Four-Clawed Coiled Dragon

The grand military parade at the foot of Mount Xiang was in full swing. The fifteen battalions, comprising various branches of the armed services, took turns performing in a spectacle that could only be described as fiercely stirring. As the saying goes, laymen watch the excitement, while experts watch the technique. To Wang Lanping, the entire exhibition looked like nothing more than an enlarged version of street-corner acrobatics, inferior even to the Huaining garrison troops he had trained himself in a mere half-day. It was a glaring display of sheer incompetence.

Take the the Three Thousand Battalion's cavalry: were they performing a circus act? Light cavalry ought to excel at swift maneuvers and surprise breakthroughs, but the five hundred horsemen selected by Li Zhi to demonstrate cavalry formations looked more like a crowd of players at a polo match, bunched up together in a chaotic huddle. This was no heavy cavalry.

When the Iron Cavalry Battalion stepped up next, it was even more laughable. A vast number of the warhorses appeared chronically malnourished and heavily overburdened. Before they had even completed a few laps, over a dozen horses collapsed from exhaustion, foaming at the mouth and playing dead, stubbornly refusing to get back up. How could they have the nerve to drag such an embarrassment out into the open?

As the Iron Cavalry Battalion sullenly retreated, it was the turn of the anti-cavalry detachment—a coordinated drill between shield-bearers and pikemen. This was Wang Lanping’s specialty. He knew that Qing cavalry would occupy a massive proportion of enemy forces in the future, which was why he had extensively researched ancient and modern tactics for combating cavalry.

Yet today’s coordination was utterly shocking. After fumbling about for ages, they failed even to form a proper battle array. It was as if veterans on their retirement day had never even learned to stand at attention. Could they still even be called soldiers?

Although close-order drill and actual combat skills might seem only loosely connected, they were precisely the most crucial elements. If a commander wished to enforce absolute obedience within an army, every single soldier had to stand immovable like a stake at all times. Wherever the superior placed you, you were expected to die right there. If ordered to crawl, you were forbidden to stand; if ordered to charge, you were forbidden to retreat. That was true, unquestionable obedience.

If the upper beam is crooked, the lower beams will inevitably be awry. It was clear how utterly negligent these commanders were in drilling their troops.

The fifteen blunder-filled battalions left Wang Lanping feeling a mix of laughter and tears upon the viewing platform. Exercising extreme self-restraint until the sun reached its zenith, the farce finally drew to a close. Among the Ming, Qing, and Shun armies, as well as Zhang Xianzhong's faction entrenched in Sichuan, if combat effectiveness were ranked, the Ming army would undoubtedly claim the very bottom spot uncontested.

Yet humans all possessed one head, a pair of hands, and a single heart. Why did the Ming army before him present such a pitiful sight? Where had the majestic spirit of the former Ming forces that swept across the Great Yuan gone?

From today's drill, Wang Lanping could roughly discern the shortcomings of the Ming military. These fifteen battalions encompassed virtually every contemporary Ming troop type. Viewing a single leaf gives foreknowledge of autumn; the most critical issue was morale. In the eyes of these soldiers, one could not discern any purpose for their participation in this drill. It seemed to be a performance purely for the sake of performing, each unit exercising independently while exchanging giggles and horseplay. Worse still, soldiers from different battalions appeared mutually disdainful of one another.

Aside from morale, another major flaw was military prestige. To put it bluntly: a valiant soldier makes a valiant individual, but a valiant commander makes a valiant army. You get the kind of soldiers that match your commander. The commanding officers possessed zero authority capable of striking fear into the hearts of their men.

In ancient times, when Sun Wu trained the palace women and discipline grew lax, he immediately executed a few imperial concubines, leaving the rest too terrified to disobey military orders.

Without decisive execution and the absolute authority of strict obedience, how could one command respect? Wang Lanping shook his head inwardly: these good-for-nothings should have been replaced long ago.

Yet for the time being, after watching each battalion finish its display, Wang Lanping had to force back his rising nausea. While clapping and cheering, he had to rack his brain for flattering adjectives. "Ah, Elder General Li, after witnessing the majestic tiger-like might of your Three Thousand Battalion today, this Viceroy is utterly convinced. Having such a fierce, wolf-like army garrisoning the Southern Capital is truly a blessing from His Majesty and a stroke of fortune for the Great Ming! As for those petty Shun bandits, Western rebels, and ignorant barbarians, the moment Elder General Li raises his command banner, all those scoundrels will be instantly wiped into oblivion. Your mastery in training subordinates is truly peerless under heaven. I am deeply impressed, truly impressed!"

In truth, Wang Lanping was thinking: *Rubbish. Even a hunter chasing rabbits has better horsemanship than your cavalry.*

After watching the archers of the Five-Army Battalion perform their volley-fire drill, Wang Lanping slapped his thigh and began buttering up the battalion's commander. "Look at that! Look, gentlemen! Back in the day, that fellow Lü Bu was only capable of such child's play as shooting a halibard at the camp gate, yet today General Zhao's arrow formation is fully capable of halting an enemy host a hundred paces away! Let's see who ever dares claim again that Ming cavalry archery is inferior to the Manchu barbarians!"

