A True Gentleman Spurns the Soldier’s Life

Regarding the departure from Tokyo-Bianliang and the northward expedition into the occupied territories, it was not a momentary whim on Guo Jing's part, but a meticulously prearranged decision.

—Had he, the so-called "Living Immortal," remained in Bianliang any longer, some rather unpleasant incidents might well have unfolded.

For when calamity looms, mortals instinctively seek salvation from the divine—not because the gods symbolize unmatched might, but because they represent the miracle of defying fate itself, however presumptuously such miracles may be projected onto them.

Yet when a deity of boundless power truly stands before them, mortals are rarely filled with joy; more often they respond with dread, confusion, and helpless awe. Their prayers, perhaps unconsciously, assume the gods will never answer—such is the classic case of "Lord Ye's love of dragons."

Thus, when Guo Jing displayed genuine divine power, it was not delight but fear and suspicion that gripped the majority of the courtly elite. The emperor himself, devout as he was in Taoist beliefs, could barely be excluded from this reaction. Their instinctive response was not adoration, but the desire to bind such power, to bring it under control.

The only reason the ever-scheming literati and aristocrats had yet to act against Guo Jing and his fellow transmigrators was twofold: first, they had been temporarily cowed by the sheer, world-shattering magnitude of his divine arts—enough to make even the most audacious among them hesitate; and second, failing to subdue him by force, they attempted to do so with gentler means. Fortunately, Guo Jing's original body in the Northern Song was that of an aged recluse, childless and recently relocated from another province. With no relatives in Bianliang, their attempts at familial infiltration came to naught. Even so, old neighbors began paying unsolicited visits, eager to ingratiate themselves, hoping to be accepted into his tutelage for a share of his blessings. Word had it that powerful clans were dispatching agents to his remote birthplace in Jinghu to seek out long-lost kin, tenuous though the blood ties might be.

Success, after all, is a prolific factory for manufacturing kin and companions—and the ensuing burden of human obligations is enough to drive anyone to distraction.

After all, even the most incorruptible magistrate struggles to arbitrate family affairs, no?

Clearly, if things continued on this trajectory, Guo Jing would inevitably be ensnared in the vortex of factional strife within the court. Worse still, he might be caught in a compromising situation, manipulated by others, and rendered powerless to advance or retreat. Thus, better to preemptively leap from this infernal crucible called Bianliang and seek solitude elsewhere.

Doubtless, those harried ministers racking their brains for ways to deal with Guo the Immortal were secretly relieved to see this troublesome figure voluntarily withdraw.

More importantly, from Guo Jing's perspective, the Jin forces who had besieged the capital were vanquished—what further opportunity remained for him to "farm experience points" in Bianliang?

If he didn't leave this now-drained beginner's village and head into broader realms to grind out quests, how long would it take to amass the 50,000 points needed to "end the game"?

Of course, departure did not herald the end of trouble. Even Zhao Huan, the emperor who now appeared to worship him with near-fanatical reverence, would—in the cold clarity that follows excitement—come to view this all-powerful immortal with trepidation, fearing he might wield his might against the state and disrupt the established order. Various strategies of control and co-optation would surely follow.

But that was a concern for another day. Once the immortal departed Bianliang, he would be removed from the eye of the storm. The courtiers could then turn their attention to other urgent matters—half of the Central Plains lay in ruins after the Jurchen invasion, plagued by roving bandits and scattered rebel armies. Should a charismatic heresiarch rise and call, tens of thousands might flock to his banner overnight. Indeed, rumors abounded of rebel forces entrenched in Luoyang, their eyes fixed greedily on the Central Plains…

Until these messes were cleared, the embattled ministers of court would scarcely have time to trouble a departed immortal.

And once Bianliang regained its stability? By then, Guo the Immortal would likely have farmed his 50,000 points and returned to his own world. Whatever chaos he left in his wake—what did it matter to him? As the old saying goes, "After I am gone, let the floodwaters rise."

—Thus, amid lavish praise from the court and Guo Jing's firm insistence, even the initially reluctant Emperor Zhao Huan finally relented, granting permission for Guo to lead the "Six Jia Divine Troops" on a northern campaign...

...

Though Guo Jing had long laid his plans for this expedition, ideals are plump, while reality is stark and bony.

Once the news broke, the already-halved "Six Jia Divine Troops" witnessed an unexpected exodus—a whirlwind of withdrawals no one had foreseen.

