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snow didn’t fall in Jinling this year.
The air hung thick with iron and pine scent, and the cherry blossoms on the south bank of the Qinhuai River had burst into full bloom—too bright, too late.
Luo Chen stood at the parapet of the old city wall, his fingers resting on the cold stone. Below, the city stirred in uneasy silence.

He’d come here in a blink— waking up in a luminous chamber scented with sandalwood, silk hangings draped over carved redwood furniture, a lush garden spilling sunlight through latticed windows.江南富庶，贵族之家，人生至此，夫复何求。He’d accepted it, for a week.
Then the war drums broke through the mist from the north.
The first news came on a bloodstained letter carried by a dying courier into the courtyard— his father, the Marquis of Jiangnan, had fallen at Savei Pass, his brother at the bridge of Iron Dawn, sword still clenched in a fist of ice.
Three days later, the edict came: Luo Chen, for his obstinate defiance, is to be dispatched to the occupied northern territories—to hold the line at Xiangyang, until the end.

It wasn’t exile.
It was execution wrapped in ceremony.

Luo Chen did not protest.
He knelt in the ancestral hall, bowing three times to the tablets of his forebears, the incense smoke swirling like ghosts. He rose, brushed the sleeves of hisofficial robes, and walked out into the courtyard, where a black stallion stood tethered to a tree, its mane tied with a faded red ribbon—his sister’s doing.

He nodded to her. She said nothing, only pressed a small wooden box into his hands. Inside, a polish of jade green—his childhood charm from the temple of Dual Peaks.

“Keep it. So you remember who you are.”

He did.

That night, by the lantern-lit study, the world shimmered.

Not in gold or thunder—but in soft, silver glyphs, rising like mist from his palm.

A screen unfolded before him:

System Initialization Complete
Name: Luo Chen
Title: Acting Commander of the Northern Front
Functionality: Player Summoning (Territory: Earth)

He didn’t understand it—not at first. But the dust motes in the lamplight glittered like pixels, and something inside him clicked: a voice—calm, ancient, and utterly real—added,

Welcome to Warfront: Epoch Zero. You stand upon the threshold of history.

Luo Chen exhaled, touched the air, and typed:

“Recruit. Any nationality. Any background. Anyone willing to die for something greater than themselves.”

The screen went white.

Then…

A portal opened—not in his study, but in the empty lot behind the city’s northern gate.

It pulsed like a heartbeat, and from it stepped a young woman in a yellow wig and oversized hoodie, holding a camera and muttering about time zones. Behind her, a mountain of backpacks and NATO-style crates spilled onto the gravel.

She blinked. Looked left. Looked right. Then raised her phone and took a selfie in front of the gate.

captions: “So this is the one where I join the game. Someone explain why the NPC says ‘Jiaozhou Bay is全线告急’ and why my Wi-Fi shows up as ‘Imperial Signal Boost’.”

Luo Chen watched. Waited. Said nothing.

The woman’s name appeared over her head: 帕鲁—player name auto-assigned.

She turned. Saw him. Smiled—teeth a little too white in the dusk.

“Yo. You’re the boss, right?”

He nodded.

“You feed us. You arm us. You pay us… somehow.”
“I won’t lie. I love the lore. But I need a loot box. And maybe a tactical overview.”

That first night, 17 players arrived—23 the next.
By week’s end, the northern gate had become a bazaar of foreign tongues, halberds, RPGs, and a half-built drone workshop run by a teenager from Nanjing whointerrupted his Twitch stream to recalibrate ballistics calculators.

The system changed the world.

Battlegrounds shimmered into “maps.”
Fortifications became “bases.”
supply consoles manifests.
Killing enemies earned XP and gear drops—ironically, the better they fought, the more the system rewarded them with modern tools:
Field hospitals that pulled tech from thin air.
Portable desalination units pulled from “laboratory crates.”
Drones with thermal scopes and voice-decoded battle dialects.

Players were insane—not because they were fearless, but because they knew it was just a game. Their melee archer, “Slay_the_Dragon,” once tried to duel a Jurchen berserker on horseback—armed only with a barbecue skewer sharpened to point—just to see what would happen. He got bisected, respawned seven minutes later in a modular med-kit tent in Jinling, and came back with a Molotov and a clipboard.

Jurchen scouts reported chaos.
Men in strange gear, moving in perfect columns, firing bolts that killing even from two catties away.
Then came the siege of Tianmen Delta: 2.3 million players warped in overnight after a viral video of a “world boss” spawned—the Jurchen khan, Chengjia.
They labeled it Event Horizon.
Rolled logs like armor.
Flew paper lanterns with GPS beacons into enemy sky; lit the night like a festival of ghosts.

Jurchens called them fei ren—ghosts who wouldn’t die.
They said: “It is easier to move a mountain than break Luo’s line.”
Then: “The young lord does not speak. He责编s the board.”

Luo Chen taught the players the rules of war:
Those who fell in battle lost an inventory slot—not a life.
Those who scavenged intelligently earned promotions, rank, access to schematic blueprints.
Those who died accidentally during a raid lost their Eternal Revive—twice used, one ruined.

He didn’t lead them like a general.
He led like a server admin—مهما حصل، لا تُفسد اللعبة.

By spring, Xiangyang was theirs.
Then Heze.
Then Chenzhou.

The imperial court grew nervous.

Then furious.

The capital warned Luo Chen: “You corner the beasts, but not the German war-dogs.”
The scholar-officials whispered: “He gave them cannons.”
The eunuch Han Zhihao stood before the throne and struck the table—*“He gave them guns. Yours are bamboo-tipped.”*
The emperor, young and squinting into a tea leaf, finally sighed.
He drafted the edict by candlelight.
Not a dismissal.
Not a promotion.
It read:

“The realm knows loyalty. The realm knows sacrifice. Luo Chen, for his long service and undeniable courage, is granted the sword of rest. His bones shall be laid in the ancestral grounds. His name removed from the register of living officers. His assets sequestered to fund the Imperial Military Orphan Fund.”

Luo Chen received it at dawn.
The parchment was silk-bound, the ink crimson as fresh blood.

He held it in his hands for ten minutes—reading once, twice, once more.
Then he folded it, tucked it into his chest, and opened the system console.

The portal hummed behind him, but he didn’t turn.
他低声说：
“Localchat, open.”

A voice joined him—calm, unreadable.

“Yes, Luo Chen.”

“I need a full deployment预案. All sectors. All languages. All fronts.”

There was a pause—then a chuckle.

“What are you planning?”

Luo Chen smiled, just a little.
“What I always planned.”
“北伐。 but this time… with backup.”

For three days, the portal remained closed.
The city held its breath.

Then the cracks appeared.

Not in the sky.
In reality.

Nanbei Junction—for twenty years, only troop movement.
Now: 187 portals burst open in a single second.
From each, man or woman or teenager, equipped in mismatched gear: backpacks stitched with brand logos, helmets labeled in kanji,有的握着iron spears,有的扛着折叠无人机，有的端着仿制MR33步枪，甚至有人牵着一头貌如蒲鲁的白鹿，眼神如电。

They poured down the street, crossroads, rooftops.
Scanned the sky for tokens—เﻟicultural Bonus: Loyalty bonus unlocked. Bounty: Commander’s Edict.

One thing they all heard—the same transmission, looping from Jinling’s central speaker, a voice that had grown quiet, but never weak:

“Tonight. Not for glory. Not for land. But because I told you they would die before I did.”

京城, 600 li west, trembled.

The imperial drum rang.
False alarms. Three times.

Then the fifth ring tumbled into real