Volume Two: The Battle of Hulao Pass Chapter Forty-Three: Let Me Show You What I Can Do

Li Mingyu earnestly wished to bring all the ideas in his heart to fruition, but being young and lacking authority, he could only work behind the scenes, relying on his master’s hand to drill the soldiers. However, as his master became more adept at the new training methods, Li Mingyu gradually found himself with more leisure time.

His master insisted on sharing hardship with the soldiers, living and eating in the Black Armor Army camp every day. Li Mingyu, however, could not endure such hardship. It was early spring—not particularly hot yet—but after a day of drills, the soldiers reeked of sweat. Once they took off their boots, the stench was enough to make a person retch. Li Mingyu had tried several times to insist that the soldiers bathe daily and maintain hygiene, but everyone, from his master to seasoned veterans like Cheng Yaojin and Qin Qiong, opposed him. Not even invoking the authority of Sun Simiao, under the pretext of disease prevention, had any effect.

As they put it, soldiers are rough men—who could be so delicate? This was wartime, not peacetime. At any moment, battle could break out, and soldiers would have to sleep in armor, ready for action, with no chance to rest, crawling through mud and filth as a matter of course. Though Hu Lao Pass had sufficient water, there was no luxury of daily baths.

Seeing that his advice went unheeded, Li Mingyu could only sigh at his lack of sway. Still, he watched as the soldiers, delighted at not having to bathe daily, grinned from ear to ear. Inwardly, he fumed, “You bunch of slovenly louts! Filthy to the core! Just wait until I’m in charge one day—then you’ll bathe three times a day, and not a bite to eat until you scrub off a layer of grime!”

Out of sight, out of mind—Li Mingyu simply moved in with Li Shimin. Each day, he wandered about at his leisure or idled away the hours chatting with Cheng Yaojin, Yuchi Gong, and the others.

As commanders of the Black Armor Army, Cheng Yaojin and his peers should have been leading drills. Yet with Li Xuanba’s new training methods, they were completely at a loss and couldn’t contribute. Alcohol was forbidden in the army, and Li Shimin wouldn’t let them leave the pass. So, apart from martial training, archery, and idle banter, the fierce generals had little to do and were bored out of their minds. Li Mingyu’s arrival finally gave them someone lively to talk to—a clever, sweet-tongued child with broad knowledge, whose presence made their conversations about heroes past and present all the more enjoyable.

One day, with nothing to do, Li Mingyu joined Cheng Yaojin and the others for a chat. By noon, he stayed on to eat with them. The ancients generally ate only two meals a day, at sunrise and sunset. A third meal was a privilege of the wealthy, but as military commanders, Cheng Yaojin and his peers needed extra sustenance for strength. The Black Armor Army’s soldiers, with their exhausting drills, also ate three meals a day.

That day, lunch was flatbread, roast mutton, and mutton soup. Li Mingyu looked at the food before him and felt queasy. He wasn’t particularly picky—having savored delicacies in his past life, he could also stomach army fare and even ate compressed biscuits and emergency rations during field drills. When desperate, he’d catch and eat snakes, insects, fish, or birds raw. Yet those were emergency measures—wild creatures crawled with parasites, and the aftermath was a spell in the military hospital.

After several years in the Tang Dynasty, he’d lost all hope in the food culture of the ancients, endlessly lamenting the tasteless meals. With such a vast culinary heritage—eight great cuisines and countless delicacies—why did the Tang have only steaming, boiling, or roasting? In the village, it didn’t matter—he could eat less or hunt with Little Black for a treat.

But the army cooks’ fare was enough to make anyone curse. He’d once compared army mess food to pig slop, but only here did he learn what true pig slop was—blackened hunks of “roast meat” burnt outside and raw inside, bread as hard as stone, and mutton soup with a thick, greasy film, reeking of gamey fat. In his past life, even dogs wouldn’t eat this.

He forced down a couple of bites and could eat no more, pushing away his bowl and chopsticks as he watched Cheng Yaojin and the others tear into the bloody roast meat, juices dripping down their chins.

Yuchi Gong, sitting beside him, gulped down his soup and bit into a hunk of bread. Seeing Li Mingyu barely touch his food, he asked, “Boy, why are you eating so little? That won’t do! Look at me—I grew up strong because I always ate well!”

“Uh... I just don’t have much appetite,” Li Mingyu replied, eyeing the nearly two-meter-tall Yuchi Gong, marveling at his robust constitution—able to relish this pig slop.

Niu Jinda, having just devoured a flatbread, frowned, “Boy, you look like you’ve never gone hungry. Don’t waste food. In Luoyang City, they say people are gnawing on bark and roots. Be grateful! Come on, eat up.”

Helpless, Li Mingyu picked up the half-raw mutton and choked down a few bites. Watching the others eat heartily, he asked, “Uncles, you all come from military families, never lacking for food or clothing—how can you stomach such coarse fare?”

Cheng Yaojin roared with laughter. “We’re used to it. With the world in chaos, having food is already a blessing. Besides, we eat meat every day now—who cares about taste? But speaking of eating, I have a secret method.” He grabbed a bloody piece of mutton and chewed, “With food, you can’t focus on what’s before you. Imagine it’s dragon liver and phoenix marrow, a rare delicacy. Chew bread and pickles thinking of mountain treasures and seafood, and naturally, you’ll eat your fill.”

