When Zhebu spoke about "changing the industrial structure," the Mongols stared at him as if he had begun chanting scripture from the heavens, because to them those words were no different from celestial runes carved by Dao Xuan Tianzun himself, utterly incomprehensible and completely detached from the daily concern of sheep, grass, and whether the wind would freeze their ears off tomorrow morning.
But this time, Zhebu had returned not as a wandering son who had seen the world and come back with stories, but as the heir to the Wushen clan leader, the future head wolf of the grassland, and when the head wolf bares his teeth and speaks, the pack listens whether they understand or not.
"Pass down my order," Zhebu declared. "The tribe moves south. We settle as close as possible to the Han cities."
The reaction was immediate and anxious.
"Will they really not attack us?"
"If they see us moving in large numbers toward the border, will they not grow wary?"
"We finally reopened the horse market. What if this is seen as provocation and they shut it down?"
Voices overlapped like restless sheep.
Zhebu did not waver. In his eyes, the people before him were brave riders and fierce warriors, but in matters of economy and development they were illiterate children poking at a complicated machine with sticks, and if he allowed them to stumble forward blindly, the Mongols might remain poor for another several centuries.
If that was the case, then he would simply have to be a tyrant for a while.
He would ignore their fear, trust the knowledge he had learned among the Han, and drag his people forward even if they kicked and shouted all the way.
Thus the Wushen tribe began its southward migration.
They were already among the tribes closest to Han territory, and years ago when Gao Family Village first extended its influence toward the grassland, it was the Wushen who had encountered them first. Now, with only a modest shift southward, they found themselves pressing close to the Yansui frontier garrison.
When they arrived, Zhebu did not waste breath on grand speeches.
"Set up the tents. We live here."
He pointed decisively.
"Those who must herd may take the cattle and sheep outward, but remember this place is home. After grazing, you return here."
Under his command, tents rose in dense clusters north of Yansui, forming a strange city made entirely of felt and rope, a city that looked as if the wind itself might pack it up and carry it away, yet stubbornly stood its ground.
On the second day after the tent city took shape, Zhebu issued another order.
"The factory recruits workers. Those skilled in making horn handicrafts report for work. Wages will be paid."
Of course, he was not foolish. Labor on the grassland was cheap beyond belief. He could not afford to pay Gao Family Village wages, nor did he need to. Even at twenty percent of what Han workers earned, he could hire more hands than he knew what to do with.
Families calculated carefully. The strong men would take the herds outward as before, while women and older children remained in the tent city to work in the factory. Unlike Gao Family Village, which refused to hire child labor, the Mongols saw no such problem. If a child could carry tools, polish horn, or run errands, then that child could earn coin.
Within days, a horn products factory operating entirely out of tents began production.
There was no accountant in the tribe capable of keeping proper books, so Zhebu did it himself, drawing on his experience as a minor shareholder in the Warm-So-Cozy Wool Sweater Factory. He calculated costs, tracked materials, counted finished goods, and discovered that numbers were far less frightening than charging into battle.
A few days later, the first batch of simple horn crafts was completed.
At that moment, Anjile stepped forward and announced that she would return to Gao Family Village to manage the sweater factory. The Wushen clan leader, who possessed several wives and had long since lost interest in his aging first wife, waved her off without hesitation.
"Go, go," he said casually, as if dismissing a servant rather than his own spouse.
Anjile took several curious women with her, loaded the first batch of horn products, and set off toward Gao Family Village.
Half a month later, money returned.
A large sum.
The horn products had sold out.
Sold out without suspense.
When Zhebu calculated the profits, his breath caught. The labor cost was astonishingly low, the selling price among the Han astonishingly high, and the difference between the two poured into his ledger like spring floodwater.
"So factories truly work," he muttered to himself, eyes shining. "We can expand production. Diversify the designs."
However, reality struck swiftly.
The first major problem of sedentary life emerged.
When Mongols gathered in one place instead of dispersing with their herds, survival resources tightened. In the past, hunger meant milking a sheep or slaughtering one. But now, the able bodied herders roamed far with the livestock, while those in the tent city had no immediate access to milk or meat.
Even if Zhebu paid wages, what good was silver without food to purchase?
Anxiety began to spread.
Then, to everyone's astonishment, the Han arrived.
Carriages rolled in, loaded with grain and daily necessities. The Mongols had feared that building so close to Han territory would provoke suspicion or even war, yet what came instead was assistance.
"Han and Mongols are one family!"
"Let us forget old grudges."
"Together we march toward a better future!"
The slogans from Gao Family Village spread quickly through the tent city, and relations between the two peoples reached a warmth unseen in a thousand years.
While this transformation unfolded on the grassland, another movement began far to the east.
Dongjiang Town, Pi Island.
A grand fleet eased into the harbor, hulls gleaming beneath the sun. Sailors unloaded supplies in relentless streams, passing crates and sacks down to waiting defenders, who hurried them into warehouses with broad grins.
Amid the bustle, Cao Wenzhao stepped off the Wanli Sunshine, planting his boots firmly on land before exhaling deeply.
"No matter how impressive the sea may be," he said, "I still prefer solid ground."
Dongjiang's commander, Shen Shikui, approached with a smile. "General Cao, it has been some time. What have you been busy with lately?"
Cao Wenzhao chuckled. "Nothing much. I have simply been waiting."
"Waiting?"
"For the Central Plains bandit suppression to conclude. Now it is largely finished. Only Chuang Wang remains in Shandong with a small force. Our strength can finally be redeployed."
Shen Shikui's eyes sharpened. "You mean…"
"Reinforcements have arrived."
The words struck like a drumbeat.
Shen Shikui turned toward the troop ships just as soldiers began pouring out in orderly ranks, movements crisp and disciplined.
A masked man leapt down from one of the ships and waved toward Cao Wenzhao. "General Cao, Liaodong will depend on you. We are not familiar with this place."
At that remark, several militia soldiers behind him exchanged peculiar looks and began whispering.
"General He has started pretending again."
"Yes, one of the Three Heroes of Liaodong claiming he is unfamiliar with Liaodong."
"He must be keeping a low profile on purpose."
"Ah, our General He has always been modest."
Cheng Xu sensed something off and turned sharply, glaring at the murmuring soldiers. They snapped their mouths shut instantly, as if they had never uttered a single word, their discipline returning as quickly as a blade sliding back into its sheath.
The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and iron.
They had all been waiting.
Now, at last, the board was set, and the next move would decide the fate of the northeast.