps had been built on the east, south, west, and north sides, housing the imperial guards responsible for protection.

Once all attendees had arrived, Colonel Li Ergou, standing silently beside the throne, subtly waved his hand. The guard officers on duty outside bowed slightly, withdrew in order, and closed the massive doors behind them. The room darkened abruptly as several palace maids stepped forward to light the giant candles on both sides.

The air grew solemn. Officials from both civil and military ranks bowed their heads and stood respectfully.

Zhou Peigong cleared his throat, stepped forward a few paces, and saluted Lin Feng. Turning back to his colleagues, he spoke loudly, “Esteemed lords, our lord urgently summons you today regarding the incursion by the pseudo-Qing Prince Jian and the northern invader Galdan. The enemy forces press on our borders while the feudal lords watch passively. If the Great Han cannot respond calmly, unforeseen dangers may arise.” Bowing deeply again to Lin Feng, his tone grew grave. “According to Grand Secretary Wang Shirong, the invading enemy force is unprecedented in strength and sharpness: the southern rebel Prince Jian Labu commands two divisions advancing into Anhui—one from Jiangxi with around 50 to 60 thousand troops, another from Shicheng Nanjing with 70 to 80 thousand. Both armies advance by land and water, their momentum overwhelming, intending to sweep across Anhui. Additionally, last year’s border raider, the Zhunger tribe, has mobilized again. Our Shanxi intelligence reports that the western Mongol Khan Galdan himself leads approximately 50 to 60 thousand cavalry, split into two routes—one following the Wei River southward, striking Taiyuan swiftly; the other veering southeast, raiding Baodezhou and Datong. Reports say the enemy’s force is extremely fierce; Mongol riders each bring three to four horses, covering hundreds of miles in a day and night, their iron hooves terrifying cities. Many officials of the pseudo-Qing in northwestern Shanxi have defected. Shanxi’s mountains and rivers serve as a shield for the Central Plains; if Mongol barbarians seize it, Hebei will be gravely endangered. This cannot be taken lightly…”

He glanced around at the ministers, noticing their anxious whispered exchanges. Pausing, he raised his voice to quell the murmuring. “Enemies attack from north and south, totaling about two hundred thousand troops. This is unprecedented since our dynasty’s founding. I believe this is a critical moment for the Great Han’s survival. I urge all to pool wisdom and assist our lord in overcoming this crisis!”

Lin Feng nodded and motioned for Zhou Peigong to step back. Clearing his throat, he spoke loudly, “Honored ministers, Peigong has described the enemy’s situation. Does anyone have any good strategies?”

Perhaps the news was too sudden; most officials were stunned and speechless. Seeing the tense atmosphere, Li Guangdi lightly cleared his throat and bowed to Lin Feng. “My lord, please forgive Guangdi’s reluctance, but warfare is not my specialty. Still, the saying ‘when the enemy comes, the general counters; when water floods, the earth absorbs’ is apt. May I inquire how many troops are currently available?”

Lin Feng pondered briefly, calculating in his mind. “Our military comprises both land and naval forces. On land, seven generals command from north to south: Nu’ergan Maying, Ningjin Wang Dahai, Xuanhua Zhao Guangyuan, Datong Zhao Liangdong, Baoding Sun Sike, and Anhui’s Zhou Qiusuo and Liu Laosi. Along with three imperial guards stationed in Beijing, the Han army totals ten armies: approximately 60,000 rifle infantry, over 20,000 artillery personnel, and more than 40,000 cavalry—about 120,000 to 130,000 troops in all. Additionally, there are two naval fleets. Vice General Shi Lang’s first fleet is stationed at ports in Tianjin, Yingkou, Huludao, Chrysanthemum Island, and Lüshun, while the second fleet under General Yang Haisheng commands together nearly 200 vessels and over 7,000 sailors.” He chuckled and waved at Li Guangdi. “However, the navy is hardly reliable. You know well that in recent years, our so-called ‘naval fleet’ has been bent on business. Hundreds of ships sound impressive, but only a few dozen are combat-ready; the rest are profit-seeking vessels. Many aren’t even naval ships but are fleets commissioned by major financial conglomerates for protection.”

Li Guangdi was well aware of the navy’s situation. As the imperial prime minister, he rarely meddled in military affairs, but the navy was a notable exception.

Lin Feng found this amusing. He had once held great hopes for the navy and frequently visited naval ports during the early days of its formation. Yet he soon realized that building a navy was an enormous project, not something achievable in two or three years. What shocked him more was the transformation of the personnel.

Initially, the navy was staffed by the fiercest warriors of the Han army. However, amid growing commercial influences, these men gradually turned into merchants. During inspections, Lin Feng noticed naval officers resembled shopkeepers, well-versed in coastal prices and specialties. Conversations often revolved around commerce rather than naval warfare. Their combat skills were mediocre; the cannons on their warships served more as deterrents than practical weapons. In the China Sea, aside from Zheng Jing’s Taiwan fleet, no force dared challenge them. Many sailors and officers seldom fired a cannon all year, let alone engage in boarding battles.

