Ashes at Tumu Frontier

  # **Chapter 1: The Wrong Battlefield**

  The exercise was supposed to end at 0600.

  Captain Wei Zhao crouched behind a boulder cluster, watching his fire team advance through the simulated urban zone. Blank rounds cracked in the distance. Smoke grenades hazed the morning air—acrid, familiar. His knees ached from three hours on hard ground.

  Standard combined-arms maneuver drill. Nothing his platoon hadn't run a hundred times.

  Then the sky *bent*.

  No other word for it. The air above the training ground rippled like heat distortion, except the temperature had dropped. Wei's breath misted. His radio hissed static—not interference, but something deeper, like the frequency itself was dying.

  His second-in-command turned, mouth open—

  The world *folded*.

  Wei hit sand. Not ground—*sand*. Desert sand that burned cold against his palms.

  He rolled, came up in a crouch, rifle instinctively leveled at—

  Nothing. Empty horizon. Rolling dunes west, scrub grass plains east. His rifle was gone. ACU uniform replaced by rough hemp that scratched his neck, cloth trousers, leather boots cracked and stiff. No plate carrier. No radio. No GPS.

  Just a belt. A knife. A waterskin that smelled of old leather and stale water.

  His platoon—gone. The exercise that should have ended at 0600—erased.

  For five seconds, Wei's training failed completely.

  The dark opened beneath him, vast and cold. His chest constricted. Thirty-two soldiers. His responsibility. His—

  Screaming cut through the void.

  Training took over. *Assess. Move. Survive.*

  The crisis could wait.

  ---

  Wei moved toward the sound on instinct—low crouch, using terrain folds. The screaming was coming from a shallow valley half a *li* north. Dust hung in the air, thick with the smell of horses and something metallic.

  Blood.

  He reached the ridgeline and dropped flat. Pebbles bit into his elbows.

  Below: massacre.

  Thirty soldiers in padded armor and conical helmets tried to hold formation. Spears, crossbows, shields painted with faded red insignia. *Ming dynasty,* his brain supplied uselessly.

  Fifty cavalry circled them like wolves. Light horse archers with composite bows, firing from the saddle in rotating passes. Every volley dropped two, three defenders. Bodies littered the sand.

  One Ming officer—plume on his helmet—shouted orders, voice cracking.

  "Crossbows! Left arc! Left arc—*now!*"

  Almost worked. Three riders went down in quick succession, horses screaming. But the cavalry adapted faster, splitting formation, attacking from multiple angles.

  The Ming crossbowmen fired individually after that—no time to coordinate, no officer left alive. Their spear line contracted as men fell. Gaps opened. A sergeant near the center held his section together, voice hoarse.

  "Tighten up! Close that gap! Lock shields!"

  Good instincts. Not enough. No reserves. No rally point. No depth.

  One Ming soldier broke and ran. An arrow took him in the back. He fell without sound.

  The sergeant tried to pull the line tighter. "Hold here! HOLD!"

  Two more broke. The formation collapsed into a panicked cluster—easier targets. Arrows found flesh with wet, heavy sounds.

  Wei forced himself to think.

  No weapon. No support. Intervening meant dying alongside them. But his hands were already scanning terrain, finding angles, looking for—

  There. Dried streambed running east. Dead ground, below the cavalry's sight line.

  Three Ming soldiers sprinted for it, staying low. Cavalry wheeled to pursue, but the streambed's banks gave cover. Arrows skipped off dirt and stone with sharp *cracks*.

  Wei moved.

  He slid down the ridge, knees scraping rock, and intercepted the runners two hundred paces ahead. They saw him and froze—exhausted, bloodied, eyes wide with the particular terror of men who'd just watched their unit die.

  Wei raised both hands, palms out.

  "Move. Stay low."

  They stared. Wei didn't wait. He turned and jogged down the streambed—fast enough to create distance, slow enough to stay quiet. Boots crunched on gravel.

  After a heartbeat, the soldiers followed.

  Behind them, the screaming stopped.

  ---

  Wei led them three *li* east before halting in a dry gully choked with thornbush. Good concealment, multiple exits. His lungs burned. The soldiers collapsed against the embankment, chests heaving.

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  Wei turned to assess his accidental squad.

