Chapter 65: Lonely Fortress, Setting Sun, and Scattered Troops in Battle

Guo Xin led the six through the dilapidated streets and arrived at the somewhat ruined Protectorate-General.

In the corner of the courtyard, several wounded soldiers were sharing half a piece of dry, hard flatbread.

Their tattered bandages were soaked with blood, grime, and desert sand, yet the moment they caught sight of the Protector, they used their sabers to prop themselves up and forced their hunched spines to straighten. Their blood-stained fingers closed into fists and pressed heavily against their chests—this was the military salute of the Anxi Army.

Wang Zhengqing’s throat bobbed. The sight of these scarred yet unyielding figures stirred a deep, spontaneous wave of reverence within him.

Chen Xuelin and the other three experienced a complex mix of emotions, and a strange, stinging sensation pricked at the bridges of their noses.

Kucha, having lost contact with Chang'an, Kucha as an isolated enclave—they lived such arduous lives.

At this moment, everyone truly understood the meaning of the verse: "The solitary city under the setting sun, the fighting soldiers are few."

Guo Xin gazed at the mottled Protectorate-General. "Forgive me for making you witness this spectacle. Compared to the magnificent city of Kucha during the Zhenguan era, it is indeed rather desolate now."

Jiang Ye, however, shook his head. "The General is mistaken. To be marooned in such an ultimate wasteland, cut off from all reinforcements, yet able to keep the banner of Great Tang flying high until this day—that is already an epoch-making feat of peerless magnitude."

He raised a hand and pointed into the distance at the tattered Tang flag hanging from the eaves of the Protectorate-General. "Look at that banner."

The flag fluttered aggressively in the wind and sand; though its former colors had faded, it had never fallen.

"Chang'an may have forgotten Anxi, but Anxi has never forgotten that it is the territory of the Great Tang. The reason this city has been able to stand tall to this day is entirely due to an immortal monument built from your flesh and blood as bricks, and your loyal souls as mortar, forged through sheer willpower."

Every word Jiang Ye spoke was resolute and resonant, striking like heavy hammers against the hearts of the Anxi soldiers. Gradually, an irrepressible tremor began to ripple through their chests.

Ever since communication with Chang'an was severed, they had been like a lone boat forgotten in the long river of time.

And now, this young man who claimed to come from a thousand years in the future was telling them with every word:

You have not been forgotten. Your steadfast defense is remembered by the descendants of later generations.

Jiang Ye’s words touched not only the heartstrings of the Anxi soldiers, but also those of Wang Zhengqing and his five companions.

Yang Fang turned her face away, her eyes brimming with surging tears.

Wang Zhengqing looked up at the sky, his Adam's apple violently bobbing.

Chen Xuelin, He Xu, and Tong Yi all pressed their lips together in unison, feeling a sharp stinging in their noses.

While they had lingered outside chatting, the soldiers had efficiently unloaded all the supplies into the courtyard, waiting for the Grand General.

The soldiers of the Anxi Army looked at these extraordinary supplies in the courtyard, their eyes filled with growing anticipation and curiosity.

As Guo Xin, Jiang Ye, and the others stepped into the courtyard, the soldiers saluted in unison.

"General."

Guo Xin gave a slight nod, his gaze sweeping over the piled supplies in the courtyard.

Jiang Ye spoke up, "The General might as well take a look and see if the supplies we brought can all be put to use."

Seeing Guo Xin nod in consent, Jiang Ye walked over to the stack of rice and flour. "These are the grains consumed by our later generations."

As he spoke, he reached out to open one, but Yang Fang interjected, "Let me do it. I open these often; there is a technique to the seal."

She wanted to avoid a repeat of what happened with Chen Xuelin.

She had not forgotten how, during the unloading earlier, they had used their rough palms to scoop up the pure white flour that had spilled onto the sandy ground, gathering it again and again, only to ultimately stare at the grit-mixed grain and shake their heads in a sigh. That scene was still vivid in her mind.

Chen Xuelin learned his lesson this time, obediently stepping back to the side without daring to interfere.

