The Beacon Chronicles: From Cannon Fodder to God of War

The Great Jing Dynasty I serve is stuck on the downward slope of its "three rises and five declines." In Emperor Qinghe's twelfth winter on the throne, the emperor's uncle has already reached into the Ministry of Revenue's treasury, and the Hedong Military Governor's tally of authority carries more weight than an imperial edict. Whenever we collect our rations, I find myself staring at the grains of sand in my steamed bread. Food mixed with thirty percent sand is the lifeline of us "cannon fodder." My mother used to say that during the "Peace of Anjing," soldiers at least had enough to eat. But now... I touch the three characters for "Hengsai Camp" tattooed on my left cheek. The metal's chill always clears my head: in this world, you either starve to death as a refugee or become a soldier who eats sand.

The truth of the world as I see it:

• Refugees are more precious than warhorses: The warlords have seized half the land, and fleeing farmers swarm toward the frontier like locusts. A recruiting officer can trade half a steamed bun for a man's life.

• Salt kills more surely than knives: You can crunch pebbles in the army's salt. Last winter, Wang Laowu of Third Squad lacked salt, and his leg swelled up like a barrel before they finally left him to freeze in the snow.

• City walls are more reliable than people's hearts: The rammed-earth walls of Longmen Pass are cracked wide enough to fit a fist, but at least they won't stab you in the back, unlike those silk-clad officers who smile as they treat you like stone to fill a breach.