Chapter 20

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Helian Cheng meticulously examined the ledger in his hands once more, confirming that the name receiving the empty salary bore his general’s seal.

Serving in the military was a harsh duty, and guarding the borders even more so. Yet, though the Great Qi dynasty had only lasted fifty-one years, it had already seen three emperors on the throne. Despite their political clarity, the border regions remained unstable, plagued by frequent conflicts.

With barbarian enemies stirring unrest, border defenses had to be strengthened, necessitating conscription. However, the realm had only recently been unified, and the people were weary from prolonged warfare. Internally, it was a time to soothe the populace and foster recovery.

Forced conscription was not feasible, so the state resorted to measures like increasing military pay, offering enlistment bonuses upon joining, and raising pensions to attract more recruits.

Ordinary soldiers in Great Qi received two taels of silver monthly, but the Northwest troops, stationed in harsher conditions, earned slightly more—about three and a half taels each month.

Consider that an average peasant household’s annual income barely reached ten to twenty taels, and since soldiers were housed and fed in barracks, their pay was essentially pure income, quite substantial indeed.

This strategy proved effective; since its implementation, the Great Qi army never lacked men, though it strained the national treasury considerably.

The emperor who championed this policy even supplemented it from his private treasury, resulting in several years of tight finances, with officials constantly scrutinized for any corrupt behavior to squeeze out additional funds.

Helian Cheng, the emperor’s trusted general and a staunch advocate of this policy, was intimately aware of the situation and deeply affected by it. Despite his noble lineage, he was meticulous to the point of fussiness, even instituting attendance sheets to match pay disbursements.

He knew the whereabouts of every copper coin within the Northwest army as if it were etched in his mind.

Yet the ledger showed a monthly pay of three and a half taels, but only fifty wen had been spent, an embarrassingly low figure for empty pay. It seemed more like the quartermaster had simply misrecorded the accounts.

Still, such a low attendance rate was suspicious. His personal guard trained daily under his strict supervision and never slacked off… so the discrepancy must come from the new recruits.

“Long Aotian…” Helian Cheng repeated the name silently, but no image or memory surfaced. His brows furrowed deeply as he declared with certainty, “There is no such name in my army.”

Helian Cheng remembered every soldier under his command; he was certain no one bore that name in his direct troops.

He had the name checked again—it truly did not exist.

“Only fifty wen of empty pay? Such a timid thief,” Helian Cheng mused. He instructed the quartermaster to feign ignorance for the moment, waiting for this cautious embezzler to lower their guard before making the next move.

Still uneasy, Helian Cheng, for reasons even he did not understand, ordered roll calls before training sessions in the new recruits’ camp.

Over the following days, the name “Long Aotian” appeared repeatedly on the attendance sheets—sometimes during morning drills, sometimes at night training, or combat exercises. He showed up once daily, participating in various basic training sessions tailored for new soldiers.

Helian Cheng was determined to catch this elusive figure. When the new recruits reached their assessment phase, he attended the competition—a rare occurrence—to get a clear understanding of each recruit, even preparing pen and ink to record their strengths and weaknesses.

His efforts paid off handsomely; he identified many promising talents, one of whom was a rare prodigy he took under his wing as a semi-apprentice.

Yet, Helian Cheng was certain he neither saw nor heard the name Long Aotian during the competition. Then something strange happened: the name appeared in his own notebook.

Beneath “Long Aotian,” in sharp, precise strokes, filled a full page of evaluation:

“Moves executed with proper form; solid fundamentals. Lacks strength; physique is slender and youthful; needs to eat more to gain muscle.

Temperament calm; when faced with danger, his body instinctively dodges at unnatural speeds and angles—excellent physical condition but little training. Should undergo extreme development to fully unlock his physical potential.

Does not initiate attacks, only responds after the opponent strikes; adept at analysis; learns and applies enemy techniques; prefers strategizing before acting… lacks combat experience and struggles against unpredictable opponents.

Recommend increased physical and combat training… Rated excellent. Retain in camp and personally instruct by Helian Cheng.”

Helian Cheng stared at the densely written notes—clearly in his own handwriting—and felt a shiver crawl over his scalp.

After the new recruits dispersed into their units, the quartermaster began issuing supplies like armor and weapons. Helian Cheng opened the requisition ledger and saw Long Aotian’s name stamped with his general’s seal.

His entire body stiffened.

That night, Helian Cheng entered the medical officer’s quarters. Under the suspicious gazes of wounded soldiers, he spoke in a daze, “Doctor, I have a subordinate whose body seems to be malfunctioning.”

“His body acts on its own without his awareness, like training as a new recruit. But after several checks, there is no such person. So where did the fifty wen and the rattan armor go? Is it recoverable?”

The medical officer replied, “…Your real problem is not about whether the fifty wen or armor can be recovered, but about your illness!”