Wang Lanping felt embarrassed just listening to his own words. On the training field, two hundred archers in three ranks had fired a volley and ceased. The result? Out of ten human-shaped straw targets placed forty paces away, a mere twelve arrows had hit. He honestly had no idea where the other one hundred and eighty-two arrows had vanished.

Despite this wildly extravagant praise, a few shameless generals actually stood there basking in the glow, wearing self-satisfied expressions of smug complacency. Only a handful of commanders wore embarrassed looks, acutely aware of their own deficiencies.

Yet today, whether measured by peerage or direct seniority, Wang Lanping was not in a position to easily flip the table. He had just been appointed Marquis Pacifying the South by the Emperor, tasked with overseeing all metropolitan garrisons. To disrespect him was to disrespect the Emperor, and opposing the Emperor would instantly make one a target for everyone eager to kick a man while he was down. Even if this Emperor was merely a puppet, the moment anyone dared show disrespect to the throne, a swarm of supposedly loyal subjects would immediately leap out. In truth, the Emperor was just a facade; purging political rivals was the primary objective.

Today, Wang Lanping would utilize that very same imperial tiger-hide banner to boldly wave his own cause.

Beneath the blazing sun, Wang Lanping stood clad in gleaming golden armor that particularly dazzled the eyes, cutting an extraordinarily dashing and heroic figure. Behind him, the fifteen battalion commanders, each harboring their own hidden agendas, rose to their feet.

Wang Lanping suddenly flung his arms wide toward the troops below and roared in a thunderous voice, "Mighty are our soldiers!" The soldiers themselves were fine men, but unfortunately, they had followed the wrong commanders, leaving their strength unable to be realized.

The rumble of battle drums rose like thunder, making it feel as though one were in the thick of a ferocious melee.

For a moment, spears and sabers surged up and down below the platform, blades clashing against shields. The sound stirred the blood to a fever pitch. "Drink! Drink!..." Yet this fervor stimulated Wang Lanping alone.

At that moment, Song Dali trotted swiftly onto the viewing platform, hurried to Wang Lanping's side, and whispered in his ear, "I've found out everything. Li Zhi of the Three Thousand Battalion and Zhao Zhong of the Five-Army Battalion have always been at loggerheads, holding a grudge for over a decade."

Wang Lanping smiled faintly, let out a soft huff, nodded, and signaled Song Dali to step aside.

"Bring wine!" Wang Lanping turned around, looking down at the fifteen battalion commanders. "I wish to toast you all."

Several soldiers from the Wind Battalion carried over two jars of wine and a table, setting them before the group. They lined up bowls and filled them to the brim. In an instant, the fragrance of wine wafted richly across the viewing platform.

Knowing proper etiquette, the generals stepped forward in unison, cupped their fists, and said, "When the Viceroy ascends the platform to inspect our martial might, how could we dare not give our utmost?"

Wang Lanping flicked his cloak. "Very well! As a junior entrusted by His Majesty's misplaced favor with the post of Viceroy, I shall rely heavily upon the concerted assistance of you all in the future to repay the Great Ming." With that, he picked up a bowl of wine and raised it high. "I shall drain this first as a toast!"

In the past, the generals had frequently shared private drinks and gambling sessions with Wang Lanping. They always viewed this young man as an upstart who had suddenly struck it rich. Sometimes he swore like a sailor without missing a beat, acted boorish, and frequented pleasure houses and brothels, leading them to believe he lacked any depth or political acumen—he was simply too young. To this day, that notion remained deeply engraved in their minds.

The generals laughed heartily and raised their wine bowls together. "To the Viceroy! Bottoms up!" They drained their bowls with gusto.

No sooner had they finished than the Wind Battalion soldiers immediately refilled the bowls.

Wang Lanping wiped his mouth, unclasped the cloak from his armor, and laughed loudly, "Stunning! Thoroughly gratifying! You are all loyal and renowned generals of the Great Ming. What virtues do I, Wang Lanping, possess that I should undeservedly serve as your Viceroy? I am truly unworthy of the honor. From this day forward, the original battalion structure shall remain entirely unchanged, and you gentlemen shall continue as commanders of your respective units. If the day truly comes when we must take the field, whichever general among you speaks up, I, Wang Lanping, will certainly lead my thousand personal guards to risk our lives in your support! Come, for our future unity and shared purpose, let us drink again!"

With those words, he downed the contents in a few gulps, revealing the bottom of the bowl once more.

Seeing him act with such heroic abandon and comparing himself to a sixteenth battalion right before everyone, the generals thought him delightfully self-aware. *These foundations of ours were passed down from our ancestors; they aren't something some wet-behind-the-ears kid can just snatch away.*

The generals followed suit and drank another bowl. "A toast once more to the Viceroy!"

The bowls were filled again.

Seeing that everyone had emptied their vessels, Wang Lanping slammed his hand fiercely onto the table. The impact made the wine bowls clatter together with a ringing chime. The abruptness of the gesture startled everyone present.

