Leapfrog Tactics (Part I)

Under the looming presence of the floating fortress "New Tokyo III" amidst the clouds, the Grand Marshal's Office of Hebei in Xiangzhou refrained from exhibiting even the slightest trace of hostility, instead opting for an unhesitating surrender, prostrating in submission before the imperial court of Bianliang—or more precisely, before the National Guardian, the True Immortal Guo Jing.

—His Highness Prince Kang, Zhao Gou, the head of the Xiangzhou separatist faction, made a feeble appearance under the pretext of illness, lamenting his frailty and lack of talent, and expressing his unworthiness to bear the heavy responsibility of serving as Hebei's Grand Marshal. Hence, he prepared to submit a memorial resigning from his post and return to Bianliang to recuperate, while ostensibly joining his imperial elder brother for deliberations on matters of state.

As for Wang Boyan, Vice Marshal and Prefect of Xiangzhou—the faction's second-in-command—he spared no effort in ingratiating himself with the omnipotent Immortal Guo. Upon hearing of the Northern Expedition Army's need to bolster its ranks, he swiftly posted recruitment notices for brave warriors. When Guo Jing expressed a desire to procure additional military supplies, Wang generously opened Xiangzhou's state arsenal, allowing the Immortal to take whatever he pleased. Furthermore, he tapped into his personal treasury to provide enchanting songstresses and lavish feasts in an ongoing effort to curry favor—hoping the National Guardian might speak a few kind words on his behalf and spare him from future censure or banishment to the southern frontier.

To this, Guo Jing readily agreed—after all, since embarking on this journey, he had no intention of returning to the capital. Every matter could be glossed over with idle words.

Thanks to such cooperation, the recruitment of valiant warriors and acquisition of logistical supplies among the local forces in Xiangzhou proceeded smoothly. Compared to the decadent world of pleasure in Bianliang, the northern men of Hebei were far more inclined to brave the hardships of the battlefield. Moreover, who could resist the temptation of ascending into that magnificent aerial city that floated above their heads?

Additionally, in hopes of forging ties—or at the very least, becoming recognizable to the formidable True Immortal—various militia and imperial commanders selected their finest warriors and sent them to serve under his command. In return, Doraemon found himself compelled to part with an array of magical tools—scrolls of wall-phasing, invisibility, strength-enhancing pills, and gloves of might—as tokens of goodwill. These gifts, however, would later spark considerable trouble: incidents of theft enabled by wall-phasing scrolls, and even some scoundrels sneaking into women's chambers, playing the libertine.

In truth, the five-story Japanese-style fortress Doraemon had conjured was hardly spacious enough to accommodate a sizable force. Though imposing in appearance, its capacity was limited. Even a modern five-story student dormitory could only house so many people—let alone when that space also had to store grain, fodder, horses for the cavalry, heavy infantry armor, bedding, cookware, fuel, and other daily necessities.

After meticulous selection, Guo Jing ultimately enlisted 700 robust and martial volunteers from Xiangzhou. Combined with the personnel he had brought from the capital, his total force amounted to 600 infantry, 100 cavalry, and 100 support personnel—collectively and optimistically styled as the "Eight Hundred Braves."

As for Zong Ze, Prefect of Cizhou, and his contingent of 200 personal guards, they parted ways with Guo Jing in Xiangzhou, returning to defend their jurisdiction. Since Zong Ze's departure, Cizhou had been left nearly defenseless, verging on a state of anarchy. Given that the region was at the forefront of the Song-Jin conflict, the court had already rebuked Zong Ze, warning him sternly not to let his post fall.

Thus, the task of leading the Northern Expedition fell solely to Guo Jing, the Immortal—though few expected such a modest force to accomplish anything of consequence.

Yet, for the sake of the reputation of the transmigrators, for Doraemon's thirst for adventure, and for the reward points needed to escape this world, Guo Jing and his companions were destined to inscribe their deeds into the annals of history—shaking heaven itself in the process.

But first, Wang Qiu was left dumbstruck by the names etched upon the military register—names destined for eternal glory.

...