Lin Feng recognized early on his grave mistake in naval development. Unconsciously, he had modeled the navy’s strategy on the video game “Age of Exploration,” focusing on economic goals over military ones, though he did not realize it at the time. This approach had pros and cons: rapid naval expansion and economic benefits for the empire but commercialized forces detrimental to professionalism and nationalization.

Most ministers present understood this, and despite the solemn atmosphere, they could not help but chuckle when Lin Feng mentioned the “navy.”

After the laughter subsided, Li Guangdi glanced at Zhou Peigong and frowned. “I have often heard that the General Staff has been planning the formation of militias. Rumors say that, besides the 100,000 regular troops, tens of thousands of militias exist. If true, wouldn’t that make resisting the enemy much easier?”

Zhou Peigong shook his head, politely bowing to Li Guangdi. “You misunderstand. The so-called ‘militias’ began preparations before last year’s eastern expedition, intended only to quell banditry and maintain local order. The General Staff dispatched many officers to organize wealthy families’ private armies. Presently, there are 600,000 to 700,000 registered able-bodied men, but their training lasts only a few days during off-season farming, units are disorganized, arms incomplete, and most are uneducated farmers who lose their way beyond a few dozen miles from home, unfamiliar with commands or local dialects. They might barely manage local bandit suppression, but in foreign battlefields, their combat effectiveness is reduced by 60%. The militias serve as auxiliary forces for supervising supplies, guarding rear areas, and defending cities but cannot confront elite enemy troops in open battle.”

Li Guangdi was silent for a moment, then turned to Lin Feng. “My lord, spring plowing is incomplete, and manpower is tight everywhere. If war breaks out now, what of next year’s harvest?”

Indeed, a difficult dilemma. Lin Feng was troubled. “Minister Jinqing, this war is no trivial matter. I estimate we will need to conscript at least 200,000 militia for logistical support to ensure the army’s operations…” He tapped his head. “With campaigns in Shanxi and Anhui, troops won’t return for months. Do you have any solution?”

Li Guangdi sighed deeply and bowed. “War is upon us; our fates are intertwined. The Great Han cannot avoid battle.” He straightened and frowned. “Our empire spans diverse climates. Yesterday I reviewed official reports: in Zhili, Baoding, Zhengding to Luanzhou and Shanhaiguan, fields have been plowed and sown. But beyond the pass, in Ningjin and Nu’ergan, the frozen soil remains untilled, and many reclaimed wastelands require irrigation canals—an enormous, complicated task. Hastily drafting large numbers of laborers would risk disaster.”

Lin Feng understood his meaning.

This farming method was clearly inadequate; everyone in the empire knew it. Last year’s bountiful harvest owed itself to favorable weather and robust drought-resistant seeds—an anomaly, not a norm.

Traditionally, two correct methods existed, both requiring basic irrigation: one was strip-fallow farming, allowing the soil to rest and ensuring high yields through rotational cultivation; the other was manure accumulation. Farmers raised livestock—chickens, ducks, dogs, pigs, horses—supplying income, meat, and crucially, manure for fertilizing fields.

According to the Ministry of Revenue’s documents, taking pigpens as an example, farmers first lined pens with fertile soil and dry straw, removed it after months, and spread it evenly in fields mixed with wood ash. Then seeds soaked in a mixture of pig manure and arsenic (to prevent pests) were planted. After two to three years of such meticulous care, wasteland could be transformed into fertile fields.

Northeast agriculture was at such a demanding stage. The region had long been semi-pastoral. Manure sources were relatively abundant. The government had even ordered Ningjin and Nu’ergan governorates to send tens of thousands of laborers to collect excrement in major cities. Ningjin’s governor Tang Bin dispatched men to barter grain for manure among Mongol tribes in Horqin, transporting it back in large barrels to loan to refugee settlers.

In peaceful times, such practices would be an international joke. Officials would see it as a disgrace to the empire’s dignity; peasants would mock the needless fuss. Land reclamation traditionally took three to five years, patiently resting and fertilizing the soil. Traveling far to gather manure was impractical and costly.

All this was in preparation for war—the empire’s goal was to rapidly convert more wasteland into arable land, maximizing grain output to free manpower for conscription and enable the court to mobilize resources confidently for war.

One must commend the Confucian bureaucratic class, represented by Li Guangdi, for their foresight in agriculture. This plan began last year, with the Great Han spending nearly one million taels of silver, 400,000 dan of grain, and 60,000 tea bricks. Yet completion remained under 50%. Millions of hungry migrants unleashed remarkable productivity, but imperial agricultural investment lagged far behind land development speed.

This was the source of Li Guangdi’s melancholy. Deep down, he opposed conscripting even a single soldier from the countryside, as too much needed doing. In his plan, given three years—two at the least—the Han army would amass vast grain reserves, and the northeast would swiftly become the empire’s key food and manpower base. Then, as Han troops marched in all directions, who could stand against them?

Note 1: Arsenic mixture is used to prevent pests.

The above agricultural information references the 1988 Wuhan University studies “Seventeenth-Century Agriculture in Western and Southern Shanxi” and “Natural Economy of the Qing Dynasty.” The authors are unknown; respect is due to these anonymous scholars.

This is a reference; conflicting content between the two papers was selectively synthesized and edited, not plagiarized.