Chapter Forty-Seven: Entertainment in the Army

One must not be too idle, for idleness breeds overthinking, and excessive rumination leads only to hesitation and doubt. Life in the military camp was a monotonous journey—training, always training; everything unfolded in dull repetition, devoid of excitement or color. Thus, addressing the spiritual well-being of the soldiers became the most pressing concern.

Football, undeniably, proved to be an excellent activity. Whenever the soldiers were granted rare moments of leisure, they could indulge in a match, which not only provided entertainment but also fostered intellectual growth. What Zifan desired was not simple-minded soldiers with nothing but brute strength, but men whose virtues, intellect, and sense of beauty were cultivated in equal measure. Football, after all, was not solely a contest of stamina, skill, or tactics; at its highest level, it was a battle of wits and will.

Through play, the soldiers could train themselves, learning to move swiftly, to broaden their vision, to react with agility. Their metabolisms quickened, their bodies grew hardier, their limbs stronger, their minds sharper, their muscles firm—only in this way could one become a truly qualified soldier.

Seeing the surprise in the soldiers’ eyes, Zifan patiently explained the rules: a standard football match consists of two teams, each with ten players and a goalkeeper, eleven on each side, contending on a rectangular grassy field. The aim is to score by sending the ball into the opponent’s goal; each goal counts for a point, and the team with the most points at the end wins.

Although football resembled the ancient game of cuju, it was far more performative and aesthetically pleasing. The size and structure of the ball differed, as did the goals and the number of players; the tactics and strategies were new, and, unlike cuju, football included goalkeepers.

Football was a sport of fierce competition. Its merits lay in cultivating a spirit of ambition, perseverance, fearlessness, and endurance. With a single sharp command, the era of football began. The simple, memorable rules, the infinite variety of strategies, and the resemblance to the clash of armies—all these quickly won the soldiers’ hearts. Many even regarded football as a form of military exercise, hoping to glean the essence of strategy from the game itself. As for Xiao Yi, he was practically revered; who but a genius could devise such a brilliant method of training troops?

Left with no alternative, Zifan claimed he had received this inspiration from a divine being in a dream, and, to his astonishment, the soldiers believed him. From then on, the pastime of football spread like wildfire, becoming a household favorite. Eventually, even the generals began scheduling football matches for their troops, finding in the game the very principles of military training.

“Let us seize the day and drink our fill, for who cares what is right or wrong?” Indeed, football lifted the soldiers’ spirits and eased their burdens.

With a swift and decisive kick, Zifan sent the ball soaring toward the goal. The other players, not to be outdone, ran and leaped, scrambling after the ball. Even Mi Zhen joined the match, while Mi Li, ever the opportunist, saw in football’s techniques and rules a hidden business opportunity. This simple recreation fostered competitiveness, brought joy to weary lives, and enriched leisure time—a pastime that combined profit with fitness. What could be better?

Thus, Mi Li resolved to invest in the project, personally assembling a football team and enthusiastically promoting the sport among the populace.

A true patron of the arts, Mi Li spared no expense, not only supporting Zifan in recruiting and equipping his team, but even granting Zifan a fifty percent share in the football enterprise. In less than a day, Zifan found himself wealthier than he had ever dreamed.

He was overjoyed, a veritable country squire dazzled by the gleam of gold and silver.

There is a cold that chills to the bone; a pain that sears the heart; loneliness, ever the faithful shadow…

“General, it’s time to eat…!”

Surrounded by riches, Zifan was at last reminded of his gnawing hunger. Yet the food of the camp was truly dreadful—bitter, unappetizing fare. Today’s meal was no better: a few forlorn porcelain bowls on a tray, filled with thick yet tasteless porridge, accompanied by rock-hard biscuits. Zifan could only shake his head in dismay.

“It seems I must take matters into my own hands. Watch closely… Let me show you the general’s culinary skills.” With that, Zifan darted off to the kitchen.

Before him appeared a plump old hen, whose fate was quickly sealed. With practiced hands, he slaughtered and plucked the chicken, cleaned the innards, and scalded it in hot water—all in one fluid motion.

He poured fresh water into a bowl, soaked some dried mushrooms for half an hour, then chopped the washed chicken into small pieces. Heating oil in the pan, he added scallions, dried chilies, garlic, star anise, and sugar, stirring until the sugar dissolved completely.

Mentally paging through his “Encyclopedia of Roast Chicken,” Zifan recalled the recipe for spicy braised chicken with mushrooms. Though the camp’s ingredients were limited, such difficulties were nothing to him.

Outside the kitchen, the camp cooks peered through the window, eyes wide as saucers at the general’s deft butchery and cooking skills. This was no ordinary officer—what a waste for him not to be a chef.

In the rear courtyard, Zifan gathered some cilantro and lettuce, and, when the dish was done, scattered a handful of chopped scallions over the top. Instantly, the rich aroma of chicken wafted through the air.

Nearby, the soldiers watched, mouths watering, while the head cook, eager to please, massaged Zifan’s shoulders and feet, hoping to learn the secret of this peerless dish. Zifan did not withhold his knowledge, explaining each step, and though the result was not quite perfect, it was close enough. Who could have foreseen that, once peace returned, this very cook would open a restaurant in his hometown, its signature dish the spicy mushroom-braised chicken—its fragrance captivating the world.

A single bite revealed tender, juicy meat, bursting with flavor and lingering on the palate. In that moment, one understood that the pleasures of fine food could banish all the world’s sorrows and confusion. As the saying goes: the soaring bird falls to the lure of delicacies; the deep-dwelling fish succumbs to the sweetest bait.

It was not only the rich flavor, but the aroma that drifted for miles, the succulent meat neither greasy nor dry, the mushrooms lending sweetness and color, making the dish irresistibly appetizing.

After tasting it, Mi Zhen’s beautiful eyes widened in astonishment—the dish was soft, sweet, and melting, fit for the heavens themselves.

“You… you… can really cook so well? You shouldn’t be a general anymore. Let me take care of you instead,” Mi Zhen exclaimed, her face alight with surprise.

“Ahem, ahem…” Zifan coughed awkwardly. Was this girl really offering to keep him? Truly, he thought, I am blessed by nature, but outwardly he remained composed, though inwardly…

“Of course, you wouldn’t be kept for nothing. From now on, just cook for me, and the pay will be generous…” Whether Mi Zhen had guessed Zifan’s thoughts or simply sensed something amiss, who could say?