Chapter Twenty: Quagmire

The main camp of the Han army was stationed by the riverside.

At the entrance to the camp, people and carts moved in and out ceaselessly. After recently routing several small bands of Yellow Turban troops, the Han commander seemed intent on gathering his main force, determined to annihilate the remaining Yellow Turban soldiers in the area before marching north to confront the principal Yellow Turban force at Guangzong.

The contractors seldom spoke or did anything within the camp. To Galiver, this was because the Han army’s discipline was so strict that even speaking a bit too loudly could draw a rebuke from the military judge—an inconvenient state of affairs.

Perhaps for this reason, as they walked from their own tents in the south to the Han army’s supply camp in the east, they saw not a single contractor along the way.

Within the tall, immaculate tents of the supply camp, three men dressed as clerks were available for exchanges. This time, the Shadow Team’s objective was to mobilize a unit of five hundred Han soldiers to attack a designated target, and the item they needed was the Order of Deployment.

This item was worth thirty thousand universal points. However, most teams had financial skills or sent forth someone with trading abilities, so the actual price was less. Once a team or an individual used this item to designate an attack target, no others could issue another designation until their attempt failed—a rather useful tool.

The Shadow Team was small, with only five members. Their contract was superior to the mutual aid contract signed by Wang Luo’s group—it carried heavier penalties for internal attacks, smaller shared storage and rest spaces, and a few team skills.

When Galiver handed over more than forty thousand points for Mei Xiaosheng to buy two Orders of Deployment, his heart ached. This was a third of the team’s wealth, accumulated over four or five scenarios and intended to buy a shield for their damage-taker, Moronov.

But when he recalled the contemptuous look of that woman from “Wuzhou” last time, how her subordinates, unbeknownst to other teams, designated every Yellow Turban camp, leaving not even a drop of soup for anyone else—especially the rich rewards at the end (breaking Yellow Turban camps yielded vast quantities of iron ore, high universal points, and battlefield progress)—greed and a touch of anger overcame his reluctance.

The information Yang Wentian provided seemed sound—Mei Xiaosheng questioned him repeatedly about the Yellow Turban camps: the new leader was gathering routed troops, forging armor, training, and not particularly devout...

Her final judgment was that overall, the intelligence was reliable. There were no glaring doubts, though unforeseen events could not be ruled out.

That foolish woman—if caution goes too far, what’s the difference from cowardice? When is anything absolutely dependable?

In Galiver’s view, Yang Wentian had made no guarantees, so that made it even safer; had he sworn assurances, it would surely have been a ruse.

They had to act swiftly. This was a rare opportunity. Last time, when the Wuzhou team tried this, everyone thought it was a joke. The result? They achieved great success, and their detractors were left looking foolish.

Now, having missed that previous chance, he saw a way to redeem himself. If he missed this opportunity and another team seized it, he would surely regret it for the rest of his life.

In the end, like any ordinary person who saw others get rich while missing his own chance, the team leader’s eyes reddened with resolve. To be honest, he was just an ordinary man.

Mei Xiaosheng glanced at Galiver again, saw him nod, and confirmed the purchase, then designated their targets.

“It’s done,” Mei Xiaosheng announced as she joined her teammates. “The two camps are far apart. Shall we split up?”

“Yes, you come with me,” Galiver pointed at Mei Xiaosheng, then looked at the other three. “Eric and Owen, you go with Moronov.”

“The captain’s keeping the girl for himself,” joked Eric, a slender man with brown hair.

“The captain’s right,” echoed Owen, who looked identical to Eric, though his words were halting. “The girl is scary, dangerous. The captain is protecting us.”

Mei Xiaosheng glanced at Owen, pressing her hand to her forehead.

“Both of you, shut up,” said Moronov, a burly, bald man over two meters tall, turning to Galiver. “How far do we need to go?”

“The Wuzhou people followed the Han troops. If you can kill a few, do it; if not, so be it. We’ll do the same. Remember, as long as you hold the camp for half an hour, the mission is complete. At that point, make sure the Han soldiers stay put. Don’t let them chase after small gains.”

“I understand,” Moronov replied, his expression grave. “Over there... we don’t know?”

“Not yet. Once the Han army moves, they won’t be able to stop them. If the Yellow Turbans split off more camps, they’re free to snatch them—it has nothing to do with us.”

Moronov looked at his captain and nodded. “The Han troops are about to move. You be careful too.”

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The Han army’s mobilization stirred many contractors.

Vaguely, Galiver could recall what some of the leaders he knew did when the Wuzhou team set out. Dalber laughed boisterously, Getty taunted, Rank tried to poach—no one believed in that woman. Instead of waiting for battle, she spent heavily on what everyone saw as a foolish waste of resources.

Now, Galiver rode his horse, observing their shocked, envious gazes. This filled him with genuine comfort, delight, and satisfaction—much like the feeling he had when his basketball team won the state championship before entering this world.

Yes, victory would be his again, without a doubt.

The Han army’s strength far surpassed the Yellow Turbans, and with the contractors’ advantage (according to that traitor, the opposition had only three contractors, all newcomers) it should have been an easy win. Yet the Han commander was a coward, reluctant to deploy troops, which let that woman seize the advantage!

He glanced toward the Wuzhou team’s tents. That woman emerged, surrounded by young men, smiling as she looked his way.

She was beautiful. Even though he disliked her, Galiver had to admit it.

Her black hair flowed in waves; her skin was tender and fair; her lips were soft and crimson; her chest high and firm; her waist slender and graceful.

Wrapped in a bright red cape and pristine military uniform, her figure embodied every aspect of the word “perfection.”

As for the rumors whispered in the shadows—routine betrayal and coldness, the habit of keeping handsome young men to satisfy her desires—such things, for a powerful team leader, were trivial quirks of character, not worth caring about, insignificant, mere trifles... In any case, this was the leader of the Han side’s largest team in the scenario—Lin Feierui.

Seeing Galiver look at her, she licked her blood-red lips, raised her right hand, and threw him a kiss.

The men around her burst into laughter. Galiver glanced at them, then turned away.

She was beautiful, and he had no qualms about some dalliance. But he had heard things about her.

The role of boy toy held no appeal whatsoever.