"...Yue Fei, Niu Gao, Wang Gui, Han Shizhong... Heaven above! All these legendary figures from The Story of Yue Fei gathered in one place!" Seated in a chamber of the aerial citadel "New Tokyo III," Wang Qiu stared at the roster of names—heroes renowned through the ages—and then at Yue Fei himself, who was beside him tending to his weapons and armor. The world seemed to spin around him, rendering him speechless.

—Was this truly Yue Fei? The very same Yue Fei whose name had shone for a millennium through the annals of Chinese history, exalted as a national hero?

Thirty feats buried in dust and soil, eight thousand miles under moon and cloud...

Drink deep, strike Huanglong...

Fengbo Pavilion, justice beneath the heavens...

Scenes from his trip to Yue Fei's temple in Hangzhou flashed before his eyes: the plaque inscribed "Restore Our Rivers and Mountains," the statue clad in martial armor. Memories of reading The Story of Yue Fei surged forth vividly. And now, nearby, sat Qin Hui—pen in hand, composing a memorial to the court. Wang Qiu felt as though time itself had fractured.

What startled him even more, however, was the weapon in Yue Fei's hand—a Japanese katana, glinting coldly as he polished it with thick cloth like a samurai.

Yes, the famed general was wielding a katana—or more precisely, a nihontō. At first, Wang Qiu had assumed it was one of Doraemon's whimsical artifacts. To his astonishment, he discovered that it was, in fact, a domestic product of this very world.

In the Song dynasty, seafaring trade flourished, and Japanese swords were a major import in Sino-Japanese commerce. This demand stemmed from the peculiar tastes of the Song literati: delicate and scholarly by nature, they favored accessories like sachets, fly-whisks, or folding fans. Yet some sought to emulate the martial airs of the Han and Tang dynasties, carrying blades to cultivate a veneer of valor.

Among their favored weapons, the Japanese sword stood supreme. Song-made war blades were often far too heavy for these frail scholars to wield. And though the elegant jian had its poetic allure—light, nimble, and fit for a Li Bai-style swordsman—it was woefully ineffective in practice, barely sufficient to fend off even a stick-wielding thief.

In contrast, the katana was both light and lethally sharp—ideal for slashing through lightly-armored or unarmored targets. Against a common brigand with a club, one clean strike could sever both weapon and limb. Of course, when facing heavily armored foot soldiers or cavalry, the katana's light frame proved inadequate—it might shatter or chip upon impact with iron armor. But then, the literati never intended to fight pitched battles. Their swords were for fending off roadside thugs and street robbers—nothing more.

Thus, the aesthetically pleasing and easily wielded katana became the Song gentleman's choice of both fashion and self-defense.

For this reason, the weapon rarely appeared in the hands of regular army infantry, who needed sturdier arms. Yet cavalrymen like Yue Fei were another matter. Officially, they were equipped with bows and spears. Adding a cumbersome war blade would be impractical, so many opted for daggers, short swords, or Japanese blades as secondary weapons. Yue Fei, poor in birth but rich in martial spirit, had somehow acquired this katana as a treasured personal item. Whether for dismembering enemies after battle or carrying for self-defense while on foot, it served him well—and he treated it with the utmost care.

Indeed, the weapon was a masterpiece. The hilt was wrapped in tanned cowhide; the scabbard, bound in sharkskin; the silver guard between them sculpted into a kirin, its flowing lines full of life. When unsheathed, its blade shimmered like autumn water—cold, clear, and unmistakably lethal.

And yet, seeing this icon of Japanese warfare in the hands of a Chinese national hero was enough to unsettle Wang Qiu's modern sensibilities.

Perhaps his peculiar gaze lingered too long, for Yue Fei soon took notice. Pausing in his work, he glanced down at himself, checking for any impropriety, then asked cautiously, "Might this Daoist gentleman know who I am?"

At the time, Wang Qiu was dressed in the flowing robes of a Daoist scholar, his official identity being Guo Jing's foremost disciple... which wasn't entirely false. In the modern world, he had taken Professor Guo's course in Marxist philosophy...

"Uh... no, I don't believe we've met!" Wang Qiu stammered, shaking his hands vigorously while casting another glance at Yue Fei. To his surprise, the great general didn't have mismatched eyes like some depictions in folklore. "The National Guardian is summoning all commanders to discuss the Northern Expedition. I urge you to attend promptly—the fate of the realm hangs in the balance."