"As for this third bowl of wine... guards, bring forth the four-clawed dragon robe personally bestowed by His Majesty! The drill has concluded, and the military arrays of every battalion left my eyes dazzled. His Majesty declared that this robe shall be bestowed solely upon the one with the mightiest military display, and this third cup of wine is meant precisely to toast that individual!" Wang Lanping pointed to the dragon robe just brought forward by the soldier on a tray. "Who shall win this robe?"

Every single general cast his gaze instantly upon the garment. Such an item was intensely precious; only princes of the blood were entitled to a five-clawed dragon. This was the highest courtesy the Ming emperor could bestow upon his civil and military officials (equivalent to the Qing dynasty's yellow riding jacket). For a battalion commander to earn such supreme honor, he would die content. Those fifteen pairs of eyes refused to leave the robe, filled with raw greed and the conviction that it belonged to no one else.

Wang Lanping observed them all, thinking inwardly: *Who wants it? This isn't a robe; it's your shroud.*

"Gentlemen, everyone witnessed today's drill. In my view, you are all powerhouses, but there is only one robe. Tell me, to which general should His Majesty bestow it?" Wang Lanping continued to stoke their emotions.

Although the generals were deeply fixated on the robe, a few sensed something amiss. Today's drill had clearly been a farce—even a common private could tell that much. Why was Wang Lanping insisting on praising it as if heavenly troops had descended? Could there be a catch? Among them was the shrewd and experienced commander of the Three Thousand Battalion, Li Zhi. Over sixty years old and deeply versed in the arts of power struggles, he stared at Wang Lanping with a deeply suspicious gaze, remaining completely silent.

However, a few rough-hewn generals were simple-minded souls whose only instinct was risking their lives in battle. Hearing Wang Lanping's words, they could hardly wait to leap forward and snatch the robe.

Chief among them was Ma Cheng, commander of the Divine Machine Battalion, who possessed the loudest voice and the crudest manners. Rushing out in front of the others, he beat his chest and sprayed spittle as he shouted, "None of you bloody well contend with me! Damn it, everyone saw it just now—my artillery strikes precisely where aimed from two miles away. When it comes to defending cities or storming enemy strongholds, which of you dares step up without my Divine Machine Battalion? Therefore, this robe belongs to me and me alone!" With that, he made a move to grab it.

He wasn't the only one consumed by greed and devoid of cunning. Before he could touch the robe, another figure darted out from the flank and shoved Ma Cheng aside. "Ha! Your Divine Machine Battalion is so great? Five out of ten cannons misfired, and you still have the nerve to want to wear the dragon robe? Speaking of the fifteen battalions of Nanjing, in terms of sheer troop strength, my Left Tiger Guard Battalion has the most men and the highest morale. This robe naturally belongs to me!"

...

What a fiercely contested dispute of absolute certainty. Wang Lanping had been waiting for Li Zhi of the Three Thousand Battalion to step forward, but that old fox seemed to have caught the scent of danger and was playing dead. Not only him, but among the fifteen, only four or five of the cruder generals were shamelessly bragging about themselves. It seemed those who kept silent were no better at commanding troops, but they certainly possessed plenty of scheming depth.

Calculating the moment, Wang Lanping feigned the onset of drunkenness, staggered a few steps, and laughed heartily. "Generals, cease your wrangling! I have already chosen the candidate."

The men locked in verbal combat immediately stopped, glared fiercely at one another with mutual disdain, and stepped aside.

Lifting his bowl, Wang Lanping swayed unsteadily over to Li Zhi, the commander of the Three Thousand Battalion, and assumed an expression of profound admiration. "At your venerable age, Elder General, you are still able to mount a horse and slay the enemy, possessing the valor of Huang Zhong. Years ago, when you received Chongzhen's imperial command to reinforce Prince Qiu Gui of Jin in Shanxi, you led from the front and shattered eight thousand rebel troops. Hearing of this today fills this junior with such soaring admiration! Elder General, you richly deserve this robe. General, this junior toasts you!"

Wang Lanping had long since had Song Dali dig up the exhaustive details of this affair. Shattering eight thousand rebels? That old fox had originally been forced by imperial edict to rescue Prince Jin—who was being chased down by Li Zicheng—with three thousand light cavalry. But the cowardly old man hadn't even caught a glimpse of the Shun army before diverting his troops toward Shandong and fleeing all the way south. In the end, he parked his backside in Nanjing and refused to leave, boasting that after heavily defeating eight thousand Shun rebels, his forces were depleted and he had no choice but to retreat to Nanjing to regroup.

Only he himself believed such rubbish. Regrouping didn't require running all the way to Nanjing in one breath; he simply didn't dare return to the capital. With all of Shanxi fallen into Li Zicheng's hands and Prince Jin killed, returning was courting death. Nanjing was already a faraway place beyond the reach of Chongzhen's whip—it was safe.

Li Zhi's shrewd eyes narrowed slightly. His intuition told him that this kid Wang Lanping definitely harbored malicious intentions.