Yang Fang untied the first bag and scooped out a handful of white rice with both hands. Everyone's attention locked onto her palms, where every single grain of rice was round and plump, radiating a warm, gentle luster in the twilight.

Guo Xin narrowed his eyes to examine them closely, seeing that the grains in her palm were crystal-clear and plump, entirely free of chaff or husks.

He pinched a small pinch of rice from Yang Fang's palm and placed it carefully on his own palm. The grains were as round as pearls, actually able to stand upright one by one. Even the tribute rice he had seen back in Chang'an fell far short of this quality.

Zhang Qian’s hand, which had been tightly gripping his saber hilt, suddenly trembled. His fingers unconsciously loosened from the weapon, his callus-covered fingers stretching forward slightly before stopping abruptly right before touching the grains. He quickly reined in his focus, and his hand returned to the saber hilt.

Veteran soldier Zhao Qi stretched his neck to peer into the bag, his eyes widening. "General, this rice... there isn't a single worm hole in it..."

Many of the veteran soldiers gathered around, their rough fingers cautiously probing the grains.

Old Zhao Qi cupped a handful of white rice, his chapped lips trembling slightly. "I, Old Zhao, have guarded the borders for forty years, and I have never seen grain of this quality."

Some brought the grains close to their noses, their senses—long battered by wind and sand—clearly capturing the sweet fragrance of fresh rice. Others could not resist popping a few grains into their mouths; the fresh, crisp sweetness melting on their tongues made these veterans, accustomed to coarse military rations, stare in wide-eyed astonishment.

"Sweet, truly sweet." The one-eyed veteran squinted, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he muttered to himself. His broken gums gently ground against the rice grains, and a watery sheen welled up in his clouded, single eye.

At this moment, it felt as though they were not merely tasting grain, but sipping on the flavor of a prosperous Tang Dynasty that had grown hazy in their memories.

Yang Fang walked over to another bag of flour and easily untied the cord. As the mouth of the sack slowly opened, a fresh scent of wheat instantly permeated the air.

She carefully rolled down the opening of the bag a few folds, revealing the snow-white, delicate flour within.

Guo Xin unconsciously took a step forward, his armor emitting a faint clinking sound.

The old general bent down, his gaze fixed dead-center on that bag of flour.

Under the glow of the setting sun, that pure white color was as dazzling as fresh snow in early winter.

He hesitated as he reached out his hand, only to stop midway in the air, fearing that his rough fingers would profane such purity.

"The General might as well touch it," Yang Fang said softly, pushing the sack a fraction closer to him.

Only then did Guo Xin cautiously use his fingertips to lightly brush the surface of the flour.

The delicate texture made his pupils contract; the softness transmitted through his fingertips felt akin to the finest silk.

He applied a tiny bit of pressure, and his fingers sank into the flour, feeling a density and fineness he had never encountered before, entirely devoid of any grainy texture.

"This..." The old general's voice trembled slightly. He scooped up a handful of flour and watched as it slipped through his fingers like flowing sand. "Not even the finest grain shop in the West Market of Chang'an could grind flour of this grade."

Earlier, when catching a glimpse of it from afar on the city wall, he had known the wheat flour was of good quality. But now, looking at it close up, it was far more than just good—it vastly surpassed imperial tribute.

Watching Guo Xin's intense expression, Yang Fang gently untied another nearby bag.

This time, she deliberately opened the mouth of the bag completely, fully presenting the flour inside to everyone. Illuminated by the setting sun, the snow-white flour seemed to almost emit a glow, casting a bright radiance upon the faces of the surrounding men.

The surrounding soldiers held their breath in unison. Some secretly pinched themselves, suspecting they were dreaming; others rubbed their eyes hard, terrified that their vision was playing tricks on them.

Guo Xin slowly straightened his back, his chest heaving violently beneath his armor.

He looked around at the mountain of supplies piled high in the courtyard, and then back at the two bags of snow-white wheat flour and crystal-clear rice grains right before him.

His sharp gaze slowly landed on Jiang Ye and his group. Perhaps what these people claimed—that they came from a thousand years in the future—was true.