Chapter One: Blood and Guns

Li Xiu was in the midst of a nightmare. Smoke and flames of battle filled the air, and he was thrust into brutal, bloody struggles, each one more harrowing than the last. Even though it was just a dream, the pain was excruciatingly real. The thunder of gunfire and the roar of cannons pounded his ears, deafening and relentless. At the dream’s end, monstrous tanks belched steam and smoke across the battlefield, their terrifying presence weighing on every soldier—and on him, their commander.

His eyelids flickered violently as he jerked awake, body trembling from the lingering terror. The instant he tried to move, waves of sharp pain coursed through him.

“Hiss…”

He gritted his teeth against the agony, only managing to adapt after several deep breaths.

No wonder it hurt so much in the dream—this pain was no illusion.

With his uninjured right hand, he gingerly lifted the thin blanket. Following the trail of pain, he saw bandages wrapped around his shoulder and upper left arm. His right thigh, exposed, was also swathed in blood-stained bandages.

What had happened?

Panic flared within him. What had he been through? How had he gotten hurt?

Suddenly recalling something, he lifted his shirt with his right hand despite the pain, exposing his side and abdomen. Only when he found no new wounds did he let out a sigh of relief and rest his head back on the pillow.

He wiped the sweat from his face, unsure whether it was from pain or nightmare, and opened his eyes again.

As his vision cleared, his attention was drawn upward. He froze. Above him was a pointed ceiling of gray cloth, held up by supports—clearly not the ceiling of any hospital room.

His eyes darted around the space, finally settling on the floor. The roughly ten-square-meter area was enclosed by gray fabric, with makeshift tables and racks holding leather satchels, belts, and other personal items. The ground was just packed dirt, barely flattened.

Looking down, he saw his left leg—unbandaged—clad in coarse gray cloth, while his torso wore a blood-stained cotton-linen shirt.

Was this a tent? A disaster relief tent? Had he been hurt in some calamity?

But I was wearing a sweater and winter coat before!

Where were the medics? Did his family even know?

Confusion filled his mind. Gripping the edge of the iron-framed bed with his right hand, he gritted his teeth and tried to lift his upper body.

Ouch, it hurts! Forget it—lying down is just fine, no need to get up…

Still grimacing, he looked over at the table, instinctively searching for his phone—but found nothing. His gaze finally landed on the most eye-catching item: a leather satchel. Perhaps it was inside.

The table sat right beside the bed, only slightly higher than the mattress. He reached out and pulled the satchel closer.

It felt heavy as he tugged on the leather drawstring—probably full of personal items.

Yet the moment he opened it, his thoughts were abruptly interrupted. The first thing he saw made his mind go blank for a heartbeat.

It was an exquisitely crafted silver-gray revolver.

His heart pounded violently. Quickly, he covered the satchel and, somewhat flustered, glanced toward the tent entrance. Seeing and hearing nothing, he peeked inside again. A powerful intuition told him this was the real thing.

Caught between panic and curiosity, his eyes fell on the writing atop the satchel. The letters were similar to English but not quite the same. At first, he couldn’t make them out, but then, as if peering through fog, the haze gradually cleared, and the meaning surfaced naturally in his mind.

A name—the owner of the bag:

Mulan Jonst.

“Mulan Jonst…”

The moment Li Xiu subconsciously spoke the name aloud, a tidal wave of memories and information surged through his mind in a dizzying rush. In just a few breaths, his head reeled.

A time where rigid tradition clashed with surging new tides. An impoverished, old-fashioned noble family. The ever-blurred image of a father, a mother fading from memory, a loyal old butler, and the unyielding belief in restoring the family’s honor...

The information was overwhelming, some clear and vivid, others hazy and indistinct. It was as though he were watching a long, fast-forwarded documentary of a life, tormenting his will to the brink of collapse, his muscles tensing involuntarily as he clung to the bed, trembling.

A barrage of memories flashed before his eyes—the conviction to restore the family’s glory was so intense it seemed to carve itself into his mind, each word a blade drawn in blood.

“Aaah…”

Li Xiu couldn’t hold back a cry, the sound more a gasp than a shout. True screams usually came from terror; pain, when it reached a certain threshold, often left one voiceless.

After a long while, he lay limp and gasping, glancing at the satchel’s name and the cold grip of the revolver peeking from the seam. His mouth twitched involuntarily.

Whether or not he could accept it, Li Xiu felt only absurdity and a touch of disorientation. In this body, in these circumstances, he had become Mulan Jonst. The nightmare, it seemed, was no mere dream.

This can’t be real. I must still be asleep! Close your eyes, relax, breathe… Wake up, wake up—there’s a PPT to present tomorrow, and ranked games to play tonight… Wake up!

After a long moment with eyes closed, he suddenly opened them again—only to find himself still lying in the tent. His thoughts grew more and more attuned to this body, and the satchel at his right felt increasingly familiar. Even the sight of the revolver’s grip brought back the sensation of holding it.