  The older one, maybe forty, had sergeant's eyes—alert despite exhaustion. Crossbow on his back, quiver empty. He watched Wei with the wariness of a man who'd survived by trusting his instincts.

  The young one, twenty at most, clutched a spear with a chipped point. Blood on his face, not all his own. His hands shook.

  The middle-aged one limped badly, favoring his left leg. Sword at his belt but no other weapon. He kept touching the hilt, as if confirming it was still there.

  The sergeant spoke first, voice rough with dust. "Who are you?"

  "Someone trying not to die," Wei said. "You?"

  "Feng. Third Border Battalion, Xuanfu Garrison." He gestured to the others. "Liu. Ma."

  Wei nodded. "What happened back there?"

  "Patrol." Feng spat sand. "Routine sweep. Oirats hit us from three sides—ambush. Good one. Took out our scouts first, then the officer." His jaw tightened. "Thirty men. We're what's left."

  Ma, the limping one, stared at nothing. His lips moved soundlessly.

  Liu, the young one, suddenly leaned over and vomited. Feng steadied him without comment.

  Wei scanned the ridgeline. No pursuit visible, but that meant nothing. "How many Oirats?"

  "Fifty, maybe more. Light cavalry. They'll be ranging wide, looking for stragglers."

  "Then we move in thirty minutes. Too soon and we're still in their sweep pattern. Too late and they expand search radius."

  Feng studied him. "You talk like military. But that accent... you're not from here."

  "No."

  "Where?"

  *Twenty-first century China,* Wei thought. *People's Liberation Army. A world that doesn't exist yet or doesn't exist anymore.*

  "Somewhere else," he said.

  Feng's eyes narrowed, but he didn't push. Liu wiped his mouth, embarrassed. Ma kept touching his sword hilt, rhythmic, like prayer.

  Wei checked the waterskin. Half full. "We need to reach friendly territory. How far to Xuanfu?"

  "Four days east. Assuming we don't run into more Oirats."

  Four days. No food. Limited water. Three traumatized soldiers, one wounded. No weapons except a knife, a chipped spear, and a sword.

  Wei had led operations with worse odds. But those had been in a world with radios, air support, and medevac.

  This world had none of that.

  "Rest," he said. "Drink half your water. We move in twenty-five minutes."

  Feng nodded slowly. "You give orders like you're used to command."

  "I am."

  "What rank?"

  "Captain."

  "Ming army?"

  Wei met his eyes. "Does it matter?"

  Feng considered. "No. I suppose it doesn't." He took a long pull from his waterskin. "Long as you can keep us alive."

  Wei said nothing. He was already running calculations—distance, water, threat patterns, terrain. The familiar rhythm of tactical planning settled over him like armor.

  Behind them, smoke rose from the valley. Black and thick. The smell of burning flesh drifted on the wind.

  Liu saw it and turned away. Ma's hand tightened on his sword. Feng just stared, face carved from stone.

  "They were good men," Feng said quietly. "Sergeant Chen held the center to the last. Gave us time to run."

  "He saved you," Wei said.

  "Yes." Feng's voice was flat. "He did."

  The silence stretched. Wind whispered through the thornbush, carrying dust and the distant sound of horses. Wei counted the minutes in his head—twenty-three left. Then they'd move, and he'd figure out how to survive in a world that shouldn't exist.

  One problem at a time.

  That was all he could do.

  ---

  They moved at dusk—Wei's call. Darkness would hide them, but Feng knew the terrain.

  "Stay in the low ground," Feng said. "Oirats range during day, rest at night. Might get lucky."

  Might. Wei didn't trust luck, but he didn't have better options.

  They moved in single file—Wei on point, Feng second, Liu third, Ma bringing up rear. Standard patrol formation. Wei set the pace: tactical walk, pause to listen, move again. No talking.

  Liu stumbled twice in the first hour. Young, green, still shaking from the ambush. Wei slowed the pace slightly. Better to arrive late than loud.

  Ma's limp worsened. After two hours, he was breathing hard, face pale in the moonlight.

  Wei called a halt in a dried wash. "Feng. Ma's leg."

  Feng checked it without speaking. Arrow graze, not deep but inflamed. He tore a strip from his tunic and bound it tight. Ma didn't make a sound.

  "Can you walk?" Wei asked.

  "Yes." Ma's voice was steady. The sword-touching had stopped. He seemed calmer now, focused on movement.

