The dawn that followed the battle of Anyi did not bring rest, nor a respite of peace, but rather the beginning of something new. The valleys still reeked of fresh blood and the acrid smoke of smoldering pyres, yet the murmur of victory drifted through the peasant ranks like a wind swollen with hope. Xu Ping allowed no prolonged celebrations. He knew, more than any man present, that in war time was the most precious of all resources. Every day wasted was not a day of rest, but a day gifted to Luo Wen, a day in which the usurper might rally strength.
—"It is not enough that we defeated them here," Xu Ping declared to his captains beneath the ancient oak that served as his command post. His voice was firm, cutting through the morning chill. "We must turn this victory into lasting power. The people must never again fight with sickles against swords. From this day forward, they shall wield the same iron as their oppressors."
The imperial dead became their unexpected treasury. The fields of corpses, once a symbol of terror, were transformed into improvised arsenals. Tens of thousands of spears, swords, shields, and battered suits of armor were gathered, repaired where possible, scrubbed clean of gore, and redistributed among the peasants. Local blacksmiths, summoned personally by Xu Ping, worked night and day, melting down broken blades, reforging helmets, and adjusting armor to the starved frames of farmers who had never dreamed of wearing steel. What once had looked like a rabble—a sea of rusty scythes and sharpened sticks—was slowly beginning to resemble an army worthy of the name.
But Xu Ping went further. He refused to let the captured imperial soldiers be executed or enslaved, as was the usual practice of victorious rebels.
—"These men are commoners as well," he declared openly to his officers. "They did not fight of their own free will, but under the lash of Luo Wen. If they come to understand our cause, they too can become our brothers."
Thus, the surrendered imperials were gathered in groups, guarded not only by veterans but also by Xu Ping's propagandists. For several days, they were not trained in combat, but subjected instead to relentless sessions of political re-education. In broad fields, Xu Ping himself stood before them, his words heavy with fire.
—"Do you truly believe you fought for an emperor? No! You fought to keep fat nobles dining in their manors, to allow them to abduct your sisters, to strip grain from your villages. Your blood is the same as mine, the same as any peasant's. Who ordered you to kill your equals? The nobility. And who benefits from your death? They do—not you!"
Scribes read aloud pamphlets written in simple words, propagandists narrated tales of burned villages, and peasants who had suffered atrocities gave their testimony. It was a process of breaking chains: turning hatred for one's former enemy into a recognition of shared suffering under the same parasitic order.
Some resisted. Those who mocked the message or refused to submit were executed publicly as an example. Yet many more, seeing fair treatment and hearing promises of equality, swore allegiance to the People's Army. Once they vowed never again to obey the nobility, they were rearmed and sent back into the lines, this time as brothers-in-arms.
Several days later, Xu Ping gathered his captains once more. In the central camp, beneath crimson banners now embroidered with the emblem of crossed plows and spears, the tally was taken.
Of the sixty thousand who had reached Anyi, ten thousand would remain behind as garrison. Xu Ping knew well that Luo Wen would thirst for revenge; the usurper could not allow the stain of defeat to linger. Anyi had to be transformed into a fortress of the people, a bastion carved into the mountains themselves. The remaining fifty thousand, hardened by the march and now better armed with captured imperial steel, would march at Xu Ping's side into the heart of the chaos.
Their target was not yet the imperial capital, nor the fortified cities with thick walls and endless supplies. Their prey were the scattered remnants of Luo Wen's armies: the routed survivors wandering south in despair, the sixty thousand imperials Luo Wen had scattered in separate columns, busy plundering villages and suppressing peasants without coordination.
—"Divided, they are weak," Xu Ping explained, his finger stabbing the map laid on the table. "Every isolated detachment will be struck as if by a hammer blow. We will not fight the whole empire at once, but fragment by fragment, until nothing remains. Where today they were hunters, tomorrow they shall be prey."
The soldiers erupted in cheers at the plan. For the first time since they had taken up arms, they felt not like hunted animals, but like an army with the power to dictate the war.
The column of fifty thousand moved out. The valleys of Anyi echoed with the pounding of drums and the rough chants of peasants. Their march was nothing like the immaculate discipline of the imperial legions, yet the steady rhythm of tens of thousands of feet made the earth itself quake.
Propagandists moved among the ranks, teaching recruits to read the proclamations, singing hymns of justice and liberty, reminding every man and woman that they did not march for gold or titles, but for the soil that had borne them and the families they swore to protect.
Peasants came out of their cottages along the road, offering water, bread, and dried meat. Some brought their eldest sons to swell the ranks of the army. To them, Xu Ping was no longer a nameless rebel. He was the Guide of the People, the son of Anyi who had returned not merely to defend them, but to prove that the humble could indeed shatter imperial iron.
As they advanced, the spoils of Anyi were distributed with fairness. Each soldier now carried a weapon of steel; many bore imperial shields or helmets crudely repaired but still serviceable. The People's Army shed its chaotic appearance and began to take on the aspect of a genuine force—irregular, yes, but bound by shared purpose and growing cohesion.
Xu Ping rode at the front on a plain, undecorated horse, wielding the same iron spear he had thrust into imperial lines at Anyi. Around him marched officers who no longer slept apart or dined on separate rations, but shared tents, food, and night watches with the common troops. The reforms were visible: there were no longer bandits, deserters, and frightened peasants in isolation, but soldiers united under a single cause.
At night, when campfires lit the hillsides like constellations fallen to earth, Xu Ping would stand alone, gazing into the horizon with a solemn expression. He knew the true challenge was yet to come. Luo Wen would not remain passive. And across the sea, Wei Lian lingered, a shadow in the west, ever watchful, ever waiting.
Yet the People's Army was no longer a collection of scattered embers. It was a fire—disciplined, purposeful, and impossible to ignore. And as his fifty thousand soldiers marched to hunt the scattered imperials, Xu Ping made a vow deep in his heart:
—"This is not the army of a noble, nor the army of a usurper. This is the army of justice. And it will not rest until the roots of nobility are torn from the earth."
Behind him, the mountains of Anyi were fortified with ten thousand guardians, their torches burning like stars upon the ridges. Ahead of him stretched a ravaged continent, where peasants waited for a savior and imperial detachments awaited their doom.
The time of flight was over.The time of the hunt had only just begun.