The Assessment

The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the Tung Shao Pass, casting long, bruised shadows over the camp. The air grew cold, biting at the exposed skin of the soldiers outside running their penalty laps. Inside the High Inspector’s tent, however, it was warm. A brazier of coals glowed in the center, heating the air until it was thick and stifling.

I sat on a pile of silk cushions, Chi Fu’s luxury goods, now mine, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. I waited.

At exactly 1900 hours, a shadow fell across the entrance flap.

There was a hesitation. A long pause where I could almost hear the heart pounding on the other side.

Then, the flap pushed open.

Fa Ping stepped inside.

She looked ridiculous. The armor was too big, the helmet sat askew on her head, and her posture was a ****, unnatural slouch designed to hide her curves. She was sweating, her face pale beneath the dirt she had smeared on her cheeks to look "manly."

She marched to the center of the rug and snapped a clumsy salute.

"Reporting for... for assessment, sir!" Her voice was a deep, gravelly caricature of a man’s.

I didn't answer immediately. I took a slow sip of tea, letting the silence stretch until it was almost unbearable.

"At ease, Ping," I said finally, placing the cup down.

She lowered her hand but remained stiff as a board. "Sir. I am ready for... inspection."

"Are you?"

I stood up. I was a head taller than her, broader, and infinitely more dangerous. I circled her slowly.

"You're small," I noted, poking her shoulder with a finger. "Your muscle density is... lacking. Your gait is wrong."

I stopped behind her. I leaned in close to her ear.

"And you smell like lavender soap."

Mulan stiffened, her breath hitching. "I... uh... hygiene is important, sir! For... morale!"

"Turn around."

She pivoted slowly on her heel to face me. Her dark eyes were darting around the tent, looking for an exit, looking for a weapon, looking for mercy. There was none.

I reached out and tapped the breastplate of her armor.

Clink.

"This armor," I said. "It doesn't fit. It's loose in the shoulders, tight in the hips. It restricts your movement."

I looked her in the eye.

"Take it off."

Mulan froze. Her mouth opened, then closed. The "Ping" mask slipped for a second, revealing the terrified girl underneath.

"Sir?" she squeaked, her voice jumping an octave before she **** it back down. "I mean... surely that's not necessary, Inspector. I can demonstrate my... my kung fu with the armor on!"

"I didn't ask for a demonstration," I said, my voice dropping to a low growl. "I asked for a physical assessment. To see if you are fit for the Emperor's war. Do you disobey a direct order?"

"No! No, sir!"

Her hands shook as she reached for the buckles.

She fumbled with the straps. The leather was stiff, her fingers slippery with sweat.

I watched her struggle. I watched the panic rise in her chest.

Finally, the breastplate clattered to the floor. Then the shoulder guards.

She stood there in her tunic and trousers. The tunic was baggy, stained, and clearly pulled tight to hide her figure.

"The tunic," I commanded.

"Sir..." Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. "It's... cold."

"The brazier is burning, Ping. You won't freeze." I took a step closer, invading her personal space. "Unless you have something to hide? A deformity? A weakness?"

"No! No weakness!"

She grabbed the hem of her shirt. She pulled it up over her head.

She threw it aside, crossing her arms over her chest instantly, hunching her shoulders.

She was wearing a binding cloth, a long strip of white linen wrapped brutally tight around her torso, flattening her breasts against her ribs. It looked painful. It looked restrictive.

And it was undeniably female.

I walked up to her.

She flinched, expecting a strike.

I didn't strike. I reached out and grabbed her wrists.

"Arms down," I ordered.

She resisted for a second, her strength pitted against mine. It was no contest. I pulled her arms down to her sides.

She stood exposed. The binding cloth did a good job, but it couldn't hide everything. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the softness of her skin—it was all there for a predator to see.

I placed my hand flat on her bandaged chest.

I felt the heart hammering against my palm like a trapped bird. Thump-thump-thump.

"Interesting," I whispered. "Your heart rate is 160. You're terrified."

"I... I..." She couldn't maintain the deep voice anymore. "Please..."

I ran my hand over the rough linen. I traced the edge of the binding where it dug into her soft flesh.

"This isn't standard issue," I murmured. "Binding. To stop the blood flow? Or to stop the bounce?"

Mulan gasped. Her eyes went wide. She knew the game was up.

"You know," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"I know," I confirmed.

I leaned down, my lips brushing against her ear.

"I know you're a woman, Fa Mulan."

She collapsed. Her knees gave out.

I caught her by the upper arm, holding her upright.

"Please!" she begged, tears spilling over. "Please don't tell Shang! My father... he's old! He would have died! I had to take his place! If they find out, they'll kill me!"

"Yes," I agreed calmly. "The penalty for treason is ****. For you. And disgrace for your family."

I looked at her. She was defenseless, half-naked, and completely at my mercy.

"But I am the High Inspector. My word is law here. If I say you are a man... you are a man."

Mulan looked up, hope warring with fear in her eyes. "You... you won't tell?"

"That depends."

I released her arm. I walked back to my cushions and sat down, looking at her like a king looking at a concubine.

"War is lonely, Mulan. The nights are cold. And the men here... they are disgusting."

I gestured to the spot on the rug in front of me.

"Kneel."

Mulan hesitated. She looked at the tent flap. She looked at me.

She realized the transaction. Her life for her body. Her secret for her service.

She slowly sank to her knees on the rug. The firelight flickered over her bound chest, highlighting the sweat on her skin.

"Good," I said softly.

I reached out and hooked a finger into the top of her binding cloth. I tugged it, testing the tightness.

"This is too tight," I noted. "It restricts your breathing. You can't fight if you can't breathe."

I pulled a small knife from my belt.

Mulan flinched.

I smiled.

"Don't worry. I'm just making you... comfortable."

I slid the blade under the linen.

RIP.

I cut the binding.

The cloth unraveled. Mulan gasped as the pressure was released. Her breasts, not too large but perfectly shaped, spilled free from the confinement, their tips hardening instantly in the cool air of the tent.

She tried to cover herself with her hands again.

"Ah-ah," I scolded. "Hands behind your back."

She obeyed, shaking violently, her face burning crimson. She knelt there, topless, exposed, completely humiliated.

I reached out and cupped one of her breasts. It was soft, warm, and heavy in my hand.

"Much better," I whispered, thumbing her nipple.

"Inspector..." she moaned, closing her eyes.

"Ray," I corrected. "When we are in this tent, you are not Ping. You are Mulan. And you belong to me."

I squeezed her breast, hard enough to bruise.

"Do you understand the terms of your survival, soldier?"

Mulan opened her eyes. They were wet, dark, and filled with submission.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes... Ray."

"Good."

I unbuckled my belt.

"Now," I said, leaning back into the cushions. "Let's see if you're good with a sword."