  They continued east. The night was cold, clear. Stars blazed overhead, unfamiliar constellations that reminded Wei how far from home he was.

  *Home.* The thought came unbidden. His apartment in Beijing. His sister's weekly calls. The normalcy of a world with electricity and paved roads and—

  Feng's hand shot up. Stop.

  Everyone froze.

  Feng pointed northeast. Wei followed his finger and saw it: flickering orange light on the horizon. Campfire. Maybe two *li* away.

  "Oirats?" Wei whispered.

  "Maybe. Or other patrols." Feng's jaw worked. "Could be ours."

  "Or bandits."

  "That too."

  Wei calculated angles. The fire was slightly off their direct route east. They could detour south, add three hours to their travel time, avoid contact entirely.

  Or they could approach, verify, potentially find allies.

  Risk versus reward. The eternal equation.

  "We scout it," Wei decided. "Feng and me. You two stay here. If we're not back in one hour, move east without us."

  Liu opened his mouth to protest. Ma put a hand on his shoulder, shook his head.

  Wei and Feng moved toward the fire, using dead ground, stopping every fifty paces to listen. As they got closer, voices became audible. Chinese. Ming accent.

  Feng relaxed slightly. "Ours."

  "Maybe."

  They crept to within fifty paces. The camp was small—six soldiers around a fire, weapons stacked nearby. Tired men, not alert. One was telling a story, others laughing.

  Feng frowned. "Too relaxed. They should have sentries out."

  Wei agreed. Either these were rear-echelon troops who didn't know better, or it was a trap.

  He scanned the perimeter. No movement. No hidden positions. Just six tired soldiers making themselves visible targets.

  "Stupidity or bait?" Feng whispered.

  "Only one way to know."

  Wei stood slowly, hands visible, and walked toward the fire.

  "Hello the camp," he called. Loud enough to be heard, calm enough not to threaten.

  Six heads snapped toward him. Hands reached for weapons—slow, undisciplined. Wei kept walking, hands out.

  "I'm looking for the road to Xuanfu," he said. "You Ming troops?"

  The closest soldier—older, corporal's insignia—stood. "Who's asking?"

  "Someone who got separated from his patrol. Oirats hit us four *li* west. Looking for friendly territory."

  The corporal studied him. Behind Wei, Feng emerged from the darkness. Six soldiers tensed.

  "Easy," Wei said. "We're not looking for trouble. Just directions."

  "You're a long way from Xuanfu," the corporal said. "Four days east. Oirats between you and there."

  "We know."

  The corporal glanced at his men, then back to Wei. Something in his eyes—calculation. Wei's instincts stirred.

  "You can camp with us tonight," the corporal said. "Safety in numbers."

  Wei smiled. "Appreciate the offer. But we need to keep moving. Just wanted to confirm we're headed the right direction."

  "Suit yourself." The corporal sat back down. "East. Stay north of the river ford. Oirats patrol south of it."

  "Thanks."

  Wei turned to leave. Feng followed. They walked thirty paces into darkness before Feng whispered, "That felt wrong."

  "Yes."

  "Bandits?"

  "Probably. Those weren't garrison troops. Weapons were mismatched, discipline was terrible, and that corporal's insignia was fake—painted on, not sewn."

  "You saw that in firelight?"

  "I notice details."

  They rejoined Liu and Ma. Wei gave the signal to move—east, but south of their original course, avoiding the bandit camp entirely.

  They walked until midnight, then found shelter in a rock overhang. Wei took first watch, Feng second. Liu and Ma collapsed into exhausted sleep.

  Wei sat with his back against cold stone, knife in hand, watching the darkness. His mind circled back to the impossible question he'd been avoiding:

  *How?*

  How did a modern PLA captain end up in Ming dynasty China? How did the world fold? How was any of this real?

  The questions had no answers. But they kept coming, patient and relentless as the cold.

  He pushed them down. Survival first. Existential crisis later.

  In the darkness, something moved. Wei's hand tightened on the knife.

  A fox, slipping between rocks. It paused, eyes reflecting starlight, then vanished.

  Wei let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

  Four days to Xuanfu. Assuming they lived that long.

  One day at a time. One hour. One breath.

  That was all he could control.

  ---

  **End of Chapter 1**