Chapter 22 – The Final Visit

Lu Fang noticed the improvements before he reached the gate.

The fields were ahead of schedule again.

The fence line had been reinforced with iron fittings at the joints. Iron. A farming village with iron construction fittings. That was new.

He’d brought twelve soldiers this time and one cultivator, a hill clan fighter named Shan who hadn’t spoken a word since Meishan. The larger force was justified. Hekou’s grain quality from the last collection had raised eyebrows at the Prefect’s compound. He’d been promoted since his last circuit to the second-best horse now.

This village had potential. The young men he’d seen during the last visit had been organized and fit. A settlement that could produce soldiers of that quality was worth more than grain to a Prefect fighting a two-front war.

Lu Fang was already composing the recruitment proposal in his head when he saw the banners.

Black field.

Red sigil.

His hands tightened on the reins.

Every tax collector in the Lord of Qinghe’s service had been briefed on enemy markers.

The Shen Yue banner. Lord of the Western Reaches.

“Halt.” The column stopped. Shan straightened in his saddle.

The banners were small. Mounted on the fence posts at regular intervals, fluttering in the morning breeze like festival decorations. Except these weren’t festive. These were territorial markers. And they were planted on a village that belonged to Prefect Shen.

Lu Fang dismounted and walked to the gate. The younger brother was already there. Pei Liang. The fifteen-year-old who’d negotiated like a trade minister last time and who was now standing in front of flags that represented high treason.

“What is this?” Lu Fang’s voice was tight. He pointed at the nearest banner. “This is grounds for the Prefect to send every cultivator in his garrison through your gate. Explain. Now.”

“Western Reaches forces have been moving through this area,” Pei Liang said. His voice was level like it had been during their first meeting. “We found evidence of their scouts on the eastern roads. The banners are a warning. If their patrols see their own sigil on our fence, they’ll mark us as already processed and move on. It’s camouflage.”

Lu Fang studied the boy’s face. The explanation was plausible. Villages in contested border zones had used enemy markers as deterrents before.

“You should have reported the Western Reaches activity to the Prefect’s office,” Lu Fang said.

“We’re farmers. We don’t have riders or messengers.”

Lu Fang straightened his posture and proceeded. The banners were a problem for the Prefect’s intelligence apparatus. His job was collection.

“Your quota has been adjusted,” Lu Fang said, unrolling the scroll. “Fourteen shi. The Lord’s eastern campaign requires additional provisioning from all productive settlements.”

“Fourteen?” The boy’s expression didn’t change. “That’s a significant increase from last cycle.”

“Your fields suggest you can bear it. The Prefect has also authorized me to conduct a census of military-eligible males for potential recruitment into the eastern force.”

Now the boy’s expression changed. It was the first crack in an otherwise controlled facade.

“Recruitment,” Pei Liang repeated.

“Voluntary first. Compulsory if volunteers are short.” Lu Fang looked past the boy toward the commons where the older brother was standing with a group of men. Fit men. Men who moved like they’d been training, which was interesting because farmers didn’t train. “Your village has clearly invested in its workforce. The Prefect believes that investment should serve the broader war effort.”

The older brother was walking toward the gate. Pei Hao. That open, magnetic face, except today it wasn’t open.

“We’ll discuss the grain quota,” Pei Liang said. “The recruitment census isn’t something I can agree to without consulting the village.”

“It isn’t a request.”

The boy looked at him. Those still, dark eyes. “Everything is a request until someone draws a sword. Let’s discuss the grain first.”

Lu Fang followed the brothers into the commons. His twelve soldiers filed through the gate behind him, spreading into the loose perimeter formation that was standard procedure for village assessments. Shan the cultivator dismounted and stood near the gate with his arms across, working as the rear guard.

The commons looked different than he remembered last time. It was even better maintained than before and he could tell that the villagers were well food and washed.

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Something prickled at the back of Lu Fang’s neck.

“Fourteen shi,” Pei Liang began. “We can discuss the-“

“The recruitment comes first,” Lu Fang cut him off. He changed the order deliberately. The boy had tried to steer the conversation toward grain because grain was negotiable. Bodies weren’t. “I’ll need every male between fifteen and forty presented for assessment. Beginning with your brother.”

Pei Hao stepped forward. “Nobody in this village is going to the Prefect’s war.”

Lu Fang looked at the older brother, then at the men behind him who were positioned at careful intervals with their hands at their sides. Finally, his gaze returned to the younger brother, whose eyes had gone very still.

“That,” Lu Fang hissed, “is not your decision.”

He turned to signal Shan.

Then the gate closed behind him.

Wood against wood, the iron-fitted gate slamming shut. Lu Fang spun. Two men stood at the gate, spears leveled. Not wooden poles. Iron-tipped spears held by men trained to hold them.

Behind the Wei compound, a column of thick smoke punched into the sky. Someone had lit a pyre and it blazed like an inferno. The prepared pyre, stacked days ago, soaked in oil, positioned for maximum visibility from the surrounding hills.

Black smoke against blue sky, climbing fast.

He turned back. The commons had changed. The casually positioned men were no longer casual. They’d drawn weapons from underneath cloaks, from behind bins, from places Lu Fang’s soldiers hadn’t thought to check. Spears, knives, a line of armed men closing around his twelve soldiers in a half-circle that tightened as he watched.

“What is this?!” Lu Fang roared.

“This is a village that isn’t giving you its sons,” Pei Liang said.