"…Immortal Master, I beg your mercy! Though the imperial edict must be obeyed, I have an eighty-year-old mother to care for and a toddler barely out of swaddling clothes—I dare not venture far from home…"

Thus wept a man who appeared to be a brawny sumo wrestler, groveling before Guo Jing without a shred of manly dignity. And wasn't he barely twenty? How, pray tell, had his mother managed to give birth to him in her fifties?

(For context, Song-era citizens, like their Japanese contemporaries, were quite fond of sumo wrestling. Bianliang boasted numerous clubs—including female wrestlers.)

"…Shameful as it is to admit, this old man is deeply indebted to the Immortal's kindness for my appointment as a banner officer. I should willingly lay down my life in gratitude. Yet my rheumatism has flared again—these old, cold legs can hardly carry me a few steps... Might I remain in Tokyo to guard the residence, and let the young ones claim the glory?"

Sir, just this morning you were elbowing your way to the front of the breakfast line with the vigor of a tiger—when did your rheumatism start acting up?

"…Please, Immortal Master, let me return home! It's not that I fear hardship in Hebei's icy winds, but rather... there are reasons beyond my control…"

"…Though my family has fallen on hard times, we were once a house of letters. Should my parents hear I've taken up arms, they might well die of shame…"

"…They say we'll soon be inscribed into the military rolls, with characters tattooed on our faces… I beg your mercy this once!"

...

In truth, those who knelt and pleaded for release were the honest ones. Far more had simply slipped away at the first whiff of war—scaling walls, shedding uniforms, and melting into the populace as if they'd never worn the armor of Guo's divine troops.

As mentioned earlier, the "Six Jia Divine Troops" were recruited based on birth charts—nothing more than a rabble of idlers and street rogues. They lacked discipline, military training, and any sense of cohesion. Add to this the Song Dynasty's pervasive reverence for the civil and disdain for the martial—where soldiers were branded like slaves to prevent desertion—and it's no wonder that no decent family would ever dream of letting their sons enlist.

As the saying goes, "Good iron is not used for nails; good men do not become soldiers."

Only with the Jurchens battering at Bianliang's gates, the city on the brink of ruin, had ordinary folk temporarily forsaken that ancestral creed, enlisting to defend their homes and earn a meager ration. Now that the threat had passed, their thoughts turned swiftly to laying down arms and returning to their fields.

In the eyes of Song commoners, a soldier's uniform differed little from a beggar's rags.

Thus, even before Bianliang was fully relieved, half of the Six Jia troops had already scattered. Those who remained were merely hoping to use Guo the Immortal's name to bluff their way through city pleasures. Who would have guessed that their master truly intended to lead a northern crusade?

But Hebei lay ravaged by war, a land of desolation and peril—what spoils were there to be had? Moreover, it was mid-December already. If Bianliang was this cold, what frigid hell awaited in the north? And with the New Year looming just days away, to bid farewell to one's kin and march into the snowbound unknown—it was, indeed, too much to ask.

Beyond that, the capital's populace, living under the emperor's nose, were the most politically astute citizens of the realm. Even tea vendors and storytellers could discourse knowledgeably on the court's intrigues.

Thus, many had already caught wind of the court's growing suspicion toward Guo the Immortal and rightly guessed that serving in the divine troops would not be a long-term affair. Upon hearing of the northern campaign, they seized the chance to disappear—feigning illness, taking leave, or simply vanishing. Even the palace guards assigned as instructors found ways to slip back into their former units.

In the blink of an eye, what was once a grand martial force had dissolved before leaving the city, leaving behind a mere handful of bewildered men staring blankly at piles of weaponry.

Of course, had Guo Jing been more generous with gold and incentives, he might have bound these ruffians to his cause. Even in blizzards and political whirlwinds, men will follow silver. But Guo, now inhabited by a soul from another world, cared little for these street thugs. He deemed them dispensable and never paid a single coin beyond food and uniform.

And so, after the exodus, barely a hundred remained. Excluding the sick and the feeble, fewer than eighty were fit to march—a historically meager force for any northern campaign.

To this, Wang Qiu, Nobita, and Doraemon were unfazed. In their eyes, such baggage carriers were mere decoration. After all, hadn't Doraemon led four grade-schoolers to conquer kingdoms and planets time and again?

But Qin Hui—at present a fervent young idealist—thought otherwise. Watching Guo the Immortal's army evaporate, even with his own guards included, he saw a force not worth a hundred heads. It was a farce. In desperation, he scrambled to gather recruits, and miraculously… he succeeded.

"What? General Zong Ze of the Hebei Command has crossed the river south to defend the capital, and now his troops can be integrated into the Northern Expedition?"