The one hundred thousand men of the Empire descended upon the peasant lands like a river of iron, flowing without pause, unstoppable and merciless. They advanced in disciplined columns, banners of crimson and gold fluttering against the horizon, while war drums thundered so heavily that the very earth seemed to tremble beneath them. Villages suspected of aiding the guerrillas were set ablaze without hesitation; fields of wheat, once golden seas of livelihood, were cut down by fire instead of sickles. For Luo Wen's officers, this was not a campaign of war but an act of purification — a ruthless purge to wipe away disobedience.
Xu Ping's guerrillas, long accustomed to ambushes and swift withdrawals, were stunned by the sheer magnitude of the deployment. In a single month, dozens of scattered bands were crushed. The imperials hunted them with cold precision, wolves chasing rabbits: an isolated detachment would be surrounded, its village razed, and its survivors hung along the roadside as a warning. The Chancellor's strength appeared inexorable, a tide of iron and fire impossible to stem.
Yet Xu Ping did not surrender to despair. He knew better than to waste strength resisting every strike. His vision reached farther: not to fight the storm head-on, but to guide his scattered embers into a single fire. His goal was clear — to gather in Anyi and from there forge an army capable of staring the Empire in the eye.
At the head of thirty-five thousand men, Xu Ping marched north. His forces were a chaotic mixture: peasants with improvised spears, deserters clad in rusted armor, reformed bandits with shifty eyes, and a thin line of veterans who alone provided a semblance of order. The remainder of his forces — over forty thousand more — trailed across different provinces, too scattered to resist the imperial avalanche on their own.
The imperials, swollen with confidence in their superiority, sought to encircle the main column. But there, Xu Ping's military brilliance surfaced. Where another warlord might have blundered into open battle and suffered annihilation, Xu Ping chose flexibility and guile:
He avoided broad plains, knowing imperial cavalry would shatter his troops like glass.
He clung to forests and hills, where the discipline of Luo Wen's legions became clumsy and uncertain.
He split his column into smaller subgroups, units able to disperse and regroup with fluidity, leaving imperial commanders confused and unable to land a decisive blow.
Every ambush the imperials launched against him ended in frustration and attrition. Xu Ping willingly sacrificed small rearguards to slow the chase, but he preserved the core of his army intact. And wherever losses were suffered, he replenished them with recruits. In ruined villages, along desolate roads, he found desperate peasants ready to join his cause. Many had lost fathers, sons, or wives to the imperial purges; for them, joining the People's Army was not only vengeance but survival.
Thus, though skirmishes drained his ranks, new hands poured in to fill the gaps. Against all odds, the main column kept its size, as if the march itself replenished its lifeblood.
Yet the march laid bare the raw weaknesses of this improvised host. Xu Ping, astride an unadorned horse, observed sharply and noted every flaw:
Difficulty in command: every captain had his own manner of giving orders, and messages crawled slowly through the ranks. When the horns of retreat were sounded, not all obeyed at once, and more than once a company was stranded and cut down needlessly.
Seeds of corruption: officers, accustomed to abuse, began pocketing rations or taking bribes to overlook looters. Xu Ping uncovered cases where villages had been bled for excessive tribute.
Lack of professionalism: peasants who had never wielded more than a sickle, officers without genuine military training, deserters who knew only indiscipline.
Social fracture: former bandits distrusted peasants, peasants resented deserters, and Wei Lian's veterans held them all in contempt.
Xu Ping understood that if he truly wished to build an army capable of facing Luo Wen, these fractures had to be sealed before Anyi.
In makeshift camps under the shelter of forests, Xu Ping began applying reforms — not gently, but sharply, forged with the same iron will he had used against nobles and imperial officers alike:
Immediate punishments for insubordination: two captains who disobeyed in a skirmish were publicly flogged and stripped of rank. Others who had stolen rations were executed before the entire host. "The People's Army is not a band of thieves," Xu Ping declared. "It is the sword of justice. He who steals from the people, dies."
Simplification of the chain of command: unnecessary hierarchies were slashed away. Only commanders, captains, and leaders of tens remained. Every soldier knew exactly whom he obeyed, and every leader answered without excuses.
Expansion of the propaganda corps: Xu Ping ordered each company to carry not only captains but also scribes and preachers who would teach recruits to read, recite proclamations aloud, and spread the slogans of the cause. Around campfires, they told stories of avenged peasants and liberated villages, fanning a sense of purpose in weary hearts.
Officers among the common soldiers: privileges were stripped. Officers slept in the same tents, ate the same rations, and shared the same night watches. Social distance shrank; trust grew.
Unified training: crude but effective drills were enforced — daily formation exercises, discipline in marching, and standardized signals of trumpet and drum. Xu Ping did not seek to mimic the Imperial Army, but to craft a force resilient, adaptable, and bound by common rhythm.
The transformation was slow, but tangible. Soldiers, seeing their leaders share hunger and punishment alike, grew more loyal. Peasants, learning to read and hearing stirring words, realized they were not mere conscripts but part of a greater vision.
The imperials pressed on relentlessly. One hundred thousand men harried Xu Ping's trail, and with every passing week he lost small detachments. Yet the thirty-five thousand who remained by his side grew tighter, more cohesive, their spirit hardened by trial.
In valleys, Xu Ping arranged rearguard ambushes to slow the enemy. In burned-out towns, he recruited orphans and vengeful youth. In camp by night, he listened to captains' reports, punished corruption without hesitation, and rekindled hope in the desperate.
What had begun as a chaotic mob was slowly becoming a real army — ragged, poor, lacking uniforms or golden banners, but carrying a will that burned like an unquenchable flame.
As the jagged silhouette of the Anyi mountains rose before him, Xu Ping gazed at the horizon. Plumes of smoke rose in the distance, where imperial forces purged yet more villages. Around him, his column marched, tighter than ever, red banners improvised from cloth fluttering above, soldiers chanting slogans spread by their propagandists.
He had lost many along the way, yet gained discipline, order, and above all, an identity.
"At Anyi," he told his captains, his voice grave but resolute, "we shall not merely gather. There we will be reborn. Not as nobles, not as usurpers, but as the People's Army. And from there, we shall begin to strike back."
The mountains loomed ahead, not as a barrier but as a promise. And with them awaited the dawn of a new war — a war in which the scattered embers of the peasantry would ignite into one single, roaring fire.