This is my gun, an extension of my body. It has led me out of nightmarish peril. It is my power, blazing forth, rending flesh and blood.

A strange feeling welled up within him. He opened the satchel again and, following that instinct, reached for the grip. The thunder of the battlefield seemed to echo in his ears. His fingers brushed the weapon, cool and smooth, and as he grasped it, it felt as though an invisible wind swept through the tent. Faint red light seemed to flicker within the silver metal.

A natural connection formed between Li Xiu and the revolver, a powerful resonance blending past and present memories—the gun’s forging years ago, the tumult of battle. A ripple of energy passed from his heart into the weapon, and a peculiar will returned to him.

Name of the gun: Dawnwheel. My master, Mulan Jonst, has bestowed upon me purpose—iron and blood, fire and light!

In that instant, a line of tiny, chiseled letters emerged on the silver surface, glowing with sparks.

Li Xiu could understand the letters, though they weren’t from any familiar alphabet. The meaning was clear: Dawnwheel—a name that also invoked the image of radiant light.

Staring in awe at the weapon, Li Xiu felt emotions he could not put into words.

“Dawnwheel… Dawnwheel! This is my gun!”

…

A soldier in a gray uniform, wearing a high-topped, old British-style cap, hurried through the camp. Passing rows of tents, he arrived at the quiet officers’ quarters.

But now, almost no officers remained. The terrible war was clearly ending, and as soon as it did, these “lords” of the army rushed off to indulge themselves in the nearby city. Even with multiple fronts, the war was a humiliation for the Dilga Empire—but that hardly mattered to the rear-echelon noble officers.

Of course, there were exceptions. At least one officer still remained, and the soldier was in a hurry to see him.

After asking a passing attendant, he finally found the tent he sought. Standing outside, he straightened his uniform instinctively.

“Who are you?”

A nurse, her hair in two thick braids, spotted him and immediately challenged him. He turned, snapped a salute.

“Third Battalion, Second Corps, assault trooper under Second Lieutenant Jonst—Jerry! Has the lieutenant woken yet?”

The first half of his reply was strong and clear; the second, much softer.

“It’s you lot again. You may enter, but keep quiet.”

Clearly used to this, the nurse lifted the tent flap.

Inside, Li Xiu had just been fiddling with the revolver when he heard the voices outside. He quickly withdrew his hand, closed the satchel, and pressed his right hand on top, just as a nurse in a pale green dress and a soldier entered.

The soldier’s face lit up with joy when he saw Li Xiu on the bed, fists clenching unconsciously. To him, Second Lieutenant Jonst—his blanket thrown aside, left arm and right leg bandaged and bloodstained, face pale and exhausted—was at least conscious and aware, not as dire as the rumors said.

“Lieutenant!”

“Oh, you’re awake?”

The soldier was excited; the nurse, surprised.

Li Xiu studied them both. The nurse was a stranger, but the soldier’s face stirred a vague sense of recognition. After a moment, he remembered the soldier’s name, but seeing the man’s excitement, Li Xiu couldn’t tell if it was loyalty or old grudges, so he dared not speak recklessly.

“I’ll fetch the doctor right away!”

The nurse hurried out. Jerry and Li Xiu watched her go, then their eyes met again. Li Xiu, seeing the soldier’s trembling, red-rimmed eyes, even wondered for a fleeting instant how quickly he could draw his gun.

“Lieutenant, thank God you’re awake! I know your health matters most now, but they’re trying to pin the defeat at Mosha Ridge on us!”

What?

Li Xiu froze. What was going on?

The soldier, having held himself together all the way here, could no longer restrain his emotions after seeing the lieutenant awake. He spoke through gritted teeth:

“As the highest-ranking officer left alive, you’re being sent to a military tribunal. The court’s already convened. They think you’re still in a coma, so they plan to try you in absentia—tomorrow morning! Even those of us who want to testify for you aren’t allowed…”

His outrage grew as he spoke.

“We’ve all come to check on you in shifts. Thank the gods, you woke up!”

The word “trial” seemed to spark a fierce reaction in his body, leaving Li Xiu’s mind caught between agitation and cold clarity.

Images from the nightmare, flashes of war—these surged through his mind, leaving him dazed for a moment before snapping back to focus. He understood now: he, or rather the man whose body he inhabited, had become the scapegoat.

Mulan Jonst was only a lowly second lieutenant, insignificant in the grand scheme of the war, but he could easily take the blame for the final collapse at Mosha Ridge. After all, because many senior officers from Third Battalion, Second Corps had scattered (or fled) or died in an ambush during the march, Mulan had been left as the highest commander during the battle.

Digging desperately through the inherited memories, Li Xiu could only come to one conclusion about the Third Battalion’s performance—heroic!

Thus, regarding the military charges, all he felt was absurdity—and a growing, visceral fury.