Li Mingyu thought, “You have a vivid imagination—dragon liver and phoenix marrow? Have you ever even tasted real delicacies?” He retorted, “Uncle Cheng, with your coarse palate, a roast chicken would be a full Manchu-Han banquet to you. You don’t know real culinary wonders!”

Cheng Yaojin, wiping his mouth, said, “What’s a Manchu-Han banquet? Don’t underestimate me. I may only be a cavalry captain now, but I was once a General of the Dragon Cavalry under Wang Shichong and dined at imperial feasts.”

This was the first Li Mingyu heard of Cheng Yaojin serving under Wang Shichong. Weren’t the Wagang rebels defeated and then surrendered directly to the Tang? He asked curiously, “Uncle Cheng, what happened then? How did you come to serve the Tang?”

Pleased to recount his past glories, Cheng Yaojin grinned, “Later, if not for Wang Shichong’s treachery and pettiness, we wouldn’t have left him. If I’d stayed, I’d be no less than Shan Xiongxin, at least a Great General by now.”

At the mention of his rival, Yuchi Gong grumbled, “Shan Xiongxin is formidable—wields a mighty golden-tipped spear. If he hadn’t let his guard down last time, who knows how our match would’ve ended.”

Luo Shixin, always at odds with Shan Xiongxin, sneered, “So what if you’d become a general under Wang Shichong? You’d still be trapped in Luoyang with Shan, neither advancing nor retreating. What use is a fancy title with only a handful of men?”

Cheng Yaojin bristled, about to retort, but Qin Qiong intervened.

He’d been eating quietly, but now said, “Enough about the past. Wang Shichong was suspicious and easily swayed by slander—not the master for us. Joining the Tang was our collective decision. No one forced anyone! Prince Qin is a true hero, worthy of our loyalty!”

Seeing tension rise, Li Mingyu tried to lighten the mood, grinning, “I may not have your method, Uncle Cheng, but I am a skilled cook—why not let me show you what real food tastes like?”

It wasn’t a boast—while not a master chef in his previous life, living alone meant he could make decent home-style dishes, and his grilling was excellent, honed during survival drills.

The old generals, amused by his attempt to ease the mood, chuckled, “Sure, let’s see if you’re all talk. If it’s bad, we’ll tan your hide!”

But what could he make? The Tang Dynasty had no woks—who knew when those would be invented? Was there a dish that didn’t require stir-frying? Suddenly, he remembered a simple yet delicious recipe. “Today, I’ll open your eyes to real cuisine,” he thought.

Resolved, Li Mingyu fetched a few treasures from his small bundle and strapped them to his waist before returning.

Qin Qiong and the others saw him with a large antler slingshot at his waist and a small shovel in hand. Cheng Yaojin joked, “Boy, you call those toys? Can you even hit a rabbit? Ha!”

Having spent several years in the Tang, Li Mingyu had studied swordsmanship and the spear, but never archery—not for lack of interest but because he was too young, and the village lacked suitable bows. His master’s hard bow was too big, and though he could pull it, his arms were too short to fully draw it. He’d have to wait a few years.

The antler slingshot was his own invention. He’d had good marksmanship in his previous life, and whether with bow, arrow, or slingshot, accuracy depended on keen eyes and endless practice. In the mountains, it was perfect for birds, pheasants, or rabbits within twenty or thirty paces.

The others mocked his slingshot, but he retorted, “Without it, how would I hunt pheasants in the mountains? And without ingredients, how could I show you my cooking?”

Qin Qiong laughed, “Put away your toy, boy. All of us are skilled archers and riders—no need for a child to hunt for us. Just wait here, we’ll be back soon.”

Hu Lao Pass lay in the mountains, teeming with game. Though the army’s presence had scared many off, after ten days of peace, birds and beasts returned. The generals, skilled archers all, rode down the mountain and within half an hour each returned with three or four pheasants.

While they hunted, Li Mingyu used the small medicinal shovel from Sun Simiao to dig up a heap of yellow clay, mixed it with water, sent someone to fetch a large pot and condiments like ginger and scallions from the kitchen, and boiled water. When the hunters returned, he directed them to gut and clean the pheasants.

Then, under his guidance, most of the birds—feathers and all—were wrapped in clay and straw, shaped into twenty-odd mud balls, ready for roasting. The rest were scalded and plucked for a pot of rich chicken soup.

When Yuchi Gong saw Li Mingyu about to build a fire in the tent, he quickly stopped him, “Boy, better go to the cookhouse; it’s forbidden to light fires outside the kitchen.”

Li Mingyu rolled his eyes. “This little bit of food? If we go to the kitchen, everyone will know, and in the spirit of brotherhood, you’d have to share! In the end, there’d be nothing left for us.”

Li Shiji frowned, “That would be breaking army law. If someone sees smoke and thinks there’s a fire, we’ll be in even worse trouble. Better forget it.”

Li Mingyu smiled mysteriously, “Don’t worry, I have a way. No smoke? Leave that to me.”