Helian Cheng looked at him in sudden realization. “Doctor, is there still hope for my subordinate?”

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Xue Jin’an initially used fitness software daily purely due to the compulsive nature of his code’s existence. Once a program starts running, unless powered off or infected, even if it’s just a bug, it will continue relentlessly until forcibly stopped.

This was the straightforwardness of a code-based lifeform.

Helian Cheng’s military training videos were numerous. Xue Jin’an needed to watch each only once; he absorbed all the motion data directly into his mind. When he mentally inputted a move’s name, his body executed it instantly with perfect precision.

Despite this, watching a new video daily, he had barely completed half of the basic series, illustrating the vast amount of content Helian Cheng had produced.

In about a year or two, he could finish all of them. Once done, with no new content from Helian Cheng, he would likely stop using the software, just as with any learning app.

Xue Jin’an never quit watching mid-session. Previously, while taking online classes on a learning platform, even when bored by lessons he already mastered, he would simply minimize the window and multitask quietly in the background, always completing and submitting assignments.

At the same time, he never repeated content he already knew, such as Master Cen’s classics lectures or his substitute lessons on the Book of Rites.

The learning software published the study schedule for the upstairs study hall; usually, only the teacher changed, but not the course. Xue Jin’an always chose the new time slot to study new material.

Sensing something, Master Cen tentatively assigned homework again. Excitedly returning to the Taoist temple after waiting all night, he found the yellow papers on his desk neat and clean, lacking any stiff, orderly handwriting.

“Could it be that my lessons are too simple to interest him?” Master Cen decided to control variables and try again.

Thus, at another class, all the princes and their tutors in the upstairs study hall blinked drowsily, horrified to realize they seemed to have grown dull-witted and could no longer comprehend the master’s teachings!

News of this quickly reached the inner palace, stirring eager concern among the parents. That very night, the princes burned the midnight oil, struggling through their studies. Even the fourth and fifth princes, long absent, were dragged out of bed by their mothers.

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Yihe Palace

The fourth prince’s eyelids fluttered open and shut. “Mother, I really can’t keep watching; I’m so sleepy.”

Consort Zhen gently twirled her prayer beads, speaking with utmost calm, “Since you wake from nightmares even when asleep, why not read more? Perhaps a sea of books in your dreams would be less frightening.”

The fourth prince, utterly disinterested in reading, looked horrified; his drowsiness vanished instantly. “...No, Mother, that sounds even worse!”

Hanxiang Courtyard

Hong Ling helped the fifth prince from bed, holding a cup of tea to revive him. “Your Highness, the Empress said that wisdom and understanding come from reading. If you read more, you’ll surely understand her good intentions.”

The fifth prince gave a forced, insincere chuckle, his gaze sharp with mockery, speaking more caustically than usual, “What nonsense is she spouting now?”

Hong Ling was unsurprised by his attitude but sighed, lowering her eyes respectfully. “Your Highness, please do not put your humble servant in a difficult position.”

The fifth prince’s face darkened. In a foul mood, he was reluctant to speak. He knew Hong Ling was nominally his attendant but answered only to the Empress; arguing was futile, so he remained silent.

But silence did not mean concession. Without even glancing at the books on the table, his hand slipped under his pillow and pulled out a book whose title already seemed off.

Those attending the room blushed deeply at the risqué illustrations on the cover, quickly averting their eyes. Hong Ling paused briefly, maintaining a solemn expression as she quietly watched.

After all, he was only “reading,” not specifying what kind of book. Ha. The fifth prince sneered inwardly.

The palace’s princes were caught in a frenzy of self-imposed or forced competition, while the true culprit slept soundly that night.

At the Taoist temple, Master Cen, still without any homework submissions, anxiously tugged at his white eyebrows, puzzled beyond measure. “Could the homework be too easy?”

“No, absolutely not!” Yuan Sheng sharply interrupted the dreadful suggestion. Now also a member of the upstairs study hall, he had to do homework too! So no matter what, it had to be something else.

Yuan Sheng, tasked with infiltrating the princes and princesses, had made no progress and proposed a hypothesis: “Could it be that he’s not even attending the upstairs study hall? Merely someone who happened to catch one class by chance?”

Unintentionally, Yuan Sheng guessed correctly. Master Cen frowned in thought, then decided to take a shortcut—burning paper offerings to ask.

—Though the other party insisted they were not dead and requested no paper offerings.

But, if there’s a question, burning paper offerings wasn’t unreasonable. Master Cen thought with righteous confidence.

From then on, the frequently troubled Master Cen opened a new channel of communication, beginning the habit of burning paper offerings for Xue Jin’an, whether for serious or trivial matters.

Xue Jin’an never answered Master Cen’s secret inquiries about his identity. He was no longer the old phone. He was now a human-machine hybrid equipped with skills like “speaking nonsense with eyes open,” “spewing lies on a whim,” and “taking advantage of your weakness to strike.”